“See, see, see?” the girl turned, pleased, to her bully of a classmate. The classroom filled with excitement.
“But you’re still dumb!” he said.
“Enough!” the teacher had to raise her tone again.
The fight ceased, but Iracema continued to display a conceited smile, thumbing her nose at the other. Maiara wanted to laugh too, but she restrained herself. She could almost feel in the girl the warmth of the discovery, the certainty of the settled mystery she knew so well. The experience that Maiara had been indoctrinated to never fail to look for.
“Well, now that we know where we stand, we can continue. As you know, we’re very close to Transition Day. Our calendar and the Zonguanese calendar will merge when the bells of the fourteenth baktun sound. The heart of the Dragon and the Serpent will beat as one, and everything will start there, in Xao-Kuna. We’re going to become more united. The Mayan Popol Vuh announces this moment as the beginning of a new era.
“Teacher, teacher!” A girl raised her hand euphorically. “My aunt told me it’s going to be the end of the world! Is that true?”
“My grandpa said the same thing!” said another student.
“That’s right, it’s going to be the revenge of the Mayans for the Fall!” a third one said gloomily.
Thus, another confusion of voices began. Everyone seemed to have some different contribution to make to the mosaic of legends, prophecies and fears that made up the expectations surrounding the arrival of the new baktun, the cycle of the ages of the ancient Mayan calendar.
Maiara had to spend almost all the rest of the class to reassure the children, assuring them that these rumors were no more than misinterpretations of the ancient writings, and that they were indeed blessed to have the opportunity to experience such an important moment in history. Soon, the timecounts of Tenoquese and Zonguanese, for whom this was the Year of the Dragon, would become one, and a new calendar would begin.
“Have faith in the future, my children,” Maiara sighed in a maternal tone. “There’s always hope. And you know why?”
The class answered in unison:
“Because Quetzal-Tupã watches over us!”
“Exactly.” The teacher nodded, pleased. “Quetzal-Tupã gives us everything and is responsible for everything around us. He brings rain and energy to us, and whispers good ideas to men in their sleep, allowing them to build something as wonderful as Xao-Kuna, and its bridges over the ice seas. There is nothing but kindness in our creator. He will always protect us, and this is…”
“The only truth!” everyone answered in a single voice.
Maiara smiled, sharing the same unshakeable conviction. The same innocence.
* * *
Children ran from one side of the avenue to the other, saying goodbye to their classmates and going to their parents. On the narrow sidewalk in front of the Institute of Education, a line of small ones formed, waiting for the last xudá, the collective electric transport vehicle, that would leave that same afternoon.
Embracing her tomes, and shouldering her linen bag, Maiara was on her way to the elevated platform at the end of the avenue, where the electric streetcar would take her home on the other side of the Bay in a few minutes.
When she walked by two students, the teacher couldn’t help listening to what one said to the other:
“I heard that the Mayans are killing the Zonguanese officers…”
The voices were lost in the noise of the avenue. Although the mysterious attacks were the talk of the moment, even among her fellow teachers, Maiara refused to pay attention to them. In her disinterested opinion, they were only political intrigues. Therefore, nothing new when it comes to the city-state of Guanabara.
Much more important, in her view, was the theme she had been addressing in her classes. The Day of Transition, the fusion of the computes, the beginning of the new era. Her father had talked so much about that day. She could hardly believe it was so close now.
If only her father had been alive to see it.
If only he hadn’t ruined everything.
“Mama, Mama!” Luc’s voice came out of the crowd as he ran past Maiara. A familiar face approached both.
Luc threw his school supplies behind him and grabbed the woman by the waist, almost knocking her to the ground.
“My dear.” She kissed his sweaty forehead between his thin black locks. “You didn’t get in trouble today, did he, teacher?”
“No.” Maiara greeted her friend with a friendly smile. “A top-notch student, Tayanna, as usual.”
“Did you hear, Mother?” Luc’s eyes flashed with anticipation as he pulled the hem of his mother’s dress from side to side. “I behaved good! Will I get my reward? Please please please!”
Noticing Maiara’s curious expression, Tayanna disclosed the information:
“I’ll take him to watch the sacrifice today.”
The words caused an infectious blast of happiness in Luc. The boy began jumping and laughing, vibrant as if it were the greatest victory he had ever won in his life. He embraced his mother, his teacher, and even a complete stranger who walked past them.
“Today? Maiara asked, when the boy’s excited shouts abated a bit. “Already?”
“The cycles are getting shorter and shorter,” Tayanna argued. “It’s really worrying, but apparently it’s necessary. So many crimes… And now, this attack wave.”
“Come with us, Maiarinha? Please?” Luc insisted, no longer seeing his teacher there, but the godmother he had known since he was a baby.
Tayanna gave Maiara a sympathetic look, aware of the discomfort that her son’s invitation caused her. She tried to get her friend free of the nuisance, insinuating an excuse:
“Maiara has important things to do, Luc. Leave her alone, come now.”
“No, that’s fine,” the teacher suddenly replied. “I’ll go with you.”
“Are you sure?” Tayanna asked, worried.
“Yes,” Maiara confirmed as vehemently as she could. “I’ll get something to eat and meet you in the cove.”
Disguising the uncertainty that weighed on her chest with an affected smile, Maiara, more than a commitment to the boy, made one with herself. That would end today. The teacher would face and vanquish her personal demons. She was a woman, after all. It was time to leave girlish fears behind. She felt ready, she just didn’t want to have to do it all by herself.
* * *
Many times Maiara had imagined her footsteps now on the wide paved sidewalk. The sky over Guanabara shone in a vivid, immaculate blue. The afternoon sun slanted through the treetops along the avenue, piercing its shadows with perfect light arrows.
It was a beautiful summer day, but soon Rain would come.
The peninsula was teeming with thousands of spectators, as happened with every sacrifice. In fact, a climate of excitement and urgency seemed to encompass not only that region, in the shadow of the so-called Loaf Mountain, but all of Guanabara. Port activity along the Bay had been temporarily suspended and its waters were free from heavy maritime traffic.
Maiara had no trouble finding Luc and Tayanna. It was a determination of the High Priest that children should have the right to preferential spaces during the ceremony which, for all those faithful to the Throne of the Serpent, was the supreme manifestation of justice. So, seeing the little one and his friend in the crowd in front of the port, Maiara went there. Passing through the cordon, she showed her teacher’s ID to one of the ocelots, the Guardsmen, another condition that ensured privileged participation in official government ceremonies. A privilege that Maiara had never considered invoking until now.
“Are you all right?” Tayanna asked when she looked at her friend.
The exasperated countenance and sweat dripping from Maiara’s forehead betrayed her nervousness.
“Right enough,” she replied, intending to believe that for herself. She pressed the school tomes to her chest, at the same time trying to occupy her trembling hands and stifle the heavy pounding of he
r heart.
The boarding bay was open. From its damp darkness, a rusty bridge jutted to the quay like the rotting tongue of a beast, waiting to receive in its bowels the cohort of condemned men who, bound to each other by wrists and ankles, followed in slow steps along the wooden pier, to their own doom. Burned into their arms, the mark of the sacrifice, an undulating serpent, flanked by two circles, representing the twin gods of death.
A few steps ahead of the group came the Herald of Xibalba, as the priest responsible for the sacrificial ceremonies was called. Wearing a ceremonial costume adorned with representations of feathers and fangs in pure gold and silver, no one could see his face, for it was covered with a stylized snake mask.
The Herald ascended the pulpit in front of the audience and began:
“By order of the High Priest of Guanabara and under the blessings of the great Quetzal-Tupã, I begin the thirtieth-first ceremony of Purge in this sacred year of the Dragon, thirteenth baktun.”
As the priest read the accusations of the condemned, Maiara watched each of them. Her hands felt numb, the icy fangs of the monster called terror seemed to devour her insides. They were alone. There was no one there to say goodbye to, or to regret their departure, for the families of the condemned were forbidden to appear at the Purge, a decision taken to prevent commotions capable of jeopardizing the smooth running of the ceremony.
Perhaps, in the silence of a townhouse, far away, the daughter of one of the men looked at her home for the last time.
Maybe she felt as lost as Maiara had felt.
“By their crimes, these eight transgressors were condemned to the Purge,” the Herald went on. “Their bodies will go through the waters to the Forbidden East, where they will be devoured by the servants of Xibalba. They will feel the weight of their sins in their flesh. They will bathe their souls with their own blood, and thus their torment will satisfy the will of the glorious Quetzal-Tupã.”
Among the convicts were three young men who stood out. Not only by the huge holes in their noses and ears, but by the absolute hauteur of their countenances. Maiara saw no trace of fear, sorrow, or shame in them. The three of them stood impassive, their black eyes fixed somewhere in front of the crowd, but without addressing anyone in particular.
These were Sons of Palenque, as the descendants of the ancient Mayan Empire were called, who refused to accept the end of their people’s sovereignty over South Tenoque and chose a life at the margins of society.
Maiara knew that these people were usually imprisoned in criminal acts of protest and condemned to the Sacrifice in the Purge. Yet she had never witnessed the notorious and disconcerting resignation attributed to the heirs of the fallen empire. For a brief moment, that singular demonstration stormed Maiara’s senses, and she attempted to decipher it, unsuccessfully.
“May the Lords of Xibalba have mercy on their souls.” The Herald’s voice brought the young teacher back from her contemplation.
The ceremony finally ended. With a nod from the priest and the wild cheers of the audience, the ocelots made their way to the line of condemned men and, pointing their rifles, signaled for them to enter the barge. After the last climb, the boarding plank was suspended, sealing them in the darkness of the stern. From then on, there was no way to open the barge, bound to follow by the Rising Ocean, operated by its automatic system, to the far horizon, where the lights of Xibalba glowed. There, the demons of the underworld would rise from the black earth and devour metal and flesh, appeasing the divine hunger.
That was the price charged by the Lords of Death. Many baktuns ago, they fell when Quetzal-Tupã, furious with his ancient Mayan servants, lifted Xibalba in his arms, throwing it to the end of the ocean, bringing the great thunder of the ages, and with him, the storms.
Now the Land of the Dead stood alone in the east, its watchful gods waiting to exert eternal punishment upon those whose crimes—be they murders, robberies, or simple heresy—would tarnish the domains of Quetzal-Tupã.
Men like Ubirajara of Akangatu. Her father.
* * *
The gods were generous that day. Rain was approaching, and from the look of the clouds converging into the bay, it would be strong as it hadn’t been for many days. The electric streetcar was right in the middle of the Mei-Long Bridge, where it rose before continuing to wind its way, disappearing between the glazed roofs of Maiara’s native land, Arariboia, sister city of Guanabara.
A warning on the tram’s internal radio system announced another news bulletin:
“Guanabara’s security forces remain clueless on the whereabouts of the criminal responsible for the death of Counselor Tseng last week,” the metal voice said. “However, evidence indicates that the killer might be the same one who was behind the attacks on the lives of three other dignitaries in the last two weeks. Nicknamed Anhangá by nearby sources…”
The statement triggered apprehension in some passengers and a rumble about the mysterious wave of attacks began. But Maiara couldn’t care less, whether it was the news on the radio, the passengers around her, or the stormy aspect of the Guanabara sky. Head against the window, the teacher was locked in her own thoughts. She couldn’t get the resigned eyes of the Sons of Palenque out of her head.
It didn’t make any sense.
Maiara didn’t attend the sacrifices when she was a little girl. Ever since her father was sentenced to board the damn ship. Still, she remembered well that what was seen among the purged ones was shame, remorse, despair. Never haughtiness. After all, there were men and women doomed to leave family, loves and dreams behind, heading for an eternity of torment.
The tranquility of the young Mayan men was something that terrified Maiara, and she searched for an answer. Nothing disturbed her more than unanswered questions, and that presented a mystery which escaped all understanding. She had become accustomed to unveiling the world, to understanding it through persistent reasoning, and thus bringing knowledge to the surface. That was her obsession and, as a teacher, the reason she had chosen such a vocation in the first place. An obsession in her blood.
The first thunder was heard at the usual time. Maiara’s gaze was drawn toward the cove to the south, right at the mouth of the bay. There towered majestically, like a colossal tree of glass and steel, the Guanabara Tower, the heart of the whole region of South Tenoque, where, once upon a time, her father had been a wise and respected researcher.
What would have been his reaction, the teacher always wondered? Had her father felt shame, remorse, fear? Or would he have remained silent and resigned, like those boys? Had he thought of her? Maiara would never know. This was her biggest doubt. The greatest of all her torments.
A bright light illuminated the sky. Drawn by the tower’s powerful reactors, the storm swirled around her as if the clouds were a rough sea. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky, leaping through the clouds until they met in the whirlwind, bombarding the top of the tower with divine precision and violence. From there, the monumental structure began its crucial work, absorbing the energy, which for so many ages, had been wasted before the coming of Xibalba to transform the world.
Fortunately, by the grace of Quetzal-Tupã, the Zonguá brothers were able to cross the deadly ice waves in the Dong-Dang Strait, bringing not only the liberation of the Nahuá and Tupi peoples from the cruel Mayan dominion in Tenoque, but the knowledge necessary to build the Energy Towers. Thanks to them, the electricity that flowed in the skies was brought to earth to serve as food for the cities, from the smallest lamp to the vehicle engines, to the automated systems that managed whole buildings.
Blessed be the gods for their generosity!
This was the only truth.
* * *
The Rain ceased as abruptly as it had begun, and as timely as every day. Maiara had just arrived home, a small townhouse on one of the older streets of Arariboia, a house which had belonged to her family for generations.
She took off the pair of earrings, the bracelets and necklaces she carried, tossing them haphaza
rdly over the dresser in the living room, now plunged into the orange glow of the setting sun. There was still an uncomfortable silence in the air, not only inside the house, but also in the street, something unusual for an evening.
The teacher felt uneasy. Shadows seemed to move in the twilight, perceived from the corner of her eyes, and the apprehension grew in her chest. She stood completely still halfway between the living room and her bedroom. For a brief moment, however, one of the planks of the wooden floor continued to creak.
There was someone else there.
Maiara didn’t turn toward the noise. An instinctive impulse of survival hit her, and from where she was, she dashed to the door. But it was too late.
A huge hand covered her mouth and a muscular arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close to the invader. Tears welled in her wide eyes as she felt the warm breath in her ear.
“I won’t hurt you,” the rough voice promised. “But I need you to listen closely.”
Maiara’s heart was pounding. She could faint at any moment, not only out of dread, but because of the nauseating odor that came from the bandage around the brute’s hand. However, she forced herself to remain alert for a moment longer. She tried to focus her panic on her own instinct for survival, the same instinct that had told her to run before, and that now were telling her to simply wait—and listen.
“Everything you think you know about your life is a lie, Maiara.”
For a moment there was silence. Maiara couldn’t say what was terrifying her the most, the weight and the strange lucidity contained in the intruder’s words, or the fact that he knew her name.
“I have very little time. You’ll need to meet me later.”
Now Maiara felt truly confused. Panic gave way to disorientation and she stopped struggling to disengage herself from the man. She only prepared for the worst, ignoring that nothing could prepare her for what would follow.
The invader pressed his lips to her ear and said:
“It’s about your father.”
Then, everything happened at once.
Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World Page 16
