by M. G. Herron
“As sure as I can be. Is there any way to extract another sample without damaging the meteorite?”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Audrey’s smile lit up her face. “We use very scientific methods here.”
She removed a small hammer from a toolbox under the table and aimed a chisel at one corner of the football-shaped rock.
“Wait!” Amon said. “Is that a good idea?”
“Do you have a better one?”
“Not exactly.”
She nodded and brought the hammer down. A chunk the size of ping-pong ball broke off.
“I guess you’ve done this a few times,” Amon said.
“Do you think this is enough?”
“Should be. The stone in Eliana’s ring was much smaller. I just need to make sure I have enough of the material because I won’t be able to return again if I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t know I’m gone.”
Audrey’s eyes widened. “You used the Translocator to get in here.” It wasn’t a question.
He couldn’t remove the transponder from his pocket with the sterile lab attire over his clothes. If the clock on the wall was correct, he had ten minutes remaining.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh no. How are you going to isolate the meteorite for the trip back?”
“I was hoping you had an idea.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re going to be the death of me, Amon.”
After a moment spent rifling around on the far side of the lab, Audrey returned with a plastic bottle, a beaker, plastic wrap, and a rubber band. She poured a translucent, odorless liquid from the bottle into a wide-mouthed beaker. Then she picked up the meteorite sample and placed it into the liquid with a plop.
“Castor oil,” Amon said. “Smart.”
She covered the beaker with plastic wrap and then fitted the rubber band around it to hold the plastic wrap in place.
“It’s not ideal,” she said. “But it should do the trick of insulating the meteorite during the translocation.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.” Amon looked at a wall clock again. “I don’t have much time.”
“Let’s get back to my office. People are in and out of here all day long.”
Audrey returned the equipment and meteorite to its place. They took the lab coats, masks, and caps off and made their way back to Audrey’s office. Liquid sloshed around in the wide beaker, which Amon carried with two hands like it was combustible. A liquid dielectric like castor oil, used to rapidly quench electrical discharges, would theoretically isolate the carbonado during the translocation. But he was still afraid it would backfire somehow. It wasn’t like his luck was running high these days.
Within sight of Audrey’s office, Barry the security guard came skidding around the corner. “Mr. Fisk,” he said, fingering the Taser on his hip. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”
“What for?” Audrey said. “He’s my guest.”
The guard squinted at Amon. “Where’s his badge?”
Amon swallowed. “I’ve got it right here,” he lied. “One second.” He made as if to step past Barry in the hall, but the young guard backed up and drew his Taser.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the beaker with his free hand. “Is that from the clean room?”
Amon charged, lowering his shoulder and driving it into Barry’s chest. The sudden motion threw the guard off balance. His head glanced against the wall, and he staggered back. When he caught himself, he grunted and brought the Taser around in a semicircle. The weapon’s tiny jaws crackled as it was activated mid-swing, aimed at the soft spot in Amon’s neck. Amon cringed, clutching the beaker, but Audrey backhanded the Taser out of Barry’s hands and sent it bouncing to the floor behind him.
Barry dove for it. Amon took two steps forward then stomped a foot down onto Barry’s wrist. Barry screamed and clutched at Amon’s ankle with his free hand. His fingers seized onto a handful of Amon’s jeans.
Amon lunged away from him, stumbled, felt the waist of his pants as the hand gripping them yanked down. Oil sloshed around in the beaker, slipped out of the imperfect seal, and dripped onto the floor, onto Amon’s jeans, onto Barry as they struggled. The oil greased Barry’s hands as it fell, and his hold on Amon’s jeans loosened until Amon was able to slip away.
Amon heard a half scream come from behind him. He turned back. Audrey held the Taser into Barry’s side, her lips pressed together into a line, squinting and trying to pull her face away even as her arm pressed the Taser into him.
Amon didn’t wait to say thank you. He turned again and sprinted down the hall, heading for the bathroom into which he’d arrived nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Two more security guards skidded around the corner from the opposite direction and blocked his way. One of them wore a black baseball cap screen printed with a white silhouette of a horse.
Amon took a left down a hall between them, turning his head rapidly from side to side in his search for an exit. He saw a small cracked window in an empty first-floor office, stepped inside, and locked the door behind him.
Setting the beaker down on a desk for a moment, he wiped his hands on his jeans and opened the cracked window as far as it would go, which was just barely enough for Amon to squeeze through. Taking the beaker back into his hands, he squirmed feet first through the window, the slippery beaker held against his stomach, trying not to jostle the carbonado too hard against the glass of the beaker. Nearly half the oil seemed to be all over his clothes, or the ground behind him.
He fell a few feet to the parking lot, twisting his ankle. At the same time, the other two guards burst noisily through the door of the office, screaming at him.
“Stop where you are!”
“Put the jar down!”
“That’s an order!”
Oil spilled down one side of the beaker as he jostled it. Gripping the glass became a task for arms instead of hands. He stumbled forward onto the asphalt parking lot as the deafening pulse of helicopter blades crested the building and set down in front of him.
The rhythmic thrum of the blades penetrated his body. The security guards’ screams became inaudible in the copter’s windstorm. He edged farther toward the helicopter to get out of their reach as they squeezed themselves through the window.
Amon fumbled the transponder out of his pocket as the helicopter touched down. When he looked up, he saw a blurry white silhouette of a horse’s head—like a chess knight—printed on the tail, the same as the guard’s cap. Fowler and Montoya jumped to the ground with their handguns drawn.
“You’re surrounded, Fisk!” Fowler yelled. “Nowhere to go now.”
Amon didn’t say anything. His eyes remained fixed on the transponder’s timer. Ten seconds remaining. The helicopter blades slowed down. Montoya held out his pistol and stepped forward. The timer reached zero. It stopped.
Nothing happened.
Amon drew in a sharp breath, and when he looked up he was gazing down the barrel of Montoya’s gun.
13
The Legend of
Ky and Kal
Eliana ran back to her hut as fast as her feet would carry her. A lovely blue feather blew out of her basket. She did not even consider turning back for it. At last, she stumbled into her shelter and collapsed on her bed, clutching the basket in her lap, her chest heaving, her heart pounding, still scared but feeling more secure in the humid shade of her hut.
The encounter with the chief had shaken her to the core. There were so many unanswered questions running through her mind. She feared asking them would cause a sudden end to her freedom, to her life. Would she fall ill like the boy, Tilak? Would the gods punish her, too?
She needed allies now more than ever. Eliana decided to go ahead with her original plan in spite of her fears. When she caught her breath, Eliana arranged the orchids she had collected. Despite the loss of a few, she had enough for a small bouquet. Only three of the half-dozen feathers she had gathered survived the journey. Sh
e wanted to give them away. Gifts, even simple ones, would be appreciated and remembered.
Ixchel was not in her hut when Eliana arrived, so she left the orchids on the adobe porch at the foot of the front door. The neighbors who saw her leave them would tell Ixchel whom they were from.
“She loves those,” someone said. Eliana spun. Rakulo stood two feet behind her. He had a shy smile on his face.
“Oh, hello,” Eliana said. “I didn’t know you were standing there.” She walked around him, headed back to her hut. He followed, jogging to catch up and match her pace. Eliana fought down a smile.
“‘A warrior is silent in life and death,’” Rakulo said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s something my father says. It is a matter of honor to move quietly and to say little. He says it’s a sign of strength.”
Eliana didn’t have a word for creepy, so she didn’t say anything.
The village was still waking up. People were in their homes getting ready for the big gathering that day. When they reached Eliana’s hut at the edge of the village, no one could be seen lingering nearby.
Eliana noticed Rakulo fidgeting. He seemed slightly embarrassed to be alone with her.
“Wait here a moment,” she said, ducking inside to retrieve the feathers. She handed Rakulo the small orange one and tucked the other two into her shirt.
“For you,” she said.
“Thanks,” Rakulo said. “Um…Will you be at the bonfire tonight?”
“Of course. I spent the last week helping prepare for it. I wouldn’t miss it.”
He nodded. “All right. See you later then.”
As he turned to go, Eliana had an idea. The uneasy feeling from her encounter with the chief remained, but perhaps this was her opportunity to get some of her questions answered after all.
“Rakulo?” she said as he turned. “Do you want to walk to the beach with me?”
He stopped, hesitated, turned back to her. “Sure.”
They each picked up a bundle of wood kindling from a pile that needed to be brought down to the beach. When they were alone again on the trail, Eliana asked, “Why does your father hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“It sure seems like he does.”
Rakulo adjusted the load of wood in his arms as he considered his answer. At a bend in the trail, he slowed down and said, “A long time ago, some people in Kakul started questioning the old ways. They didn’t want to feed the gods anymore. But when they refused to participate in the ceremony, people started getting very sick.”
“Like Tilak got sick?”
“Yes.”
Eliana asked, “Did all the ones who questioned the old ways get sick?”
“Not always. Their brother or child might become sick instead. Someone in their family.”
Eliana clenched her jaw. “As punishment.”
Rakulo nodded.
“I’m so sorry.”
He wiped his eyes discretely on the back of his arm and managed to stem the flood of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. They took another bend in the road. Rakulo looked up and down the trail and took a breath before continuing.
“After the previous chief—the one before my father—died of the sickness, the elder shamans convinced our people to return to the old ways. They performed the ceremony during the next cycle of the moons. And when the sickness passed, my father made peace with the shamans, and they elected him chief.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Many moons. I was a child.”
Eliana thought, You still are. She asked instead, “Have many fallen ill since then?”
“Some. But until Tilak, it had been a while.”
“What are the shamans doing about it?” she asked.
“There aren’t any left. One died three moons past in a turkey hunting accident. Another drowned. Another died in his sleep. The last…well, you saw what happened to him.”
The memory of Chief Dambu stripping the shaman of his headdress and clothes and slopping purple paint onto him as he gasped for breath returned to her mind’s eye, the memories’ details cemented by their association with simultaneous terror and joy. When she realized she had stopped walking, Eliana shook her head and picked up her pace again.
After a moment of reflection, she asked, “Why did the shamans not recruit young ones to take their place when they were gone?”
“All of the young men want to be warriors like my father. They take his words to heart.”
“And the young women?”
“They want to be warriors, too,” he said with a chuckle. “Like Citlali.”
“She is fierce,” Eliana agreed. “And silent. I guess that makes sense.” The new information about Citlali surprised her and made her feel guilty at the same time. Eliana knew that she had been so busy learning from the girl that she had not taken much time to learn about her. “What about the other girls?” she asked.
“They want to be healers, like my mother, or get pregnant and have babies as a…safeguard against the necessities. Those old enough to have seen their cousins and siblings fall ill know the toll it takes on our village.”
It was starting to come together now for Eliana, the unspoken logic of the midnight sacrifices. “So that’s why your father, instead of a shaman, led the ceremony?”
“Yes. There is no one else.”
They had reached the beach now. Eliana dumped her bundle of kindling next to a large pit that had been dug for the bonfire.
“Will you be chief one day, like Dambu?”
Rakulo dropped his bundle of kindling next to hers then walked toward where the translucent lavender waves lapped gently against the shore. He bent and gathered a fistful of sand and chucked it at the horizon. A gust of wind caught the tiny grains and scattered them as they fell.
“I don’t want to be chief,” he said.
Eliana and Rakulo made three more trips to gather wood. By their second trip, the trail was crowded with people making their way down to the beach with their families.
When Eliana ran into Citlali, she withdrew the two remaining feathers from her tunic, a large pink one with a rounded edge, and a comb-edged royal-blue-and-black one. Citlali’s eyes lit up as Eliana tied them into her hair. It pleased her immensely when the boys complimented Citlali over the course of the afternoon. Even more so, when the other girls looked jealously at Eliana’s gifts.
By the time the sun began to set, the bonfire had been built up to a fierce blaze. Eliana sipped from a cup of sweet wine where she sat on a tree trunk at the back of many rows of logs arranged theater style around the fire. The event reminded her of afternoon picnics and barbecues back home, a time of socializing and laughter. Sitting apart, she grew melancholy with nostalgia.
Rakulo played throwing games with the other young teenagers his age. She caught him looking in her direction a few times.
Dambu mingled among the crowd, greeting friends and thanking them for coming. He had not been involved in the preparations, yet, as chief, he was the host of this event. He welcomed everyone. He even acknowledged Eliana and the work she did helping them put it together, giving no hint of their conversation that morning.
At full dark, with the two moons waxing to a synchronous full showing overhead, Ixchel gathered the children in a cleared area before the fire. The older adults slowly filtered into the rows of logs, choosing seats. The younger adults gathered at the back and stood when there were no more logs on which to sit.
The crowd pressed in tightly to hear Chief Dambu as he took the impromptu stage. Tongues of orange flame licked the inky purple sky. His great feathered headdress—the headdress that had once belonged to an elder shaman—fanned out over his broad shoulders and chest, which had been painted blue and green, augmenting his tattoos into more sinuous forms that crawled across his neck and face. The scars on his chest were shiny and pale in the firelight. He put his hands over his heart then raised them toward the night sky, touching th
e thumb and forefinger of each hand together. The crowd mimicked his gesture.
A-okay. Eliana shivered.
Dambu drew the obsidian knife from his belt. “May Xucha accept our offering,” he said, his deep baritone carrying out over the quiet crowd. “Protect us, keep our children in good health, and bless us with a plentiful harvest for the season.”
He beckoned with his free hand, and Rakulo reluctantly rose from his seat. The painted designs on Rakulo’s arms and chest made him look like a modest imitation of the chief.
When he reached his father’s side, Rakulo turned to face the crowd. Chief Dambu grasped his son’s wrist with one hand. Pulling his arm out, empty palm facing up, Dambu exposed the many lines of scars along Rakulo’s forearm. He drew the obsidian knife across Rakulo’s forearm, opening a fresh wound. Rakulo bore it in silence, clenching his jaw. Then Dambu sheathed the knife and caught the dripping blood in a bowl held below the open cut. Eliana cringed.
“For Xucha!” Dambu cried out, his eyes bulging in his head. He dipped his fingers in the bowl of blood and drew a circle on each of Rakulo’s cheeks. He cast the rest of the blood into the fire with a bloodthirsty cry. People held their hands up in the A-okay sign and stomped their feet until the ground shook.
Dambu wrapped Rakulo’s arm with cloth and sent him back to his mother’s side. Ixchel embraced him and rubbed his back. Citlali reached over and patted his leg. Rakulo looked nauseous, but he put on a brave face as his blood soaked the wrapping on his arm.
“Let the storytelling begin,” Dambu intoned. He made his way to the back of the crowd, where he stood with his arms crossed and melted into the shadows.
The first performer who took the stage wore a wooden mask painted with an image of a fanged snake. He threw a handful of herbs on the fire, and the flames turned a vibrant blue.
Snake spun a yarn about the serpent god, Xucha, who cracked open the sky with his split tongue and let the other gods in. Together, they fashioned the world from clay and stone, filled it with water, covered it with trees, brought forth animals to inhabit the jungle, and, as their final act, formed man out of clay. When the world was complete, Xucha wrapped his sinuous body around the world and squeezed the sky shut. But he squeezed too tight, and the sky turned a bruised purple as a result. The sky was broken, and even the gods were stuck here, and no one could go back through again.
