The Falling Woman

by Pat Murphy

  I took a long drag on the cigarette. ‘When Robert had me committed, the doctors at the nuthouse had to tend to my feet. I had infected blisters, all over the bottoms and sides of both feet. The doctors asked me why I hadn’t stopped walking when my feet hurt.’ I shrugged. ‘I wanted to leave and I couldn’t. Walking seemed like a reasonable reaction.’

  She was looking at me now. ‘Was coming here a reasonable reaction for me?’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ I said.

  Her smile was tentative. ‘Last night was the first time I slept a night through in weeks. I had dreams, but I slept the night through.’

  I glanced at the clock on the shelf. The luminous dial showed midnight. ‘I’ll walk you to your hut,’ I said. ‘Survey comes early tomorrow.’

  She nodded slowly but did not move. ‘You and Tony took Carlos off survey.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We thought that Barbara had a large enough crew and John needed a little help.’

  Her expression did not change. ‘I wanted to tell you: I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I know that. I—’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern. But you made me feel like a fool.’ She was watching my face.

  ‘I didn’t intend that.’

  I could not read the expression in her eyes. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to your hut,’ I said.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She ducked through the door and left me alone with the shadows.

  Tony and I walked out to the plaza by Structure 701 on Tuesday morning. We walked slowly, and the shadows of Mayan women passed us on the path. They carried gifts to the temple: baskets filled with maize, pots of freshly brewed balche, woven cloth, cured deer skins. Preparations for a festival, no doubt. I tried to eavesdrop on two old women who were chatting about the misbehavior of their neighbors – particularly about the bad housekeeping of one woman. But the women spoke quickly, and Tony kept interrupting with comments about the weather and the dig, and I could not follow their conversation.

  The shadows faded before we reached the plaza. The sun was hot. The three workmen who had levered the stone from its place stood in the shade, smoking and sharing water from a gourd, while Tony and I squatted by the upturned slab, brushing away the loose dry dirt that clung to the stone surface. On its underside, the slab was carved with a series of glyphs.

  The stones on all four sides of the area that the slab had covered looked like they could have been walls. The center was a tumble of boulders and fill. I sat back on my heels. ‘A corridor, I’d guess. Intentionally filled.’ I looked at Tony. ‘Leading to a burial filled with pottery, jade, and obsidian artifacts.’

  ‘I suppose that you want to take some men from the house mounds to continue the excavation,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Jade masks,’ I said. ‘Discs of beaten gold. Pottery in a known context.’

  ‘An empty chamber and a lot of wasted time,’ he said gloomily.

  I reached in my pocket for my lucky piece. ‘I’ll flip you for it,’ I said. ‘Heads, I get two men from the house mounds and two from Salvador’s crew. Tails—’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I always lose when we flip. If I hadn’t made that coin myself, I’d swear it was rigged.’ He shrugged. ‘Take the men and see what you find.’

  I grinned at him. ‘That sounds like a fine idea.’

  In the afternoon, I hiked out to the fallen stela and made plans to raise it, a project that would require additional equipment and workmen who were currently excavating the house mounds. Tony would complain, but I would convince him.

  That evening, I worked with Tony on deciphering the glyphs that I had copied from the face of the stone that had covered what I insisted on calling the tomb. The glyphs gave a date in the Mayan Long Count corresponding to ad 948, around the time that the Maya had abandoned the cities. That fit with Zuhuy-kak’s story.

  The men began the excavation and I sat back and did the thing I found most difficult: waiting to see what we would find.

  Notes for City of Stones by Elizabeth Butler

  A society defines what is normal and what is crazy – and then says anyone who challenges the definition is crazy. In our society, for instance, self-destructive acts – self-mutilation or suicide – are considered mad. If you slash your wrists, you are locked up as a crazy person.

  In Mayan society, suicide was a perfectly respectable act. The patron goddess of suicide was Ixtab. She is generally pictured as a woman dangling over emptiness, supported only by the noose around her neck. Her eyes are closed, her hands are relaxed, and her expression is calm, as if she were raptly contemplating an inner vision. Ixtab escorts people who die by suicide or sacrifice directly to paradise. Self-mutilation was also an essential part of many rituals: piercing the ear-lobes, lips, and tongue so that they bled profusely was an act of worship.

  The gods of the Maya were demanding, much more demanding than the distant patriarch of a God that most Christians worship. Mayan gods governed each day’s activities, and each day a different set had to be praised and propitiated. And a Mayan who ignored the dictates of the gods and decided to behave as he pleased would be as mad, relative to his society, as a resident of Los Angeles who ignored the traffic regulations and decided to drive as he pleased.

  You may consider the comparison a frivolous one. Maybe you believe that traffic laws are for your protection and ignoring them would be dangerous. If you asked an ancient Mayan, he would explain that the rules for behavior laid down by the gods are for your protection. Ignoring them would be very dangerous. It would be dangerous, for example, not to offer a share of the honey to Bacab Hobnil, god of the bees; foolish to offend the Yuntzilob by hunting on the wrong day.

  We find the Mayan pantheon peculiar. By our standards, suicide and human sacrifice are unacceptable. We tend not to notice the peculiarities of our own culture. We accept the thousands of children who wear braces to correct their teeth, yet we consider the Maya odd for filing teeth to beautify them. Each culture defines its own idiosyncracies and then forgets that it has done so.

  10

  Diane

  ‘The twilight is the crack between the worlds.’

  – Carlos Castaneda,

  The Teachings of Don Juan

  When I went to my hut, I crawled into my hammock, bone-tired after the long day of hiking. I remember scratching a few mosquito bites, thinking about getting up to get a drink of water, then falling into a darkness as quiet and deep as the bottom of the cenote. I woke to the blare of a horn. In the warm bright dawn, I did not remember my dreams.

  The second day on survey was much the same as the first. We searched a new transect on the way out to the site where we found the stela. We were hot and sticky, plagued by flies, set upon by stinging ants. Dutifully, we mapped the site where we had found the stela. Using a rope line and small wire flags for markers, we divided the area into squares and Barbara designated certain squares to be searched for potsherds and worked stone: a random surface sample. I had the bad luck to draw a square that was covered with thornbushes that fought me at every turn. By the time I finished the search, my arms were laced with bright scratches.

  We were resting in the shade when my mother arrived at the site, tramping cheerfully through the monte, knocking aside thorny branches with her walking staff, fanning away her escort of flies with the other hand. A workman followed her and they were chatting in Maya about something as they walked. ‘Hello,’ she called out.

  Barbara opened one eye and peered out from under her hat. ‘It’s too hot to be so cheerful,’ she said.

  ‘I came out along the sacbe,’ my mother said. ‘It’s much easier going.’

  Barbara grunted. ‘I know. But we have to go back through the monte. So I don’t really care.’

  ‘I take it you haven’t made any wonderful finds today,�
� my mother said.

  ‘We decided to limit ourselves to one wonderful find every other day,’ Barbara said. ‘We didn’t want to overdo it.’ Barbara opened the other eye and went to show my mother the stela. Through eyes half-closed against the brightness of the day, I watched them. I could not hear the words of their conversation, only the sound of their voices rising and falling in the distance. My mother used her staff to hold back the branches and stooped beside the fallen monument. I wanted to get up and join them, but I felt as if I would be intruding. Barbara and my mother seemed to get along well. They did not need my help.

  I heard them laughing about something, high laughter like exotic birds in the trees, and I closed my eyes against the sun, jealous of Barbara’s ease with my mother, jealous of her knowledge of archaeology. She was my mother’s daughter, and I was a city dweller who was misplaced here among the flies and the thorns.

  A shadow fell over my face and I opened my eyes. My mother stood beside me. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked hesitantly.

  I opened my eyes and propped myself up on one elbow. ‘Fine. Just fine.’

  ‘You’ll want to put some antiseptic on those scratches when you get back to camp,’ she suggested.

  I glanced down at my lacerated arms. ‘It’s not so bad.’

  Barbara was still out by the stela, taking several pictures with the camera that my mother had carried with her. Maggie was giving her advice that she did not want. Robin was napping on the other side of the clearing.

  ‘You’re doing very well for someone who has never been on a dig before,’ my mother said quietly. She was not looking at me. She seemed to be watching something on the far side of the clearing, but when I followed her gaze I saw only sunshine and trees. ‘Don’t compare yourself to Barbara. She’s been doing this for years.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Remember that.’ She touched my shoulder lightly. ‘Come to my hut for the first-aid kit when you get back to camp.’

  Several hot and dusty hours later, with new bug bites and lacerations, I went to my mother’s hut. She was alone, sitting at the table that served as her desk, examining a few typewritten pages.

  ‘I came for the first-aid kit,’ I said. ‘Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said and pointed to the shelf that held a metal box painted with a bright red cross. ‘Wash those cuts with peroxide. You’ve got to take care of yourself out here.’

  Half of the cool interior was crowded with supplies and equipment: a bundle of burlap sacks bound with twine; a stack of folded cardboard boxes; a box filled with folded paper bags; another box filled with a jumble of paper bags that had been marked with numbers and letters.

  I was swabbing my cuts when my mother spoke again. ‘I wanted to apologize for taking Carlos off survey.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I’m not very good at dealing with people.’

  I looked up at her. Her face was unnaturally still; her hands held a pencil that she rolled between her fingers, a senseless incessant motion.

  ‘It really is all right,’ I said, with sincerity this time. ‘It was just a mistake. It’s OK.’

  She nodded, set the pencil down on her desk, and smiled tentatively. ‘Have you seen the latest find?’ She gestured toward the stone head that stared from the shadows at the far end of the hut.

  Leaving the first-aid kit open on the shelf, I went to examine the head more closely. It lay on a burlap wrapping and stared up at the ceiling. I did not like the look of the face. It sneered at me, the lips drawn back, the eyes wide open and hostile.

  I squatted beside the face and laid my hand on the elaborately carved headdress. It was cool to the touch. With one finger, I traced the crack that ran through the face. For no particular reason, I shivered.

  ‘They brought her down from the site today,’ my mother said from behind me. ‘I’m a little surprised she survived the trip with that crack.’

  ‘Was it part of a sculpture?’

  ‘More likely part of a building facade. It’s made of limestone stucco,’ my mother said.

  I nodded and sat back on my heels. ‘Who was she?’

  My mother shrugged. ‘Hard to say. There has been evidence, here and there, of a few women rulers. But I think more likely she was a priestess. Out on the Caribbean coast – on Cozumel and Isla Mujeres – there were shrines for a goddess named Ix Chebel Yax, goddess of the moon. I would like to think that the structure we’re excavating was a temple for the goddess. If it is, it’s the first evidence of such a cult on this coast.’ She squatted on her heels beside me and ran a finger along the spiral on the cheek. ‘Ritual tattooing,’ she said softly. ‘Very common among priests and nobility.’ She touched a long barbed needle that was woven with the shells into the woman’s hair. ‘Stingray spine,’ she said. ‘Usually used in bloodletting ceremonies. The devout would run spines or needles through their earlobes or tongues and offer the blood to the gods.’

  ‘Seems like a cruel way to live. Human sacrifice, offering blood to the gods.’

  She sat back on her heels. ‘Ah, now you are starting to sound as provincial as Robin. Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of the bones in the cenote too?’

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t say that. It just seems like a cruel way to live.’

  ‘People always talk about human sacrifice as if it were an unusual and aberrant activity,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Over the centuries, it’s really been fairly common in a number of societies. Think about it. There’re a number of religions in the United States whose worship centers on a particular human sacrifice.’ She glanced at me.

  ‘Jesus Christ on the cross,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Certainly. Thousands of people consume Christ’s body and blood each Sunday.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. Christ died long ago in a faraway place, and that might make it seem different. His worshipers claimed he was God incarnate, but the Aztecs claimed the same for the god-king they sacrificed. It happened only once, and that speaks for moderation on the part of the Christians, but that’s not a fundamental difference, just one of degree.’ She smiled at me, obviously enjoying herself. ‘Besides, I suspect that people overestimate the number of human sacrifices made by the Maya. One sometimes gets the impression that Mayan priests spent most of their time beating their fellows over the head and tossing them willy-nilly into the nearest well. And that’s not so. It was a rare and important occasion. And you must be careful about applying your standards to another culture. They have rules of their own. This woman may have participated in human sacrifices – but by her standards, that was good. The sacrificial victims went to a sort of paradise, and all was well.’

  She stood up and went to her desk for a cigarette. She tapped it out of the pack and held it without lighting it, still looking at me. ‘The fundamental bloodiness of the act is the same – whether it’s the Roman soldiers hammering the nails into Christ’s hands or the h’menob slicing out the heart of a captive soldier. Blood has a power to it, a strength and a magic.’ She had rolled up the long sleeves of her shirt and I could see the scars on the pale skin of her wrists. She lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out a cloud of smoke. Then she grinned at me. ‘Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. Occupational hazard of being a professor.’

  ‘You sound almost like you prefer the Maya to the Christians.’

  She laughed. ‘Understand them better, anyway.’ She put her cigarette in a jar top that served as an ashtray and walked over to the first-aid kit. ‘Maybe you should let me bandage those cuts,’ she said, and I heard no more about the ancient Maya that afternoon.

  The daily rigors of survey left me tired, but the restlessness that had kept me pacing to and fro in my father’s house had not deserted me. Here, I had more room to pace. When I woke in the morning before the blast of the truck horn or when I was restless after dinner, I went walking – past the kitchen where the
air was always touched with woodsmoke, past the cenote and out to the tomb site, past the arch of the Spanish chapel and out to the Temple of the Seven Dolls, where I could look down on the green-brown trees of the monte. Often, I met my mother on these walks. I found her by the Spanish chapel, sitting on a fragment of wall and staring out toward the Temple of the Seven Dolls. I found her alone by the cenote, dangling her legs over the water and watching the birds swoop low over the surface. I met her by the tomb site, muttering to herself as she inspected the excavation. When we met, she seemed genuinely glad to see me.

  The air was cooler at dawn and dusk, and my mother seemed slower, more contemplative. We walked together when we met. I told her little about myself – life in Los Angeles seemed distant and unimportant, a faded snapshot where the colors were muted and the figures blurred. My mother’s world was painted in vivid colors with crisp lines and edges. As we walked together, she talked slowly and carefully, as if she pieced together the ideas as she spoke them, groping for the next fragment and slipping it in place. Her sentences had the feel of written text – scripted thoughtfully, but as yet unedited.

  She told me about the Maya and their gods. ‘For each yield that the Maya took from the monte, a return was due the gods. A turkey, a bowl of balche beer, a jicara of atole, a kind of corn gruel sweetened with wild honey. The offering to the gods was given freely in a spirit of goodwill. Wise men did not haggle with the gods. A mean man who gave grudgingly would suffer bad health, his crops would fail. The Maya recognized that what they made, they made with the permission and protection of the gods. It was only temporarily theirs. In the end, it belonged to the gods. Our society tends to regard the monte, the wilderness, as an enemy. Christians battled and subdued the wilderness. The Maya have a much saner way of looking at the world, I think.’