Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

  To my husband and soulmate:

  We have shared a life of travel and adventure that I will always cherish; to our children, who have filled our lives with joy; and to our grandchildren, whose love and ability to find humor in all things remind me of what is truly important in life.

  In memory of my parents, Arthur and Lorraine Vandenbergh, whose encouragement and love guided their children to follow their own paths in the world, even the wayward path of the anthropologist.

  Uxmal Archaeological Zone

  A note on Mayan pronunciation:

  1.In Mayan, the “x” is pronounced “sh”, so Uxmal is pronounced “Ush-mal.”

  2.The Mayan word for shaman/priest is h-men, pronounced “huh-men.” The plural is “h-menob.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sunday Evening: Uxmal Archaeological Site, Yucatán, Mexico

  The young man lay at the foot of the Magician’s Pyramid, his body intact, his heart lifeless but in its proper place. Dressed in blue jeans and a bloodied maroon T-shirt instead of a loincloth, he embodied the metaphor of his surroundings, a warrior sacrificed to the gods. Above him, the full moon cast ominous shadows over Uxmal, more formidable in the quiet darkness than it had been earlier that day when merely a tourist attraction, an ancient Magic Kingdom. Tonight, only the ambient floodlights leading along the pathway marred the magic of the ancient Mayan civilization—that, and the body.

  Nine Hours Earlier: Sunday Afternoon, Uxmal, Yucatán, Mexico

  At least I won’t be sacrificed today. Claire Aguila Carson looked over her shoulder, embarrassed. Did she say that out loud? She was alone for the moment, except for an iguana perched on a low wall that had once formed one side of an ancient Mayan ball court. She focused her camera, but the reptile tired of her company and slithered off its limestone perch, its tail trailing far behind its massive, mottled, and spiny body.

  “Mierda!” Claire took the giant lizard’s place on the wall. She unclipped her dark hair, letting it fall below her shoulders before sweeping it back into place, capturing the loose strands caked in sweat against her neck. She closed her eyes and inhaled the moist air promising rain that would not be delivered until early June, when the Mayan h-menob performed their supplications to the rain god Chac.

  Around her, temples, palaces, and stately buildings erupted from the porous Yucatecan earth, cleared of rainforest, evidence of ancient engineering genius. Built a thousand years before, without wheels or draft animals, the structures told a tale of raw political and religious power, of priest-kings, scientists, farmers, and slaves existing in an environment devoid of rivers or streams. This was Uxmal.

  She had visited the ancient city many times before, but today it felt different. This time, she hardly noticed the turquoise motmot birds perched on the branches of the Royal Ponciana tree, or the spectacular architecture. Today, death enveloped her: the death of the war prisoners who lost a dangerous ball game, their hearts ripped from their chests and their bodies thrown from temples, such as the one looming above her; the death of an ancient civilization whose scientific knowledge rivaled that of its conquerors; but even more painful, the death of her husband.

  Yucatán, Mexico was Claire’s ancestral home, though not the place of her birth. Here, she felt suspended between the Midwestern culture where she was raised and the world of her ancestors. The latter world pulled her in and held her in an embrace so powerful that she could barely breathe. It was here where, over a span of thirty years, she had explored her Hispanic roots, met her husband, and frequently lived in a nearby village, Yaxpec. The only thing that prevented her from running immediately back to “her” village was a conference of Mayan scholars beginning the next day in Merida, the capitol city of Yucatán.

  “Claire! Claire! Up here!”

  Jolted from her thoughts, Claire bent her head upward toward the top of the Magician’s Pyramid, shading her eyes against the piercing midday sun. From the middle platform near the summit of the pyramid, her friend and colleague, Madge Carmichael, waved to her. George Banks, chair of the anthropology department, stood next to her, his hand gripping Madge’s arm. Both wore straw hats that partially blocked their sun-creased faces.

  Claire waved back in disbelief that her elder colleagues had climbed the pyramid, and that Madge had survived, dressed in her characteristic post-hippy garb. In contrast, George resembled an escapee from a golf course. Her department chair pointed to his watch, and Claire glanced at her own…twelve-thirty. She gave him a thumbs-up and stood, pulling her dress, damp with perspiration, from the back of her thighs. She couldn’t believe George had called a meeting at an archaeological site.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eighty feet above Claire, Professors George Banks and Madge Carmichael stood side by side on the massive temple. Unlike other Mayan pyramids that rise like children’s building blocks, each level smaller than the one below, the Magician’s Pyramid was ovaloid, its texture smooth. It rose three levels, like the layers of a cake. The ancient inhabitants built the structure in stages over three hundred years, as new priest-kings established their legitimacy in the Mayan world. George and Madge stood on a wide ledge forming the base for the second level of the pyramid.

  From their perch, they gazed at the panoramic view of Uxmal, surrounded by hundreds of miles of lush rainforest nestled in the Puuc Hills, the highest point in the Yucatán Peninsula. Wisps of cloud lingered in the blue sky but did not filter the rays of the brilliant sun. In the distance, facing south, openings appeared in the forest, revealing the archaeological sites that formed the famed Ruta Maya.

  Below them in the clearing of the rainforest, they had an eagle’s view of Uxmal, spreading out for more than a half-mile. Nearly fifty multinational Mayan scholars, primarily anthropologists and archaeologists, were exploring the site as the kick-off event for a conference where they would share their research with other experts in Mayan studies.

  From their lookout, they watched scholars meander in and around the Nunnery Quadrangle, four low-lying buildings surrounding a vast courtyard. To their left, others struggled up the steep stairways that led to the Governor’s Palace. Beyond the Palace, the scholars spread out toward the partially excavated Great Pyramid, the Quadrangle of the Doves, and more distant structures along the boundaries of the site, leading them deeper into Mayan history.

  Like all tourists, the academics posed for photographs or examined the plaster Mayan calendars and statues of Mayan gods offered by vendors along the path leading from the site to the Cultural Center and park entrance. Madge aimed her binoculars downward and saw that Claire had abandoned her position and was strolling toward the vending tables, her camera clutched in her hand.

  “I worry about Claire,” Madge mused.

  “Why?” asked George, scanning the site through his binoculars.

  “She’s sad, distant,” Madge said, struggling for the right word, “apathetic, since Aaron died.”

  “She’s grieving,” George said. “She’ll recover.”

  “She needs to move on…I keep telling her.”

  “It’s not your business, Madge. Just because you moved on multiple times…” he looked down at her and smiled. “Sorry, just joking.”

  George loosened his grip on his binoculars, attached by a leather strap around his neck, and they dropped to his chest. “Shall we head down?”

  Madge grimaced and glanced briefly down the steep stairway. “I need to get out of the sun and rest first.”

  “We’ll be late for the meeting,” George fussed.

  “They won’t start without you.”

  Madge edged toward a chamber built into the second level of the pyramid. Ge
orge took her hand and guided her into the low, narrow chamber as she fumbled with her skirt.

  “Why did you wear that get-up to an archaeological site?” he grumbled.

  “Shut up and help me in.” Their familiarity reflected years of shared educational and professional experiences as long-time friends and colleagues, archaeologists working together in Guatemala.

  Madge lowered herself slowly onto the cool stone floor and removed her hat, freeing her wild tangle of curly gray hair. She rested her head against the damp wall. George stood at the entrance, glancing at his watch. He frowned but followed her in. Mayan temples were not constructed for six-foot-tall Americans, so George had to squat to enter the small enclosure. He sat next to Madge, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled from his hip pack. They sat in silence for a few minutes, recovering from the heat.

  Fanning herself with her hat, Madge asked, “What do you think of the two candidates for the teaching position?”

  George scowled. “I’m not convinced either one is suitable for us. I’m curious to see how the others feel.”

  “Who will Brad want?” Madge asked.

  “No idea, but as director of the Mayanist program, he’ll want his say.” George used the wall to maneuver himself back to his stooped position, his sixty-eight-year-old body resisting the effort. Once back on his feet, he reached down to assist Madge—of the same age but with less flexibility—as she struggled to stand.

  Madge rearranged her skirt and placed her hat on her head. “Speaking of Brad and the program, do I have to attend Eduardo’s lecture?”

  George frowned at his friend. “Of course you do. We all do. After all, Eduardo is making a substantial loan to our new museum. That’s thousands of dollars’ worth of artifacts we would never be able to purchase on our own, and Brad made it possible.” They stood for a moment in the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the brilliant sunlight outside the chamber. “And don’t forget, it lured you out of retirement.”

  “Don’t remind me, George.”

  They stepped back out onto the ledge. Madge, feeling mild vertigo, stayed close to the pyramid wall while George moved along the platform toward the stairs. A park employee motioned to them to descend from the pyramid. The park had allowed the scholars to climb the Magician’s Pyramid as part of their excursion, but now the barriers were being placed to protect the temple from further damages incurred by thousands of tourists. George turned to Madge. She stared down from the edge of the platform, her face white, her knees shaking under her skirt.

  “Oh shit,” said Madge. She looked down to the ground, the steps barely visible from where she stood, and her stomach churned. She sat on the top step and inched her way down. George said a silent prayer to the Mayan Gods and descended carefully alongside her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tanya Petersen rummaged in her tiny leather purse for a tissue, gave up, wiped her nose on the back of her hand and then surreptitiously rubbed it along the edge of her pink tank top. “When you said you had something important to tell me, I thought it was good news.”

  Jamal Kennedy, her companion, shortened his stride to match hers but did not take her hand or attempt to appease her anger. “I talked to George, but you assumed the good news.” He looked down at her. “George begged Madge to come to Keane College because she’s an established archaeologist and curator. Why would he offer the position to you?” He pulled his hands through his micro-braids and continued, “Did you think Madge would leave the University of Michigan to teach introductory anthropology courses? Be real, Tanya.”

  “It’s a gerontocracy, Jamal. They should retire and let young scholars shape the program.”

  “Brad would agree with you, and I don’t disagree, but we have to earn our positions, like they did.”

  “But I have ambitions.”

  “We all do, but frankly, I think you have been using me to achieve yours.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She stumbled over a carved limestone hieroglyph, part of the rubble strewn around the archaeological site. Jamal reached out to grab her elbow, but she brushed him away.

  Rebuffed, he looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “I think you do, Tanya. I love you, but I have doubts about your feelings.”

  Tanya’s mouth set in a pout. “I do…love…you.”

  Jamal clenched his jaw. “You can’t even say the words, can you?” His tone was hard and low. “Why don’t you talk to Brad yourself? You don’t need me.”

  “I already did. Last fall.”

  He stopped and stared at her. “And he said?”

  “That the decision was already made…a done deal.”

  Jamal grabbed her arm, turning her toward him. “I was Plan B?” He released her, afraid of his own emotions. “It’s no good, Tanya. I’m done with your manipulations.”

  From their position between the Nunnery and the ball court, Jamal saw Brad Kingsford, the program director, standing with a job candidate on the vast terrace of the Governor’s Palace. “There’s Brad now, talking to Paul Sturgess. Go work on him again.”

  She followed his gaze. “Shut up, Jamal.”

  Ahead of them, they could see Claire near the Magician’s Pyramid, watching them as they approached.

  “What do I do now?” Tanya whined, drying her eyes with the hem of her shirt.

  “Get a grip, Tanya. You’re a good actress. Act.”

  At the base of the pyramid, Claire watched in fear as the two sexagenarians made their way down the west stairway. When they arrived safely at the bottom, she sought out the rest of their group. Tanya and Jamal appeared from the direction of the Nunnery. They presented a study in contrasts: Tanya’s sharp Scandinavian features juxtaposed sharply with Jamal’s mahogany skin and Lenny Kravitz-esque hair, which sent freshman girls into ecstatic swoons and exaggerated interests in bio-cultural anthropology. They walked close together but did not touch, their faces set in angular lines—a lover’s spat? Their relationship was the worst-kept secret in the program. Even George, who rarely left his office except for meetings, had figured it out.

  Brad Kingsford approached from the opposite direction, the image of the hero from the cover of a romance novel—brown leather vest over a blue Keane College T-shirt, wrap-around sunglasses, and straw hat straddling his graying-blond ponytail. He strolled slowly from the direction of the Governor’s Palace, his backpack hoisted over one shoulder.

  A voice from behind Claire startled her. “Excuse me?”

  Claire turned to see an elderly woman with short permed hair sticking out from under a straw hat. She stood next to her husband, wearing a Detroit Tigers T-shirt and holding a small digital camera.

  “Yes?” Claire said.

  The woman asked, “Could you take our picture?”

  Claire looked around. Brad had not yet arrived. Madge sat on the bottom step of the pyramid, catching her breath; George sat next to her glancing at his watch and then up at Brad, frowning at his progress; Tanya and Jamal stood side by side, each attempting a look of nonchalance.

  “Sure,” Claire said, and posed them in front of the pyramid. As she handed the camera back, she asked, “Are you from Michigan?”

  “Lake Odawa,” the woman answered. “Lois and Dale Stuart.”

  Dale produced his map of Michigan by opening his right hand and pointing to a spot about an inch under his middle finger. “Would you like us to take your photograph?” he asked.

  Claire smiled and roused her colleagues. “Just one photo,” she promised as everyone groaned at her suggestion.

  George mumbled, “We don’t have time for this, Claire.”

  “Come on,” Madge pleaded. “This will be the first official portrait of the Keane College Mayanist Program.”

  George rolled his eyes as Madge urged him forward; Jamal and Tanya wandered over slowly, still not speaking. As they watched Brad approach,
the Stuarts chattered on about their hotel and travel itinerary. Everyone waited for Brad.

  Joining the group, Brad smiled and shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were all waiting.”

  George fussed, “It appears we’re not ready yet.” He scowled as Claire organized the positioning, situating George and Madge in front of the pyramid.

  “Do we have to do this?” Brad grumbled, removing his sunglasses and hat.

  “Humor me, Brad,” Claire said, handing her camera to Mr. Stuart.

  “Let’s make it quick, can we?” said George.

  “Just smile, George,” Madge said as she smoothed out her skirt and removed her hat.

  Moments later, the Stuarts wandered away, and the members of the Keane College Mayanist Program made their way through the gauntlet of vendors toward the promise of a cold drink and a dull meeting.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  George Banks led his entourage of exhausted and thirsty scholars into the Uxmal Cultural Center. The blast of air-conditioning offered a welcomed reprieve from the Yucatán sun. Around them, the center pulsated with activity. Multigenerational and multicultural families stood in line waiting for their tickets to be stamped while their children or grandchildren broke away, jostling small clusters of retirees huddled near a central fountain, struggling to understand the accented English of their tour guide. The arrival of a tour group led by a tiny woman waving a German flag added yet another language to the cacophony.

  Claire’s colleagues joined a short line at the entrance of a small restaurant, taking in the aroma of Mexican spices that enveloped them as they waited for the hostess, a young girl wearing a traditional Mayan huipil, impossibly white with embroidery at the neck and hem. She seated them in front of the window at two square tables that had been pulled together, each with its own distinctive wobble. George maneuvered his girth onto a padded wooden chair at one end of the table; Brad, tall and lean, situated himself at the other end. Madge and Claire sat so they had a view through the window, leaving Tanya and Jamal to sit together, facing them. Tanya shifted her chair away from Jamal, adding physical distance to the emotional chasm clearly existing between them.