The Last Mayan (The Alan Graham Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  Last Mayan

  An Alan Graham Mystery

  Malcolm Shuman

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Dedico este libro a Mimi y Rosaura, con cariño

  PROLOGUE

  On the third day of the storm the winds died somewhat and the ocean settled into an eerie calm. The crew, many of whom had been lashed to their posts, allowed themselves to hope that the tempest was over, but the captain, who had struggled beside the helmsman throughout the ordeal, was not so sure. He had seen the eyes of storms before and knew that just because the driving winds had slackened and the thirty-foot waves had flattened into a gray, rumpled field, it did not mean that the storm was spent.

  And even if the storm was finished, there was still little hope that any of those on the tiny ship would survive. It had been well over a month since they’d last seen terrain they recognized, as they’d sailed south with the land of dark-skinned people on their left side. They’d halted at the mouth of a river to replenish their supplies, and instead of meeting natives eager to trade, they’d been attacked. Two men had been killed and the rest had barely gotten away in the small boat. Even as his crew reached the mother ship, the natives had launched canoes, and the captain had little choice but to put to sea, heading west. He never foresaw the storm that would arise and, after two days of tossing the little craft about, leave them disoriented on a featureless ocean.

  That had been another storm. When the waves had calmed and the skies cleared, the lookout sighted an island on the west. Perhaps, everyone thought, it was the legendary isle of gold.

  But if it was an island, it never ended and the river they came to was wider at its mouth than any they had ever encountered. The land was inhabited but not by any race they had ever seen. These natives were brown, not black, and they carried bows and blowguns. Most faded into the forest as soon as they saw the ship, and only once, when the crew landed their small boat to take on water, were they able to actually meet any of the strange little men. In this case, they seized the native and brought him back with them, hoping he would, after interrogation, prove able to understand their language and guide them. But the prisoner was terrified and, after a day on board, slipped his bonds at night and disappeared over the side.

  For the next two weeks they’d cruised north, looking for the end of the island, but the land seemed not to have any limit. The crew was fearful, afraid they would never again see their homes and families. There was discussion, some of it heated, about what course to maintain. But the captain held fast: There was no choice but to continue north, because without any sure way to measure distances east and west, there was no means of knowing how far they had come from their original course. Perhaps, at some point north, this land would become familiar, or join with some island they knew. Or perhaps, if this was the fabled golden isle, they would find someone who could speak their language and guide them.

  Then, in their fourth week of sailing along the unknown coast, the skies had darkened and the captain had sensed the drop in pressure. They had looked for a safe harbor, but the captain knew that a storm like the one they had already come through would dash them onto the shore and destroy the ship, leaving them marooned. The men wanted to take a vote, but he insisted that they put to sea and ride out the blast.

  It had been a mistake.

  Within hours the sky had gone from gray to black, with low, streamerlike clouds driving toward them like smoke from hell. The waves began to mount, their tops frothed with white, and the tiny craft began to slew sideways in the huge troughs. From his place on the quarterdeck the captain could see the lips of the crew moving in prayer, though the noise of the tempest drowned out the words.

  Not a religious man, he nevertheless began to pray, himself.

  Waves smashed over the bow and those men who were not lashed to the masts screamed in terror. When one especially large wave burst over the gunwale, flooding the deck with angry foam, two of the crew disappeared in the receding water as the bow shot upward into the next wave.

  Then, on the third day, the winds had weakened as the little vessel moved into the eye of the cyclone. Some of the crew—those that were left—had fallen to their knees in prayer. Others slumped to the wooden deck in exhaustion, too tired to give thanks.

  And as the helpless craft floated now on the becalmed slate sea, the captain tried to think what, if anything, could be done.

  But there was nothing.

  And, just as he’d feared, within two hours the winds began to pick up again and the waves started to batter harder at the groaning wooden spars.

  Were they riding into the other side of the storm, or had they just been caught by the fast-moving edge they’d already come through?

  It didn’t matter: They’d never survive this time.

  He should have listened to the men. At least on dry land they would have had a chance. Ships can be rebuilt, even in the harshest places. But lives cannot.

  He was still cursing himself for a fool when someone sighted land.

  At first the captain thought it was a low cloud hovering at the edge of the horizon, but then he realized that the clouds were moving too fast and that it had to be land. They were driving toward it, too.

  Desperate, he gave orders to unfurl the sails. All mariners knew that shorelines had teeth that could rip out a craft’s bottom. It was better to stay away from land in bad weather. If he could only keep to sea …

  But it was too late: The winds shredded the fabric until only rags streamed from the masts. The ship rose and fell, and inexorably was borne toward the shore.

  Now the men began to cry out again, some from fear and others with excitement, thinking they might have a chance to touch dry land.

  But the captain knew better and at the last minute the vessel struck a reef with a grinding, angry sound and water swept over the decks as the ship disappeared under the waves.

  Much later, when he came to, he was in a forest, with water lapping at his body. Tall trees leaned sideways in the blast and leaves drove by him on the way to nowhere. He raised himself onto his knees and staggered forward, trying to escape the tide, which even now was trying to drag him backward into the roiling gray ocean. He grabbed a tree, hugged it, and closed his eyes. When, many hours later, he opened them again, the tide had receded and there was a thin strip of beach visible in front of him. He slumped to the ground and rested. When he’d recovered some of his strength, he rose and went looking for his crew, oblivious to the wind that tried to push him back into the trees.

  There were two bodies on the beach, the incoming waves washing over them. The rest of the crew had vanished with the ship.

  He was still staring at the murderous waters when he heard something behind him and spun around. It was a human voice and the joyous thought suddenly occurred to him that someone had survived.

  But when he turned, he saw it was not one of his comrades at all, but one of the natives of this land, a tall man wearing a loin covering and little else.

  The captain pointed at the sea, but the native did not seem to comprehend or even want to. Instead, he signaled with his hand and five more like him materialized from the forest.

  The first one said something in a language the captain did not understand, and then they were on him, grabbing his arms and bearing him away with them, to where he dared not imagine.

  He cast a final, desperate look back at the sea. He sensed that where they were taking him would make the mercies of the sea seem generous.

  That’s how I imagined it, after what happened at the Mayan site of Lubaanah, in the year A.D. 2001.

  ONE

  I checked into the Hotel Colón and wondered if it w
as going to be the second time a woman had stood me up there. The first time had been fifteen years ago and the woman had been Felicia Esquivel. My wife. I hadn’t been back to Mérida or the Yucatán since. This time, Pepper had assured me, things would be different. And they were, mostly: the automated customs procedure, the new Mexican money, the periférico, or loop, around the city. The only thing that was the same was that I was waiting for another woman: Pepper.

  Coming to Mexico had been a tough decision. There were too many memories, both good and bad. The happiest days of my life had been spent here, as a young archaeologist intoxicated with the history, the culture, and the people. I’d made friends, learned the Spanish and Mayan languages, and immersed myself in the exploration of ancient Mayan sites. I’d also met Felicia Esquivel.

  We’d fallen in love and, after a three-month courtship, I’d convinced her to marry me, not realizing the demons that lurked in her tempestuous psyche. Then, one day, I’d waited for her at the Hotel Colón and she didn’t come. It was only later I found out she’d been with another man, a German archaeologist.

  I’d told Pepper I wasn’t sure I was ready to come back, and she’d asked if I would ever be. She’d pointed out that I talked about Mexico frequently and that sometimes at night I shot upright in bed from dreams in which I’d been walking the streets of Mérida and prowling tumbled pre-Columbian rains. Was I really going to let what was now ancient history keep me away? I’d complained about her going back for summer work with Eric Blackburn at Lubaanah, on the east side of the peninsula. So why not come down and visit? Eric was easy to get along with, and he was eager to meet me. Besides, I needed a vacation—she could tell that by the way I’d been for the last six months or so before she’d left for Mexico in June.

  I’d debated it long and hard. The company couldn’t survive without me, someone should be close enough to the phone to handle Bertha Bomberg’s unreasonable demands when the Corps of Engineers came calling, and there was a major proposal that was still out.

  Marilyn, my office manager, told me she’d quit if I didn’t go, and David Goldman, my main associate, told me he was tired of seeing me moping.

  They didn’t leave me much choice.

  And so, after stalling as long as I could, I’d made reservations for early August, but had found out there were no available seats on the flights to Cancún, so I’d have to fly into Mérida, the old colonial capital on the west side of the peninsula. Pepper had said she’d come up and meet me at the airport, but at the last minute her plans had changed: We’d meet at the Hotel Col6n at four, just as the siesta hour ended. That would give her time to drive the two hundred miles from Bacalar, where the expedition was headquartered.

  I told myself, as I stood in the cool lobby, smelling a mixture of bus exhaust from the street and bougainvillea from the patio, that I was hypersensitive. I could have made reservations at another hotel, but I’d opted to confront the demons at the beginning and be done with them. Then, too, I was disoriented from the changes I’d already noted: fewer Indian women in huipiles, the brightly embroidered smocks that had been common in years before; fewer men wearing sandals, which before had been the sure mark of Indian status for males; a total inability to understand what the dollars in my wallet would buy these days; a pervasive use of Spanish, as opposed to Maya, among the people I’d passed when I’d walked down to the main plaza to kill the rest of the faltering afternoon. I was going to have to get my bearings all over again.

  Where the hell was Pepper when I needed her?

  Then I thought of the long, narrow main highway between Bacalar and Carrillo Puerto, the rain forest home of the insurgent Maya of the nineteenth century, and the equally narrow road that arrowed northwest from Carrillo Puerto toward Mérida. There were lots of crazy drivers and even crazier truckers down here. What if …?

  I walked back down to the plaza, got an orange juice at an open-air café, and when I came back the desk clerk handed me a note.

  It was written in Spanish and he said he’d taken it down word for word from the Americana who’d called. I thanked him and moved into the light from the open doorway.

  I’m sorry I can’t make it. I was supposed to pick up Paul Hayes at a little village called Tres Cabras, just south of Carrillo Puerto, and bring him to Mérida with me so he could do research in the museum. But he never showed up. I’ll wait until just before dark and if he doesn’t come I’ll go back to the camp at Bacalar. If you can rent a car tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you in Carrillo Puerto at the Balam Nah at four o’clock. I’m sorry.

  Pebel

  The clerk had done the best he could with a strange gringo name. He was a young man with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache, and he smiled as I stuck the note in my guayabera pocket.

  “You ever hear of a place near Carrillo Puerto called Tres Cabras?” I asked in Spanish.

  He nodded. “Sure. But that’s a bad area. Muchos narcotraficantes. Drug smuggling everywhere. I tried to tell the señorita, but …” He shrugged.

  “If this place is so small, how could she have called?”

  “Señor, almost every village in Yucatán has a telephone these days. You pay the owner a few pesos, and …”

  “Of course.” Why should I be surprised? “Look, did she say anything else?”

  He grinned. “I didn’t write it,” he said.

  “Didn’t write what?”

  “What she said at the end. Ella le quiere. She loves you.”

  That night I ate at Los Almendros, which, to my chagrin, it took me an hour to find. I had poc chuc, a braised pork served with black beans and a stack of tortillas, and I washed it down with three Superiores. The place was full of tourists and it seemed to lack the charm I associated with it in my memory. But maybe my memory was playing tricks, and maybe the restaurant had never really been the way I remembered. I tore my thoughts away to the matter at hand.

  I knew of Paul Hayes, the man Pepper had gone to pick up at Tres Cabras. Retired now, he was a linguist who’d done some of the early, crucial work on breaking the Mayan glyphic code. Pepper had mentioned him from time to time, but I wondered what he was doing by himself in a tiny settlement and why he wouldn’t show up when he should.

  I lay in the air conditioning and told myself everything was all right: Hayes was not just a linguist but an epigrapher, and such people were known for their eccentricity. He’d been working in Mesoamerica while I was still in high school, so there was no reason to be concerned. If he hadn’t appeared, then Pepper would drive back to the camp. Hayes was old enough to take care of himself. And nothing would happen to Pepper on the highway in broad daylight.

  There was nothing to worry about. I was back in Yucatán, where it had all started for me so many years ago, and I was home. Everything would be fine.

  I knew it would.

  TWO

  The next morning I ate huevos motuleños at a cafe on the main plaza and then walked down to one of the car rental agencies in one of the narrow, brick-paved streets that threaded their way to the main square. I got a new Dodge Neon and a city and state map, and then bought a hammock from a sidewalk vendor. I drove west, to Avenida Itzaes, a four-lane boulevard with frangipani flowers in the median. They were called flamboyán, and in May, when they bloomed, the whole avenue would have a row of flame down the center strip. I followed the boulevard south, past the airport, all the way to the highway. The road split, one route heading to Campeche and the other to Muná, and the latter was the one I took, rolling down the window to let the heat blast my face, feeling all the tension of the last fifteen years sloughing off like dead skin. I passed ancient haciendas that had fallen to ruin and saw jumbled heaps of stones in the bare, flat fields, marking the locations of ancient Mayan ruins. In days past, the fields had been sown with green henequen, from which rope was made, but I remembered Pepper telling me that henequen, the economic mainstay of Yucatan for a hundred years, was a thing of the past. It had been replaced by maquilladoras, where the former henequen
workers produced clothes for the American market.

  How many times had I driven this road in times past? How many times had I seen these same stone walls, running alongside the highway, passed the little church shaded by the ceiba tree, passed campesinos on bicycles, pedaling slowly toward their villages under the grinding sun?

  Now I saw the first cornfields, the crop half grown by now and yellowing in the drought. I was leaving the arid northwestern corner of the peninsula and entering corn-farming country, and even though it was August, I let myself imagine there was still an odor of smoke in the air from the burning of the fields four months before. The man at the hotel said there’d been no real rain for a month, which was unusual. I could tell the corn was suffering, from the yellow color of the stalks. Soon, now, each village would be calling on its h-men, or ritualist, to do Chhachaac, the rain ceremony. Surely they still did Chhachaac.

  I came to Muná, a dusty little town nestled at the base of the puuc hills, a low range that provided the only topographic relief in the whole peninsula. I found a shoe store and bought a pair of alpargatas, or sandals with soles made from old tire treads. Then I went back to my car, removed my socks and shoes, and slipped my feet into my new footwear. My feet would bleed for a week or so until the new leather became pliable, but that was okay: The pain would be one more verification that I was where I wanted to be.

  Yeah, I know: just another silly old gringo pretending he was young again and that the year was 1986.

  I took the highway east out of Muná, running alongside the hills and slowing for a string of towns: Ticul, Oxkutzcab, Tekáx … The towns had grown larger, and in Oxkutzcab there was a bypass that I ignored, because I craved the sight of the old market and the people gathered in its shade, drinking liquadas and eating tacos from the stalls.

  I bought some tacos from a vendor and noticed that here also the people who walked past were speaking Spanish instead of Mayan.