Middleworld

by J; P Voelkel

  The old man leaned forward and wagged a gnarled finger. “You are like the green macaw, Max Murphy. You flap your wings and complain loudly about nothing. The day is coming when you will be tested.”

  “Tested?” squawked Max.

  “It is time for Lord Macaw to fly away,” said Chan Kan. “From this day forward, you must be fearless, brave, and strong like Lord Bahlam, the jaguar.”

  “Please,” begged Max, “stop talking in riddles. If you can see the future, just tell me—yes or no—will I see my parents again?”

  “You will see them …”

  Max sighed with relief. That was all he needed to know.

  “… in this world or the next!”

  The old man’s laughter echoed around the hut.

  Max’s head was swimming.

  The candles were blazing; the incense filled his nostrils. Every carved mask, every statue, every skull seemed to mock him. He had to get out.

  As he stumbled to the door, Chan Kan called out again. “Max Murphy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Trust the howlers.”

  Max sat on the porch steps in the dark and tried to see the funny side of it. Here he was, face-to-face with a Maya wise man in the heart of the rainforest, and the mantra he got to guide him through life was “Trust the howlers.” He’d had better advice from a fortune cookie.

  But no matter how hard he tried to make light of it, Max felt sick with fear. On the one hand, Chan Kan talked like someone in a bad kung fu movie. On the other hand, he seemed to know what he was talking about.

  The legions of hell are coming for you. …

  Max shuddered and resolved to forget Chan Kan’s words as soon as possible.

  A mournful booming filled the air.

  Had the legions of hell arrived already?

  He threw himself to the ground in panic, covering his head with his hands. Och and little Och appeared out of nowhere and lay down next to him, copying his every gesture. They didn’t seem at all perturbed by the noise.

  “What’s going on?” asked Max.

  “They are blowing the conch shells, Mister Max,” said Och.

  “Why?”

  “To call the village to the feast.”

  Some pretty girls walked past and giggled to see Max sprawled in the dirt.

  “Why do we lie down, Mister Max?” asked Och happily. “Is it a game?”

  “No,” snapped Max as he got to his feet. He was too busy brushing off his jeans to notice the hurt look on Och’s face.

  Och and little Och led him back to the central square, where two thatched canopies had been erected. The feast was to be served under these canopies on low wooden tables, with woven mats to sit on. Many villagers were already seated, the men under one canopy and the women under the other, and they shouted greetings to Max as Och showed him to his place.

  Max forgot the indignities of the conch-shell incident when he saw his seat at the head of the men’s table. He’d never been a guest of honor before and he was looking forward to it. He sat down cross-legged and beamed graciously at the other diners. Their brown faces smiled back at him, sunburned and wrinkled from working in the fields all day.

  Max saw himself through the eyes of these peasants. How rich he must look to them, how well fed and healthy. How envious they must be of his good fortune to be born in a prosperous country. How eager they must be to please this mysterious stranger from the land of plenty.

  “Let’s get this party started,” said Max, helping himself to a gourd of pineapple juice. He drank it down greedily and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good,” he said, looking around and smiling. No one smiled back.

  Och looked horrified. “No, Mister Max,” he whispered. “We do not start until we have given thanks.”

  Max rolled his eyes. Why was everyone in the world obsessed with table manners? He surveyed the faces around the table. In the shadows cast by the blazing bamboo torches, their strong Maya profiles echoed the paintings of the warriors on the wall at Chahk. If they were looking for a sacrifice victim tonight, he had a feeling he knew who’d they pick.

  The thought made him shiver.

  He looked around for Lola and saw her approaching, arm in arm with Chan Kan. Her hair was braided and she was wearing an embroidered square-necked blouse and a long skirt. She looked like all the other women in the village, except that she held her head high instead of demurely cast down. She escorted the old man to his place at the other end of the table, then came to have a word with Max.

  “How’s it going, Hoop?”

  “Did you hear what Chan Kan said—?”

  He was interrupted by a blast of conch shell.

  “Tell me later,” said Lola. “I have to go to the women’s table.”

  “But you can’t leave me alone—”

  “Och will look after you.” Lola assured him. “Just remember, eat whatever you’re given or you’ll insult the villagers and we won’t have anywhere to sleep tonight. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Have fun!”

  Chan Kan stood up and said a blessing in Mayan. It was very long and involved much bowing and passing of gourds and drinking of toasts. Everyone applauded, another toast was drunk, and then someone banged loudly on the table. There was an excited silence as two smiling women carried in a big, black earthenware cooking pot. They set it down in front of Max.

  A third woman brought a bowl and ladled some soup into it from the cooking pot. This, too, was set down in front of Max.

  “Hach ki’ awi’ih!” chorused the women, giggling.

  Max looked at Och questioningly.

  “They say they hope you enjoy it,” the boy explained, also giggling.

  “Isn’t anyone else eating?”

  “You are guest of honor,” said Och. “You must eat first.”

  He looked in the bowl. Red slop.

  “What is it?”

  “Specialty of Utsal—spicy soup with peppers,” said Och. He licked his lips and rubbed his stomach to show that it was good.

  Max took a spoonful. It was spicy, all right.

  He took a swig of juice and looked around the table.

  “Why’s everyone staring at me?” he whispered.

  Och giggled again. “They watch your enjoyment.”

  Max took another spoonful. His gums started to tingle.

  It was the hottest thing he’d ever eaten. Sweat broke out on his forehead. When he swallowed, it burned all the way down to his stomach like a trail of molten lava.

  He took another swig of juice, but it was like throwing gasoline on a fire, and the flames in his mouth flared up ten times worse. He discovered that the longer he paused between mouthfuls, the worse the burning sensation. The only way to survive this trial by fire was to empty his mind and eat as fast as he could.

  Earnest faces willed him on. Even Chan Kan nodded his encouragement. What was it the old man had said? You must be fearless, brave, and strong. …

  Only a few more spoonfuls.

  Max’s lips had gone numb and his tongue felt twice its normal size. He thought his head might explode. He could no longer taste anything at all.

  He put down his spoon in bleary triumph.

  Well, one thing was for sure. He hadn’t acted like a green macaw tonight.

  At the other end of the table, Chan Kan was smiling his approval.

  Fearless, brave, and strong. He had passed the test.

  Max smiled back—a flinty, heroic kind of smile, like a Maya warrior who’d just wrestled a jaguar and won.

  But now Chan Kan’s smile was turning to laughter, and his laughter was louder than the thunder of rain in the jungle. His shoulders were shaking and tears were running down his face. Everyone at both tables—men, women, children, toothless crones—was guffawing and slapping their legs. Och and little Och were lying on the ground holding their sides.

  Lola came over from the women’s table. She could hardly walk for laughing.

  “What’s so f
unny?” rasped Max through his swollen mouth.

  “That soup,” she gasped, wiping her eyes, “it’s a joke they play on tourists. You did great, Hoop!”

  Her words were like salt on a slug. In an instant, Max’s good mood shriveled up and died. His face, already pink, turned scarlet with rage. How dare these ignorant peasants make fun of him! They could have killed him with their evil concoction. As it was, his stomach would be on fire for days.

  A giggling woman took away the soup dish and set down a gourd of thin white liquid.

  “Drink it,” said Lola. “It will take away the heat.”

  He sipped it cautiously. It took away the heat.

  “Better?” asked Lola.

  He looked at her accusingly. “I thought we were a team; I’ll never forgive you for this.” Another thought occurred to him. “And I suppose it was another of your jokes to get Chan Kan to spook me out?”

  “What? No, Hoop—”

  “You set me up!”

  “But Hoop—”

  “My name is Max.”

  A platter of fried chicken was brought out, and the woman served Max an extra-large helping.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, pushing the plate away.

  “Oh, come on,” said Lola. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “It’s back in Boston,” said Max, “and I wish I was, too.”

  Then he jumped up and stomped off into the night.

  Och ran after him. “You are to sleep at my house, Mister Max,” he said. With his little brother in tow as usual, he led the way to a thatched shack and pointed to a hammock on the porch.

  “I’d rather have a bed, if you’ve got one,” said Max.

  But he was talking to himself. The boys were gone.

  After a few false starts, he worked out how to ease himself into the hammock. It was surprisingly comfortable. The woven fabric shaped itself to his body, and the gentle rocking made him feel weightless. He took off his sneakers and let them drop to the floor. Then he lay there, listening to the sounds of music, speeches, and laughter drifting over from the party. Soon, despite the spicy soup sloshing around in his stomach, he fell asleep.

  He was awakened at dawn by the sounds of Och’s family going about their day. Still half asleep, he slid out of his hammock and went to put on his sneakers.

  A huge, shiny black scorpion looked back at him, waving its claws menacingly. It must have been five inches long and it was standing on the toe of a sneaker. Max guessed it would strike if he moved, so he stood there, frozen to the spot, emitting a low wailing noise to raise the alarm without alarming the scorpion.

  Och and little Och and Lola arrived at exactly the same time.

  “Why are you making that noise?” asked Lola. “It’s time to go.”

  “Can’t move,” muttered Max. “Scorpion on shoe.”

  Lola and the two brothers crept over and looked at the offending creature.

  “It’s a big one,” whispered Lola admiringly.

  Och and little Och nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t just stand there,” hissed Max, “do something!”

  “Okay,” said Lola. In one deft motion, she picked the scorpion up by the tail just below the stinger. “It’s one of the biggest I’ve ever seen,” she marveled, showing it to the boys. She carried the scorpion over to where Max was now cowering in the corner and dropped it on his shoulder.

  “Oops,” she said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MONKEY RIVER

  The scorpion was climbing slowly up Max’s neck.

  “Get it off! Get it off!” he cried.

  Och ran over and held out his hand to the scorpion, all the time making little kissing noises. The scorpion crawled onto his outstretched palm. He gave Max a big smile. “This is Selma,” he said. “My pet.”

  “Selma?” repeated Max. “Selma is your pet? You have a pet scorpion?”

  “Big ones like Selma aren’t dangerous,” explained Lola. “It’s the little ones you have to worry about.”

  “You could have told me sooner,” said Max.

  Lola shrugged. “Och wanted to play a joke on you to cheer you up.”

  “Scorpions aren’t funny!” yelled Max. “Red-hot soup isn’t funny! And that stuff in Chan Kan’s hut wasn’t funny, either!”

  Little Och started to cry.

  “I swear I don’t know anything about that,” said Lola. “What happened? What did he say to you?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “But Hoop—”

  “Don’t call me Hoop.” He turned his back and leaned on the porch rail to sulk.

  Before long, a little hand was tugging at his shirt.

  “Breakfast.” Och was holding up a bowl of glutinous white slop.

  Max eyed it suspiciously. “And what village specialty is this?”

  “Saksa,” said Och.

  “Is that Mayan for ‘stewed maggots,’ by any chance?”

  Max took the bowl and poured the contents over the side of the porch.

  Six dogs appeared out of nowhere and began lapping it up.

  Och looked at Max accusingly. Lola stood in the doorway with little Och, her mouth open in horror. Little Och wailed louder than ever.

  “What’s wrong with him?” said Max.

  “That was their breakfast, you idiot,” said Lola. “They were going to share their corn porridge with you. I can’t believe you poured it away.”

  “Can’t they get some more?”

  “More?” repeated Lola contemptuously. “There is no more. They cook what they need and they don’t waste anything.”

  “They wasted that soup last night.”

  “They were making it anyway. The tourists are coming today.”

  “Well, that porridge was disgusting. I did the boys a favor, if you ask me.”

  Max smiled at Och, but the boy’s expression was like thunder. With a final black look, he grabbed his little brother’s hand and dragged him off, still wailing.

  Stupid kid, Max told himself.

  But he felt bad.

  He sat alone on the porch, waiting for Lola say her goodbyes. He couldn’t wait to leave this village. But at least he’d learned an important lesson here: from now on, he was going to forget everyone else and look after number one.

  When Lola had finally finished kissing all the women and hugging all the children, Max followed her sulkily down to the river. Some girls were scrubbing clothes on the rocks, and they nudged each other and laughed when they saw him. He scowled at them, which made them laugh even more.

  Chan Kan was waiting on the bank.

  “Eusebio is taking his hot chili peppers to market in Limón,” said Chan Kan. “He will give you a ride upriver.” The old man chuckled. “Please try not to eat all his chilies, Max Murphy; we saw how much you liked them last night!”

  “Ha-ha,” said Max unpleasantly.

  Lola glared at him. “Thank you for everything,” she said to Chan Kan.

  “You are most welcome, Ix Sak Lol,” he replied, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. “Our hearts will travel with you. Please pass on my greetings to Hermanjilio and give him this.” He pointed with his cane at a large bamboo cage sitting on the grass.

  Max and Lola knelt down to peer in the cage. A mangy little black rooster huddled miserably in one corner.

  “His name is Thunderclaw,” said Chan Kan. “Hermanjilio will soon have need of him.”

  “What’s the matter with it?” asked Max, sounding disgusted. “Does it have a skin disease?”

  “Ah,” said Chan Kan, “you refer to his battle scars.” He smiled proudly. “The venerable Thunderclaw was once a great fighting cock. His feathers were ripped out over the years, but he was never beaten.”

  “Poor thing,” said Lola. “Well, if anyone can give him a worthy send-off, it’s Hermanjilio. He can cook anything.”

  Chan Kan turned to Max and put a hand on each of his shoulders. Little electric shocks traveled up and down Max’s
body.

  “Trust the howlers, Max Murphy.”

  Max curled his lip. Surely even Chan Kan realized that the howler joke was wearing thin. He was trying to formulate a smart reply, when Chan Kan took a leather canteen from his belt, drank a little water, and spat it in Max’s face.

  Well, perhaps not spat exactly. To describe it more objectively, he walked round and round the horrified Max, spraying a gentle mist of water from his mouth until he’d made a ring of tiny rainbows around the boy’s head.

  “Get away from me!” shrieked Max, trying to shield his face. “That’s so gross!”

  “You should be honored,” said Lola. “Chan Kan has just blessed you with courage.”

  Max looked quickly from one to the other, but he couldn’t catch them smirking. He didn’t know if it was another joke or not. “I think you’re sick,” he said. “You’re all sick in the head. I think this village is actually some kind of low-security mental hospital.”

  “I can’t believe you said that!” exploded Lola. “These people have shared everything they have with you. How can you be so ungrateful?”

  “Let me think,” said Max sarcastically, wiping his face with his shirt. “They poisoned me, they made fun of me, and they spit on me. Yeah, you’re right, I’ve had a lovely time. Remind me to send them a thank-you note.”

  Lola turned her back on him in disgust.

  “I think Eusebio is ready to leave,” said Chan Kan.

  “All blessings.”

  At the water’s edge, a small, round man was loading big, round baskets into a dugout canoe. When he turned to greet them with his twinkling eyes and his leathery face etched with laughter lines, Max recognized him as one of the chief merrymakers of the night before and took an instant loathing to him.

  He wasn’t impressed by Eusebio’s vessel, either. He’d been imagining whizzing down the river on a supersleek speedboat, not a hollowed-out tree trunk with an outboard motor. Surely there wouldn’t be room for all of them? The boat was already sitting low in the water from the weight of the chili baskets.

  At Lola’s call, Chulo and Seri materialized out of nowhere and settled themselves on the bow. Chulo bared his teeth at Max in passing.

  There’s some extra weight we could lose, thought Max.

  Eusebio indicated that Max should sit in the stern with the chicken cage. Then Lola and Eusebio pushed the boat into the water and climbed in next to him. It was a tight squeeze, but soon they were all wedged in and on their way.