* * * *
"Shh, watch, watch him!” Tomás whispered, grabbing Pascual by the wrist.
A roadrunner stalked a small rattlesnake through the mesquite not ten meters away. Pascual and his uncle sat in white plastic lawn chairs next to Tomás's trailer outside Nogales. It was a warm, still afternoon in January. They sat outside to enjoy the sun. Tomás squeezed his wrist so hard, Pascual thought it would crack.
The bird circled and feinted as the snake stood on its coiled tail, keeping its guard up while trying to retreat under a mesquite bush. After a while, the exhausted snake lowered its head to crawl off. The roadrunner charged. The snake lifted its head just as the bird bit down on its tail above the rattles. With a powerful swing of its neck, the roadrunner whipped the snake over its shoulder and smacked it hard on the rocky ground. It continued the beating until the snake was dead. The bird began to swallow the still twitching body before running off, half the snake hanging out of its mouth.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Pascual spoke under his breath.
"Welcome to Sonora, city boy. You don't even curse in Q'anjob'al anymore?"
Uncle Tomás didn't speak anything but, so Pascual switched, “Uncle, I've been at Berkeley for four years. The only Q'anjob'al I've heard has been over the cell phone."
"I can tell; you're searching for words right now. How will you remember the language when you live in Puerto Rico?"
"It'll be easier for me to visit home from Puerto Rico, a two hour flight. I'll have the money to fly home."
"When we go back to Guatemala, people won't trust you if you speak that way. They'll think you're trying to pass as ladino."
Pascual shifted, uncomfortable, the plastic chair flexing beneath him. “When will we go back to Guatemala? Mama and Papa have been planning to go back ever since they got to Florida, twenty-seven years ago!"
"It will be safe for us again this winter, when the new Long Count begins. The earth will shake and change. Only people who are right in their hearts will be left. Then we will go home."
"So I get my dream job just months before the world ends, great."
Tomás squinted at him from under the brim of his sweat-stained straw cowboy hat, lips pursed. “If the job is so good, it will continue when the New Count starts. You may still be in it if you're right with your family and the Mundo. Maybe that's the question we should ask: Will Pascual be able to stay in the clear light, with his ancestors and the Mundo, at his Puerto Rico job?"
It was time for the divination. Pascual could feel it in the stillness of the air, hear it in Tomás silence. He thought about all the questions he could ask, but the one Tomás posed summed it up.
"Do me the favor, Uncle. Ask that question for me."
Tomás nodded and took his hat off. He summoned the ancestors and the Mundo, the earthly world, by naming them in murmured prayer. He listed the sacred shrines and streams, the volcanoes and lakes of his pilgrimages. He borrowed the breath of the mist at the rising sun and the powers of the different kinds of lightning. The words flowed through Pascual's mind. He rocked and nodded with their rhythm.
On finishing the prayer, Tomás opened his baraj, the leather bag that held the tools of the day-keeper's trade. He sifted the seeds and crystals in the bag through his fingers, then pulled out a handful and blew on it.
"I now borrow the breath of this day. On this great and holy Wednesday, Seven Came, I take hold of these seeds and crystals to ask a question, a favor."
On a small plastic table between them, Tomás sorted dried corn kernels and tiny quartz crystals into almost two-dozen small piles. He arranged the piles into four rows.
Tomás began to count. Starting with Seven Came, he called each pile by consecutive number and the name of a Day Lord as ordered by the ancient divinatory calendar. His hand jerked slightly over the third pile.
"Nine K'anil, the deal is ripe, ready for the picking.” He continued the count, resting his fingers on the next pile while saying its day name and number. “Ten Toj, and my blood speaks again, a tingling in my right hand. There is a debt owed to the Mundo, a big one!” He counted on. “Now, it is the Lord of Thirteen E’ who speaks, you are guided on this road and will walk there in clear light.” Tomás kept counting, but his blood did not speak again.
"Hmm, the answer is not entirely clear to me. Come here, Lord Thirteen E'. Will Pascual be able to stay right in the ways of his ancestors at this new job?” Tomás touched the seeds lightly and waited for the answer. “My blood speaks, this time in my thigh. Thirteen, the highest number of E', tells me you are strongly guided to take this road, but you must work hard to stay Maya in your heart."
"How can I do that, Uncle? I know I should call my parents more often. I'll try to get home for the feast days, but sometimes my work schedule will keep me from it."
"Those things are good. I think also you need to pray every day in Q'anjob'al. Each morning, greet the day by its sacred name, so you will always know your place in the divinatory calendar. Keep Maya symbols around you. Keep pictures of the temples, observatories, and artwork of our homeland at home and at work."
Tomás closed his eyes and let his fingers hover over the pile he'd counted as Ten Toj. “Yes, the ancestors already know. You will walk in the clear light as a Mayan man at this job, if you keep out of their debt by doing these things. The high number with Lord Toj still makes me worry that the debt is not just to the ancestors, but to the Mundo, that all the earth has a stake in you. Such a high number suggests that there will be a death."
The concern in Tomás's eyes chilled Pascual, despite the warmth of the morning. Would it be his mother or father? His sisters? Himself?
Tomás nodded, recognizing Pascual's fear. “We'll make an offering today. I think it will take a chicken, and you should leave me two dollars for candles to light at the statue of San Felipe of the Sacred Heart."
As they walked around the trailer to the chicken coop, Tomás asked, “What will you do at this job, anyway?"
"Watch the night sky, just like Kukulkan taught. I'll be looking for near-earth asteroids with the most powerful radar on earth, finding things that could become meteors, arrow stars."
Tomás nodded, “It's good to know about bad omens. You call me first when you see them.” Tomás unlatched the coop. “Your Mama cried when she told me you got this job."
"She cried when I told her. She said it was because she was happy for me."
Tomás grabbed a big white chicken and handed it to Pascual while he got the knife from the shed.
"Use this board to rest its neck."
Pascual grabbed the chicken and held it upside down. He always hated this part. The chickens get so still and peaceful when they're hung by the legs. Tomás handed him the knife. Pascual rested the chicken's neck and breast on the two-by-six board lain across saw horses next to the coop. Tomás began praying, offering the chicken as payment to the Mundo on Pascual's behalf.
Pascual raised the knife. The chicken twitched in his hand. He turned away as he brought the knife down. The chicken squawked. Its body started to thrash. Pascual tried to pull the body free of the head and felt the two parts still connected under the knife. Eyes still squeezed shut, he sawed at the neck's muscle and bone, feeling the chicken's blood hot on his hand. The knife handle got slippery with it. The wings beat strongly; Pascual finally had to look down at it. His hand and the knife were a mess of white feathers stuck together with red blood.
"Why won't it die?” he shouted, and coughed to cover his retching.
Tomás grabbed the chicken, then the knife, and finished the job.
He clucked his tongue around the Q'anjob'al words, “City boy."
* * * *
Pascual got on I-10 at Tucson. It would be three days driving to get home to Florida. The sun set in the rearview mirror. Uncle Tomás's divination rested his mind about his decision to take the job. But the visit overall had unsettled him. He'd been a teenager the last time he helped someone harvest their garden or put on a fea
st with his family. He knew his parents expected him to come home and live near them in Florida or in Guatemala, someday. Would it be twenty-seven years worth of somedays? As a student at Berkeley he still thought of himself as a visitor to the academic world. Taking the job at Arecibo, he would be making a home there.
He turned on the radio. The President was giving her State of The Union address. She said America needed to stop being mercenaries for the Saudi and Iraqi governments. Continuing the never-ending peacekeeping missions was draining the economy. The payment in oil still wasn't enough to feed demand. Every American would need to make some changes, some sacrifices, to end the dependence on foreign oil. Only through sacrifices could we regain the ability to choose our own futures, she said.
She was right. Pascual wished he could stay longer than a week at home, but his starting date at Arecibo was set. He wanted an anchor in his community and culture before the strong current of his life carried him off to his chosen future at Arecibo.
* * * *
The clutch went over the glyphs, developed by the Cheorka diplomatic corps and approved by the Universal Council, for the initial communication with the humans. When they finished, the clutch was quiet for a few minutes. Aranead noticed their crests drooped around their faces. It was almost time for him to leave. He kept his crest at an alert point. It was an honor, he reminded himself, an honor. His stomach rumbled.
"On this planet of all places, it's probably a bad idea to show up hungry,” he said, and they all laughed. “Let's have our last meal together, and I'll leave with a full stomach."
Every diplomatic ship carried livestock. The food habitat dominated the dining area, to provide the khulon room to move around. Aranead leaned over the cage to pick out a meal. The older ones had grown fat enough to eat. They were almost half a meter tall and covered with short silky hair. A younger one swung from the grate covering the top of the habitat. Aranead gently pushed the tiny pink hands off the bar and heard the creature thump, then scurry across the habitat's sand-covered floor. A nice, fat one looked up with dull eyes. It started a nervous shuffle toward a corner. Something about the creature's desire to hide whetted his appetite. The clutch squawked. Aranead grabbed the khulon with both hands just as it turned to run. His fingers locked around its torso.
Slashing its throat with a sharpened talon, Aranead said a prayer of thanks, then bit its head off and offered one leg each to Chika and Deekor. Licking blood from his fingers, he saw that some had dripped to the floor. He bent to lick it clean and saw a second fat khulon in the cage. It dug into the bedding in the corner. The little primate was too stupid to know its legs kicked frantically in plain sight as it dug. It was important not to start hungry today. Aranead grabbed both legs with one hand and pulled. Pick, slash, bite. He gave the other half to Wa'akon.
When the time came, Aranead boarded the shuttle ship, crest up. Wa'akon followed him in, and they stood together at the control console.
"You must succeed. By bringing them to Council, we clear the consciences of all Cheorka. And darkness only knows what those mammals will do if left on their own.” Wa'akon scratched at the floor with her feet. “I was one who thought your mammal study inconsequential when you did it, and now it brings our clutch this honor."
Aranead nodded, noticing Wa'akon openly staring at the drawer with the wooden handle. It was an invitation to speak about its contents.
"I admit, I meant the study to be inconsequential. If I'd known the message from Earth was coming, and that I'd be chosen for this, I'd have fished on Cancri instead.” The feathers of his crest drooped over his eyes. “I am afraid, Wa'akon. I've overseen many sacrifices, but never...” he finished the sentence with a hiss.
"I'm afraid for you, my broody. We enforce and audit, but Cheorka don't carry out the law or submit to it ourselves. Our mission is unique, and the honor brought will be equaled with sadness. When the time comes, know your clutch fears with you. There is no shame in fear. But you must succeed.” As she spoke, Wa'akon dragged her fingers gently through the feathers at Aranead's neck. Aranead accepted the preening and cooed like a hatchling until it was time to begin the routine.
In taking flight, the plasmonic skin of Aranead's shuttle redirected a wide range of electromagnetic radiation around the egg-shaped hull, rendering it invisible to both the human eye and radar. With a more advanced saurid culture, he would have traveled visible to the first contact. Then more of the population would become aware of the visit before he landed. With these creatures, so strange but familiar in the most disturbing way, he did not want to be met with too large a crowd. He would appear at the facility that sent the message and deal first with the people there. The images they'd obtained of the transmitter's location suggested it was not densely populated.
As he fell toward Earth, he thought about the part of this mission he feared the most, the only part that could not be rehearsed. The island chain came into view. He hummed the Contact Song over and over, knowing this mission would end in silence eventually.
* * * *
Pascual arrived back at Arecibo at lunchtime. As the afternoon heat faded, the rich smell of the jungle surrounding the giant dish filled his nostrils. Puerto Rico's lush greenery was so different from the swampy thicket of Florida. He imagined the jungle here would be similar to Guatemala's; it was close to the same latitude. After almost a year, Arecibo had begun to feel like a home in some ways. He had a comfortable apartment in town. The jungle reminded him of his parents describing their once and future homeland. It could be uncomfortable when Puerto Ricans assumed he was Mexican and began to speak quickly in Spanish. In social situations, he could explain that Spanish was not his native language, but in more casual interactions, people often thought him rude.
His colleagues treated him with respect. Pascual's work ethic and attention to detail were excellent. So much so, he felt it alienated the less prolific research associates, the ones who liked to joke, in his presence, about ethnic diversity hires. The jokes spurred Pascual to work harder. So hard he hadn't been home to Florida yet. He decided not to leave Arecibo until he'd drafted his first paper.
Pascual headed for the picnic area outside the cafeteria for a quick meal. The chicken asopao served here was delicious. He could practically taste the succulent chili and onions. The chicken would be so tender from the slow simmering, it would melt in his mouth.
"Evening, Janet,” Pascual greeted the graduate student sitting by the cafeteria door. Janet looked up, smiling, but then her face went blank. Pascual wondered if he had said something wrong until the low frequency rumble shook his bones. His legs collapsed and he fell to the ground. He struggled against the vibration to get up. About twenty people sat stock still at the picnic tables, staring at the parking lot, where a metallic egg-shape, about five meters tall, rested.
Stunned, Pascual saw his car, among others, crushed beneath it. The hatch silently slid open. A huge creature stepped out and landed on stocky bird-like feet. The skin on its muscular legs was blue and pebbly. The black feathers on its torso and haunches were iridescent in the sunlight. It stretched as if it had been cooped up too long. Five giant fingers, one with an oversized talon, flexed from the middle of each wing. It stretched its long, thick neck skyward. The blue skin there had a crossed diamond pattern repeated in black lines from the feathered nape to the base of its skull. Long red feathers stood up on the crest of its head, like a woodpecker's.
There were whimpers from the picnic area. Pascual saw people, fallen off the benches, cringing and crawling away backward on their hands and knees. The creature dropped its powerful jaw, opening its mouth to display giant, sharpened teeth. Its head swayed back and forth on the long neck. It began to sing. Trills, clicks, and warbles vibrated in Pascual's skull. His colleagues scrambled and ran for the forest, but he could not take his eyes off the brilliant snake-necked creature.
* * * *
Aranead saw the mammals scatter and run. They were twice as big as khulons. His eyebrow plumes shot
up. He felt which way the wind would take their scent and instinctively turned to start a downwind course. He imagined ripping their limbs off as they squirmed and screamed. This instinct was so long repressed he did not have a method to defuse it.
Restart the dance, you fool, restart the dance. The ceremony will hold you.
He sang the Contact Song at top volume, watching the ground where he placed each foot as he danced. Nothing could be more familiar. Every Cheorka practiced this dance from hatching. Diplomacy was in their blood. Aranead felt the song move his body through each step, swoop, and stretch he made.
* * * *
Pascual watched in wonder as the beast began to dance. There was a pattern in the noises it made. Its movements were repeated and rhythmic. It was trying to communicate. Every muscle and bone in his body shook when the creature's feet hit ground, but his thoughts snapped into clarity.
His call was being answered. That simple message, built from a lexicon of numbers and symbols rooted so deeply in the past, was being returned from an unimaginable future. The plumed serpent had given humans the language of mathematics to communicate between the terrestrial and celestial worlds. Had it come now to teach something new? More excited than frightened, Pascual reasoned with himself. This was no serpent. It looked more like a partially feathered Tyrannosaurus rex with sturdy wings and hands. And if it was Kukulkan, it was early. It was only August 2012.
The alien walked a pattern on the ground, turning precise angles at regular distances. It was a diamond! The alien was dancing along a diamond path! The creature repeated the sequence four times, and then changed direction. It crossed the shape formed by its previous path and pantomimed a hunt, which ended in a small thing being eaten, then seemed to shrug with its arms out.
Pascual remembered the roadrunner. It had been so cunning, so quick and deadly. If this creature, who had the skills to travel across the universe, wanted to eat him, there was no sense in trying to run or hide. The alien kept dancing, though it looked toward Pascual's fleeing coworkers. It was too much. Pascual began to scream.
Analog SFF, December 2007 Page 8
