by M. G. Harris
Inside, torches light up walls painted brightly in yellow and red. Reclining on a bed of dark cushions and woven blankets is a man dressed simply in a red tunic, drawn in by a belt. He’s wearing a collar necklace with a big jade stone at its centre. There’s black make-up on his face, but only around the eyes. His cheeks are lined with meticulously arranged swirling lines that are scarred into the flesh. From pierced ears dangle large golden earrings. His mouth is wide: full lips, a jaw that juts out slightly. Behind closed lips he grinds his teeth. Incense burns in a clay brazier decorated with the mask of a Mayan deity. It fills the room with a heady aroma of earth and spices.
Lord Yuknoom gazes at me impassively for so long that I grow even more nervous. He picks up a banana leaf next to him that’s laden with ground maize, roasted and swollen, cooked with oily meat. The king picks at his food with two fingers and a thumb, drops small portions into his mouth and slowly chews.
While I watch, while I wait.
I’m starving, starving. Haven’t eaten since last night. It’s been a massively demanding sixteen hours. I want to gaze longingly at his food but I daren’t.
Finally he gestures at me to sit. There’s no seat or anything so I sit on the ground, cross-legged. He motions me closer. Martineau remains standing, less than a metre away. Even I can tell that he’s nervous.
Lord Yuknoom clears his throat. When he speaks his voice is high, crackly. Like a man much older than his fifty-odd years.
“Where are you from?” he asks, speaking Mayan.
I glance at him, then at Martineau. Martineau nods once, then repeats the question, in English.
“What should I say?” I ask Martineau. He seems irritated by the question.
“Address the king, not me. Tell him you’re from a far-off land called Oxford. Why not, that’s foreign enough. . .”
“Are you instructing the boy?” Yuknoom asks Martineau, sliding his gaze over to him. “We shall hear his answers. Not yours.”
“Apologies, my lord. The boy did not understand your question. He does not speak our language. I was translating.”
Yuknoom says nothing but gives Martineau another hard look.
“I’m from Oxford, sir,” I reply. “It’s far away from here.”
The king speaks, Martineau translates. “How did you come to the Kingdom of the Snake Dynasty?”
“I was transported here,” I say.
There’s a pause. Then Martineau says, “The boy claims that a demon transported him.”
The king’s eyes flash with anger. But he doesn’t move.
“Why were you wearing that bracelet?”
“It transported me,” I say slowly. Martineau tells the king, “The demon placed it upon his arm.”
Yuknoom looks up at Martineau. “So you were right about that bracelet. It is from the underworld.”
Martineau bows his head. “I suspected as much, my lord. The place where I found it was inhabited by many demons.”
“You found yours in a city to the west,” Yuknoom tells Martineau, thoughtfully. Seems to me he speaks with more than a hint of suspicion.
Martineau nods, his eyes closed. “Yes, my lord.”
Once again, Yuknoom faces me. “My temple guards tell me that you have some magical way of fighting. You fought three of them.”
“It’s not magic,” I mumble. “And the temple guards beat me. It’s just movement. Not meant for fighting with weapons.”
As Martineau translates, the king looks thoughtful. He peers closely at me for several seconds. I try to relax, to face him properly without too much show of fear.
“You will show us this magical fight,” he says after a moment, “this movement. We will decide whether it is useful for fighting with weapons or not.”
Drily Martineau says, “It appears we’ll be having a demonstration of your pathetic Brazilian martial art.”
Pathetic, hey? It was good enough to beat Martineau’s son Simon last year by the river in Oxford. The memory of that perfect mariposa move almost makes me smile. But instead I nod, lower my eyes. “Professor Martineau . . . can you please ask him if I can have something to eat first?”
Martineau chuckles. “Well, it would be a shame if you passed out with hunger before I’ve got you working for me. I’ll ask His Majesty.” Archly he adds, “Is there anything else?”
I hesitate. But I might not have another chance. “Could I see Ixchel? I think she was bought by Lady Black Shell.”
Martineau practically spits with disdain. “Forget about the girl. Lady Black Shell is a harsh mistress. It’s unlikely that you’ll ever see her again.”
As I take time to absorb that, Martineau translates everything I’ve said. The king starts eating again, not looking at me. “Take him to eat with the temple guards. Have him escorted to the Temple of the Jaguar, and prepared for battle. I want him ready to fight. With a knife.”
Lord Yuknoom gazes at me, expressionless. “For what use is a warrior if he is afraid to spill blood?”
The temple guards and the king’s personal guards are fed in a thatched-roofed hut some way inside the woods, behind the royal temple. When he takes me there, I don’t wait for Martineau to start eating, just wolf down the hot, tasty food. He’s leisurely, watching me throughout.
When my stomach finally stops complaining, I stop eating. The old woman gives me a knowing look and passes me a bowl of water that she scoops from another pot, this one set in the recesses of the hut. Only when I’m finally satisfied do I let my thoughts turn to the next problem.
Capoeira with a knife? That’s asking for big trouble. Use the knife right and you’d kill someone with one move. Capoeira isn’t a fighting technique that works for any kind of long, drawn-out fighting, either. It’s way too exhausting.
I don’t want to kill anyone. But then again I don’t want to die. That would leave Ixchel totally stranded. She’s here because of me. It’s up to me to get her back.
Again. No wonder Ixchel doesn’t want us to be together – I really am a bad-luck charm.
The only thing to do is to aim for a quick knockout. Like I did with Rain Son last night. I don’t need the knife for that – I can hold it in one hand while I go for a massive kicking strike.
I take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart. Martineau leads me back through the trees to the city. The whole way, I can feel his eyes on me. But I don’t return the glances.
“You’re brave, boy – I’ll give you that. You’re the subject of many conversations, I wonder if you realize.”
Because I keep scuppering their plans?
“It’s rather galling to think that a young man of such apparently limited resources can be the source of such inconvenience,” he drawls, almost talking to himself. “You really would be a valuable asset.”
I don’t reply. Martineau must be insane if he thinks I’d switch sides and start working for the Sect. It’s bizarre enough to be eating and talking with him.
Once we leave the cover of the trees, the sun’s rays start to pelt down in earnest. I notice a mosquito feasting on my arm and slap it. I don’t even bother to wipe away the trail of blood.
There’s going to be a lot more blood soon. Unless I hit someone very fast, very hard.
By the time we reach the temple my face is dripping with sweat. It must be almost forty degrees centigrade. Looking around me, though, I see that no one else seems that bothered. No one but me is slick with sweat, fighting off the mozzies.
There’s a crowd of around fifty people assembled to watch. Most are temple guards, or the same trainee warriors and young boys I saw earlier today. Then a call goes out; the crowd parts. The red-caped royal guards lead Lord Yuknoom to the front.
This time he’s wearing the kingly regalia, including a large headdress made of green feathers and a gruesome red mask over his forehead, which I’m guessing is a serpent’s mouth, complete with wild eyes, forked tongue and fangs.
Lord Yuknoom stares at me, eyes round, excited. He takes a blade from h
is belt and hands it to me, making a big deal of the gift.
“Use it well, Clear-Eyed Demon. Defeat one of my warriors with your fighting magic and I will reward you.”
How, I wonder? An image flashes into my mind – me defeating the warrior and asking for Ixchel’s freedom.
Martineau translates the king’s words, keeping his head bowed throughout.
“Don’t make eye contact with the king,” he warns. “Take my advice – kill the warrior if you can. Forget your twenty-first century morals.”
I weigh the knife in my hands. Black obsidian, knapped edges as sharp as cut glass, with a handle of polished bone. It’s warm, solid. A warrior not much older than me advances, his own blade glinting in the sun.
When I step forward, it’s like an out of body vision, just for a second.
This cannot be happening.
But the salty taste of sweat on my lips, the slick damp of my hand trying to grip the knife, the squint of my eyes in the sunlight; they tell me something different. The stink that’s pouring off the Mayan warrior boy who’s been set loose on me – this is aggression.
Aggression has an actual smell. Before today, I didn’t know that.
I feel my own blood rising. This guy wants to cut me, wants to see me bleed. Well, can’t have that.
I go straight into ginga, moving my arms across my face as I bounce from side to side, waiting for him to lunge. The split second he moves his arm I’m already diving over it, on to on my hands and into a meia lua de compass. I land two hard kicks, one to his head, one to his shoulder. Covering my face, I launch into a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree martelo – a high snap kick with a full spin adding an extra strike.
My trainer connects hard with the side of his head. The guy totters for a few seconds, eyes closed. The dagger falls from his fingers. He crashes on to the floor, knees first.
Three kicks to the head. I’m not surprised he’s feeling dodgy.
Adrenaline is pouring through me now. The crowd of spectators react only by gasping. When I look, the king is watching me. His brow is furrowed; he looks angry. He holds my gaze for a long moment, then stares into the crowd. After hunting another guy out, he nods. The second warrior is older, bigger. As tall as I am and much, much harder.
Lord Yuknoom frowns at me. “Use your knife!” he shouts.
The second warrior doesn’t wait for a cue. He leaps forward with a snarl, dagger held high in his right hand. At the last minute he leaps, pouncing at me. A low dodge roll gets me out of his way – just.
This one is bigger, but slower. I calculate that I could dodge him for a while, let him tire. Then when he’s flagging, give him a few hard whacks to the head and chest. We carry on for about two minutes. He doesn’t manage to land a finger on me; I’m over him, under him, behind him before he knows what’s happened.
But diving around so much, I’m the one who tires.
My first warning sign is when his dagger nicks my arm. It’s a small cut, but the shock of blood streaking down my arm is enough to wake me up.
This guy may be slow but he’s fit. A hundred times fitter than I am. I pull back to get a proper look at him. He’s pretty ugly. His face is all cut up – not decoratively, either. He looks like he’s had some nasty injuries.
He’s survived injuries. This guy is a veteran of some brutal fights.
As if a switch had been flipped inside my head, I feel myself move on to a whole new level of alertness.
I’m going to kill this guy.
The thought is in my head before I even realize it’s there. I push it away, focus instead on listening to a berimbau playing in my head. A warrior rhythm, but also a playful one.
I really don’t want to kill. Especially not to entertain some psychotic old men.
He lunges at me again. The blade shreds a sleeve as I float past and into a cartwheel. Landing, I launch a series of high kicks, armados, right into his knife hand. The first time, the blade slices into my jeans and bites into my calf muscle. The follow-up knocks the dagger out of his arm. A red wave descends. Fury.
He’s cut me twice now. I want him to feel this pain too.
Joelhada – the knee blow. Then a move that I’ve never tried before – suicido – a high double kick. I catch him just under the chin with both toes. A blow to the windpipe. It can be lethal. He gasps, clutching his neck for a second. Then he crumples.
Silence. Nobody moves. I’m catching my breath when finally, the king utters these words: “Cut his throat.”
I’m hunched over, clutching the dagger between my fingers. My head is pouring with sweat, dripping from locks of hair. Breathing hard, I glare at Martineau.
“Tell him I won’t.”
“They’re dead anyway,” Martineau replies, irritated. “They lost a battle – they’ll become sacrificial victims. You can cut their throats, or I’ll cut out their hearts.”
Terrific. Does that go for me too? In which case either I kill or I’m killed.
In the crowd, there is a low murmur. Fifty pairs of eyes are trained on me, standing underneath the acropolis temple in black jeans, white T-shirt and trainers. Blood seeps from my arm, shoulder and a deep cut in my calf.
Resignation clouds my thoughts.
I can’t cut someone’s throat, another boy. I just can’t do that. A blank expression falls across the king’s face. He starts looking into the crowd again. Most of them go quiet immediately, practically quaking under his gaze.
Then there’s a voice I recognize. “I’ll fight him, my lord.”
The king nods. A whisper of appreciation from the crowd. I can’t see who’s spoken until he makes his way through the crowd of warriors.
Rain Son.
Looks like he’s recovered totally from the knockout blow last night. In his eyes there’s hunger for revenge. I made him look stupid last night. It’s payback time.
“Rain Son,” I mutter. Martineau is close enough to hear. He seems to stiffen at my words.
“You know him?”
“He captured me.”
Martineau hesitates, winces. Then he steps closer, right behind me, in fact. I feel a jab, a sharp bite as something sharp plunges into the base of my neck. Instinctively I turn around, clutching my neck. I’m staring at Martineau, stunned.
What has he just done to me?
There’s not another second to wonder. Rain Son dives at me, blade twisting, swivelling in his hand. I drop back on to my hands, a queda de quarto, and trip him over my outstretched legs. Rain Son goes down, but not too heavily. I’m about to choose my next move when, as clear as if he’d showed me a picture, an image of Rain Son punching me with one fist and swiping his blade across my throat comes into my mind.
Automatically, my own knife arm shoots out, ready to block the punch. The blade catches his fist and cuts deep into the soft tissue of his palm. Rain Son can hardly stop himself letting out one anguished cry. It only lasts a second. His eyes flash with rage. My knife is smeared with his blood.
Then there’s another image expanding in my mind. Me with my throat cut, a long red wound. My torso opened up from the base of my throat to my stomach. The shock of it stops me in my tracks. I’m paralysed. With what seems to me like lightning speed, Rain Son grabs my knife arm, twists it until I drop the weapon. Then he knees me twice in the guts. As I fall forward, he catches me by the hair, lifts my face and then kicks me hard, under the chin. I fly backwards, head ringing with pain, tasting blood in my mouth as my teeth bite into my own cheek. He kicks me a few more times, lands heavy blows to my ribs. I can’t move, just lie there groaning, begging him to stop. A few kicks later, Rain Son stops and jumps over me, straddling my body with both legs.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on my chest. Staring deep into my eyes, he slowly lifts his blade to where I can see it. Terrified, I glance at it, then at him.
He opens his mouth. “Time you returned to Xibalba, Clear-Eyed Demon.”
Martineau shouts at me, “Tell him to drop his knife. Speak clearly.
Look into his eyes.”
Confused, my eyes go to Martineau. He’s got to be kidding.
“Do it!” he urges. “Now!”
Rain Son brings the dagger closer. He positions it against my throat. The tip of his blade jabs into me. My heart is almost bursting out of my chest. It can’t end like this. Not here, not now.
In Yucatec I tell Rain Son, “Drop the knife.”
Rain Son’s eyes widen in disbelief. He stares at his own fingers as incredibly, they unfold around the handle of his blade. With his dagger lying harmlessly on my chest, Rain Son continues to stare at his fingers, as though they are completely foreign to him. My arms are trapped at my sides, pinned in place by Rain Son’s thighs. I can’t get to the knife, can’t shift him off my body.
