by J; P Voelkel
This was news to Max. He’d always thought his parents were the most boringly upright and law-abiding citizens on the planet.
“Have they done something wrong?”
“Tell them from me,” said the official, as he cracked his knuckles menacingly, “that they are not welcome here. They may have procured the necessary permits”—he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to suggest a bribe—“but some things are better left alone.”
A chill ran down Max’s spine. The official’s eyes were as cold and hard as flint. It wouldn’t be difficult to imagine him conducting a human sacrifice.
At last, Max’s passport was stamped.
“Take care,” said the official as he handed it back. It sounded more like a threat than a friendly farewell.
Max walked into the arrivals hall. It was a sea of people, noise, and color. He scanned the faces of the waiting throng expectantly. Somewhere in there, his mother would be waving and calling to him—“Over here, bambino, over here!”
Why couldn’t he see her? Both his parents were taller than most of the locals who crushed around the barriers. He looked again more slowly.
His confident smile faded.
It was unbelievable. Here he was, ready to make a fresh start by a hotel swimming pool—but where were they?
They were late.
Late for the big reunion scene.
It was the last straw.
All Max’s feelings of forgiveness evaporated. First his parents abandoned him, then they made him fly two thousand miles on a rickety plane to some snake-infested dump in the rainy season, and then they couldn’t even be bothered to pick him up on time.
Through a gap in the crowd, he noticed a wiry, nervous-looking little man, no bigger than a child, trying to make eye contact with him. Max looked away, but out of the corner of his eye, he was horrified to see the little man darting over.
“Mister Max?”
“Yes?”
“I am Oscar Poot, head of the Maya Foundation here in San Xavier City, and I have the privilege to work with the great Frank and Carla Murphy.”
“Where are they?” asked Max, returning Oscar’s handshake distractedly.
“I am sorry, but they could not come.”
“Why not? Too busy with work, I suppose?”
Oscar nodded. “You must feel very proud of them.”
What Max actually felt was like he’d been kicked in the stomach. His parents were off somewhere with their beloved ancient Maya and, once again, he was on his own.
“Where are they?”
“I last spoke to them four days ago, on the satellite phone. They were at the Temple of Ixchel.” Oscar said the name slowly, and the way he pronounced it, each-shell, reminded Max of the wind that whistled every time the terminal doors were opened and of the angry rain that lashed the windows. “It’s in the north, a remote site, Late Classic. …”
“So when will they be back?”
“I do not know,” said Oscar. “There was a big storm and we have lost contact. Communications often fail in the jungle, especially in bad weather.”
“But they’re all right?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“The immigration guy said—”
“Let me guess. He told you that Frank and Carla are mixed up in something dangerous?”
“No, but—”
“People in San Xavier have overactive imaginations. It comes from living with so much history.” He picked up Max’s backpack. “Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“You are to stay with your uncle, Mister Theodore Murphy.”
“Uncle Ted?”
“Exactly.”
“Is it far?”
“To the bus station? Five minutes.”
“To my uncle’s house?”
“It is over the mountains, but only a day by bus.” Oscar turned up the collar of his jacket. “Are you ready to run?”
His car was parked just a short sprint from the terminal doors, but the rain was so fierce that once again Max got soaked.
“How do you like this weather?” Oscar gestured at the dark gray sky as he tried to start up the engine of his battered little car. “It is most unusual for the time of year. Even the old people say they have never seen anything like it.”
It was not much drier inside the car. Max’s window refused to roll all the way up, and his face was stung by the rain that pelted in through the gap. His feet were sitting in a pool of water at least three inches deep.
He was still groping for a nonexistent seat belt as they roared off into the rain, narrowly missing a collision with an airport fuel tanker. The stubby wipers struggled to cope with the volume of water, and Max wondered how Oscar could see anything at all as he wove crazily through the traffic.
“Are you hungry?” asked Oscar, as he swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid a large pothole.
Max considered the question. His primary emotion right now was terror at Oscar’s driving. Next to that, he was wet, tired, and confused. But underneath it all, he was amazed to detect the ever-present flicker of hunger.
A short time later, they were seated at a rickety table in the bus station café.
Max looked around in distaste. It was the least appetizing eating place he’d ever seen. There was no counter or bar, just a small, low-ceilinged room containing a few ill-matched tables and chairs. The walls were yellowed with cigarette smoke and sticky with grease. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the cockroaches that scuttled across the dirty floor. Max tried not to think about the class on food hygiene he’d taken last term.
An ancient waitress in bright red lipstick, a miniskirt, and carpet slippers made her way over. Max looked at the silvery gray roots of her stringy blond hair as she flicked the crumbs off the table and onto the floor. She looks like Madonna’s great-great-grandmother, he thought.
While Oscar ordered the daily special for both of them, Max tried to dry himself off with some paper napkins. He noticed that he’d already acquired several nasty insect bites on his arms.
When the waitress had shuffled back with their drinks (a glass of evil-smelling fizzy brown liquid masquerading as Coke for Max, a glass of rum for Oscar), Oscar proposed a toast.
“To your parents,” he said.
Max didn’t even bother to raise his glass.
“Where does Uncle Ted live?” he asked.
Oscar looked surprised that Max hadn’t joined in the toast. It was evident from his expression that he liked the parents a lot more than the son. “Your uncle runs a banana business near Puerto Muerto,” he said, a little coolly.
“Puerto Muerto? ‘Dead Port’?” Spanish was one of Max’s least favorite subjects at school, but a few words had seeped into his brain. “What kind of name is that?”
“It is called Puerto because it is an old Spanish port at the mouth of the Monkey River. And it is called Muerto for many reasons. …”
Max wished he’d never asked. “I’m starving,” he said. “I hope the food comes soon.”
But Oscar was warming to his theme. “The port was built for the logwood trade. Do they teach you about logwood?”
“No,” said Max, “but it doesn’t matter. I’m not really—”
Oscar launched into his story anyway.
“Logwood contained a red dye that was highly prized in seventeenth-century Europe. The trees were felled upriver and floated down to the port, so the water flowed as red as blood. It carried with it the bodies of Maya slaves who died in the logging camps.”
“So it’s called Puerto Muerto for the dead slaves,” Max guessed, hoping to put an end to the story.
But Oscar had not finished. “It was not just logwood the Spanish stole from us. Every day, they loaded plunder onto their galleons. …”
Max became aware that other diners were straining to overhear.
“Could you talk a little quieter?” he whispered. “People are looking.”
“One day,” proclaimed O
scar, louder than ever, “a sea chest waiting on the dock bore the crest of Friar Diego de Landa.” He pronounced the name with great force and infused hatred into every syllable.
Max looked blank.
“You have not heard of him?” asked Oscar, in disbelief.
“Shh,” begged Max, conscious that all eyes were on them.
But Oscar was in full flow. “Diego de Landa was the curse of the Maya. He tortured us, he burned our books, he told the world we were savages.”
There was a murmur of assent from the diners.
“The food’s taking a long time,” said Max, looking pointedly at the old waitress, who’d pulled up a chair nearby.
Oscar made a dismissive gesture, as if food was the last thing on his mind. “Among the ill-gotten gains in Landa’s sea chest were two of our five sacred Jaguar Stones.”
An ominous whisper went around the restaurant. It reminded Max of a zombie movie he’d seen on late-night TV, where the zombies chanted in unison like, well, zombies, as they moved in, blank-faced, for the kill. The diners’ whispering sounded like “bah lawm toon oh ob, bah lawm toon oh ob, bah lawm toon oh ob,” and whatever it meant, it sent shivers down Max’s spine.
“What are they saying?” he asked.
“Bahlamtuuno’ob,” said Oscar. “It means ‘Jaguar Stones.’”
“What are Jaguar Stones?”
“They are your father’s life’s work. The five sacred stones and the five sacred pyramids. He is probably the world expert on the subject.”
Max tried to suppress a yawn.
“He has not mentioned that to you? That is so typical of your father. He is a genius and yet so modest. Do you know how lucky you are to have such brilliant parents? They are such a wonderful couple, and both so talented—”
Max was not in the mood to sing his parents’ praises. “So what happened when this Landa guy got the stones back to Spain?” he asked, to change the subject.
Oscar launched back into his tale. “The ship was lost at sea. The Espada, as it was called, set sail for Cadiz on a perfect day and was never seen again. Some think it was dragged down to the underworld by the weight of the sacred stones. Others think it hit a reef and sank. Who knows? No trace of the galleon or the sea chest has ever been found.”
“So the Jaguar Stones were lost forever?”
“And with them, my people’s future.” Oscar reached for his rum. “It was hope that died at Puerto Muerto.”
“Things can’t be that bad,” said Max, unmoved. “Didn’t you say there were five Jaguar Stones? What about the other three?”
“Lost, all lost.” Oscar sighed, draining his glass.
His face brightened as the waitress set down two steaming plates. “Mmm,” he murmured, “who doesn’t like tamales?”
The revenge of Zia, thought Max.
Tamales, it turned out, were quite a favorite in San Xavier. There were at least three tamale stands in the bus station, adding their distinctive moldy aroma to the already toxic mixture of exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, and sweat.
But it was the noise that made Max’s eyes water.
Horns blared, doors slammed, adults shouted, children wailed, babies screamed, and underneath it all, tinny piped music screeched out from loudspeakers on poles.
A convoy of gaudily painted buses streamed into the flooded parking lot.
“That one’s yours,” said Oscar, pointing to a rusty pink-and-green-striped bus that was just pulling in. The name Estelly was painted on its side.
Max watched as Estelly disgorged twice as many people as could possibly have fit inside. The conductor, a boy of about twelve, climbed up onto the roof and threw down the wet bags and threadbare cases, letting each land with a muddy splat. At the same time, a barrage of identical pieces was thrown up at him from all sides, as if he were a goalie in some manic soccer practice. Meanwhile, at ground level, a heaving mass of humanity fought to get on board.
“They sell more tickets than seats, so you will need to push.” Oscar handed him his ticket and shoved him into the crowd. Before Max could protest or even say good-bye, he was carried along in the throng toward Estelly.
He fought his way onto the bus and was instantly enveloped in the reek of too many unwashed bodies packed into too small a space. He found a seat at the back and slid in. Moments later, a fat man in a cowboy hat eased in next to him. Max was now pinned against the window, his feet on his backpack and his knees under his chin.
He became aware of a tapping on the window. He swiveled his gaze and saw Oscar on tiptoes, way down below, gesturing at him to open the window. “Something for the journey,” yelled Oscar, trying to make himself heard above the din of the bus station. He passed up a greasy bag of tamales. “Good-bye, Mister Max. Your uncle will meet you at Puerto Muerto.”
As the driver revved the engine, a question sprang into Max’s head. “Oscar,” he called, “if you haven’t spoken to my parents in four days, who told you to meet me at the airport?”
Oscar strained to hear him, and he repeated the question.
The little conductor jumped aboard and banged on the side of the bus with his fist. With a blast on the air horn, the driver crashed the gears and splashed out of the parking lot.
Max was sitting stunned in the backseat.
It had been hard to hear Oscar’s reply, but it had definitely sounded like, “Zia.”
Chapter Three
PUERTO MUERTO
Oscar was right. Hope had died in Puerto Muerto.
The streets were lined with wooden shacks. Their tin roofs were rusty. Their walls, once gaily painted, were cracked and stained. On nearly every corner was a dimly lit bar where men hunched over empty glasses. Old women in black sat in doorways, but none bothered to look up as the bus went past. Even the scrawny little dogs lay still, their heads on their paws, while flies buzzed halfheartedly around them.
The bus entered a rubbish-strewn square and, with a final squeal of brakes, skidded to a stop in front of a crumbling cathedral and a statue of some long-forgotten Spanish general on his horse.
How the mighty had fallen.
Once the general and his compatriots, their hands stained red with logwood, had built lavish palaces on this square. Once their wives had paraded around it in the latest European fashions.
But now the looters themselves had been looted.
Their palaces were scrawled with graffiti and festooned with washing lines. Their cathedral was an empty shell. And their general was just a droppings-encrusted roost for the pigeons that scratched a living in the square.
Max jumped off the bus, took a deep breath—and almost choked. The salty sea air was overpowered by a stench of rotting fish and diesel oil. Still, it felt good to stretch his legs. Actually, given those blind corners on the mountain roads, it felt good to be alive.
“Adiós, americano,” called the little conductor, as the bus lurched off in a grinding of gears. When the cloud of exhaust smoke cleared, Max was left standing alone. There was no one around except two shifty-looking men on the cathedral steps, who were smoking and watching him like cats watching a mouse.
Uncle Ted, where are you?
If only he’d asked Oscar for his uncle’s address or phone number. All Max knew about him was that Ted was short for Theodore, he was Frank Murphy’s older brother, and he’d inherited the family banana business. Max didn’t even know what Uncle Ted looked like, although he assumed he had Murphy hair.
Mindful of the two men watching him, Max tried to look inconspicuous. This worked for approximately five seconds before he was dive-bombed by a swarm of yellow butterflies who had, apparently, never seen a tourist before. They flapped excitedly around him, trying to land on his head, his face, his hands, any piece of exposed skin they could find.
He was still swatting butterflies when he saw the two men walking toward him. A knife glinted in the sunlight.
Max started to run. A big car rolled into the square and stopped right in front of him. It was a shiny
new Mercedes with blackened windows. In that squalid little town, it looked as out of place as an alien spaceship.
The butterflies took off in a yellow cloud.
The two men melted into the shadows.
The door of the Mercedes opened, and the driver slowly got out.
He looked like the Maya mafia, a block of solid muscle in a black suit, dark sunglasses, and black leather driving gloves. He wasn’t that old, but his twenty or so years had obviously been hard-lived. A long scar ran down his face from his high, sloping forehead to the bottom of one ear. His nose looked as if it had been on the losing end of a fight with an iron bar. From his big bull neck to his barrel chest to his tree-trunk legs, every inch of this guy exuded menace. “Give me your backpack,” he said.
“T-t-take it,” stammered Max. “Please don’t hurt me. My uncle will be here any minute. …”
The rear door of the Mercedes opened.
“He’s here,” said a voice that sounded uncannily like Max’s father.
“Uncle Ted?”
A handsome but slightly haggard man emerged from the backseat. He wore a cream linen suit and a panama hat. A wisp of reddish hair was visible beneath the brim.
His pale blue eyes regarded Max sadly.
“You are Massimo, I presume?”
“My friends call me Max.”
“Massimo, this is Lucky Jim,” said Uncle Ted, introducing the driver. “You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Lucky. He comes from a long line of fierce Maya warriors.”
Max swallowed hard. They weren’t exactly making him feel welcome. “Have you heard from Mom and Dad?” he asked.
“No,” said Uncle Ted. “I was going to ask you the same question.” He looked at his watch. “Please get in the car, I’m late for a meeting.”
Max slid into the Mercedes. He was stiff and bruised from the bus ride, and his bones sank gratefully into the soft leather cushions. Enveloped in luxury, with the electric windows tightly closed and the air-conditioning gently fanning him, he allowed himself to relax slightly. He sat back and, without thinking, put his feet up against the seat in front of him.
