by J; P Voelkel
“But there were no bodies in the cenote,” said Max. “They must have climbed out when it was over.”
“No,” said Hermanjilio, “you don’t understand. They were gone. Poof! They dematerialized, disappeared!”
Max stared at him. “So where are they?”
Hermanjilio’s hands were shaking as he reached for his gourd. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” he said. “The Jaguar Stone, the blood … I believe the cenote became a gateway to Xibalba that night.” He pronounced it she-ball-buh, and the sound of it set Max’s teeth on edge, like fingernails on a chalkboard. “I think that’s where you’ll find your parents.”
“Xibalba?” repeated Max. “Is it far from here?”
Lola looked at him sadly. “Xibalba means ‘Well of Fear,’” she said. “I’m sorry, Hoop, but it’s the Maya underworld.”
“The underworld?” said Max. “Are you saying my parents are dead?”
As he put his head in his hands, a yellow butterfly landed on the table in front of him and started lapping up a spill of sickly sweet guava juice.
Chapter Sixteen
THE COSMIC CROCODILE
It was impossible to sleep. Several times, Max nearly fell out of his hammock as he tossed and turned, imgining the terrifying events at Ixchel and trying to understand what they meant.
As far as he could work out, the good news was that his parents had not technically died. The bad news was that they were trapped in some Maya netherworld.
Two weeks ago, Max would have laughed at such a crazy idea. Now, after his experiences at the Temple of Chahk, he wasn’t feeling quite so sure of himself. But even if Hermanjilio’s version of events was true, how could two eminent archaeologists like his parents have got sucked into this mess?
It didn’t make sense. …
He finally drifted off to sleep as the rainforest dawn chorus struck up its overture. He was awakened minutes later by Chulo throwing mangoes at his head.
“If you were going to bring me breakfast in bed, Chulo, you could have chosen ripe ones,” he complained.
There was no way he could get back to sleep, so he rolled groggily out of his hammock, pulled on some clothes, and went down to the plaza. Hermanjilio was sitting at the table, deep in thought. There was a plate of tortillas and a bowl of fruit in front of him, but he didn’t seem to have touched anything. Max sat down opposite him and sighed heavily.
“Bad night?” asked Hermanjilio.
“Yeah,” said Max. “I can’t get my head around this Xibalba thing.”
Hermanjilio nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure it sounds crazy to you,” he said. “But around here, it’s the only logical explanation.”
Max sighed again. “I was thinking,” he said, “if a doorway to Xibalba opened at Ixchel that night, couldn’t we just go back there and open it again?”
Hermanjilio shook his head. “For a start, we don’t have the White Jaguar. But even if we did, it’s not easy to bring people back. According to Maya legend, they would have to be released by special order of the Lords of Death.”
Max groaned and laid his head on the table. “This is impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Hermanjilio cheerfully. “At least, not around here.”
“So tell me about the Death Lords.”
“You swore an oath to them last night, remember? There are twelve of them, let me see. …” Hermanjilio began counting off names on his fingers. “One Death, Seven Death, Blood Gatherer, Wing, Packstrap, Demon of Pus, Demon of Jaundice, Bone Scepter, Skull Scepter, Demon of Filth, Demon of Woe, and one more … ah yes, Scab Stripper.”
“Sounds like the lineup for a heavy-metal festival,” said Max.
A horrible thought occurred to him.
“If my parents are in Xibalba, they won’t meet these guys, will they?”
“I think not. There are nine levels of Xibalba, each more terrible than the last. Your parents would be on the first level, which is said to be more like a waiting room.”
Max pictured his dentist’s waiting room in Boston. He imagined his parents sitting on those hard chairs, flicking through old magazines, blocking their ears against the sounds of pain from within, waiting for their names to be called. Then, with a pang, he realized it was him they were waiting for. It was up to him to rescue them. “How do I contact the Death Lords?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Hermanjilio. “It’s usually the gods who contact mortals. They talk to us through dreams. The Maya dreamworld runs parallel to the waking world, like two sides of a coin; so a message in a dream is as real to us as a letter in the mail.”
“You’re a university professor. Surely you don’t believe that?”
“Since I’ve been living at Itzamna, I don’t know what I believe. In fact, I had a wild dream myself last night. I think it might have been a message from my ancestors.”
Max took a banana and peeled it miserably. He was sick of all this Maya mystical garbage.
“I dreamed I was an astronomer here at Itzamna,” continued Hermanjilio. “I watched myself enter a secret chamber in the observatory and saw how to gain access in every detail.” It sounded like an extremely boring dream to Max, but Hermanjilio was bubbling with anticipation and excitement like a child on Christmas Eve. “This morning, Lola and I are going to put my dream to the test.”
“Found them!” called Lola, clanking into the plaza, carrying armfuls of hurricane lanterns. “They’re a bit old, Hermanjilio. Couldn’t we use flashlights?”
“No,” he said firmly. “We’re going to do this the old way—by the light of beeswax candles, just as my ancestors would have done.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “Did he tell you about his dream?” she asked Max. “Are you coming with us to look for the secret chamber?”
Max shook his head. After the Temple of Chahk, he hoped never to enter another Maya pyramid as long as he lived.
“Wish us luck!” called Hermanjilio as they set off across the plaza. Seconds later, he wheeled around and came back. “By the way, Max, would you keep an eye on that boa up there for me? She’s due to give birth anytime, and it’s really something to see. Most snakes lay eggs, but boas have live young—as many as fifty or sixty babies, each up to two feet long! Can you imagine?”
Max looked up. A huge mottled brown snake was curled around the branch above his head. “Wait,” he said, stuffing a tortilla into his mouth. “I’m coming with you.”
By the time he’d found a decent lantern and grabbed a few more tortillas, he had to run to catch up. Hermanjilio’s voice drifted back across the plaza, chattering with excitement. “Who would have thought the observatory held such secrets: a hidden chamber beside the ball court. … I remember when we were excavating there—the ground radar said it was solid rock. Ha, and we believed it!”
“It was just a dream, Hermanjilio,” said Lola. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m telling you, I have a good feeling,” he insisted, “like everything’s been leading up to this moment. Think about it, Lola. I’ve been looking for years and found nothing. Then—suddenly—two Jaguar Stones surface, and Landa’s journal! This dream is the cheese on the tortilla. You can’t tell me it’s all coincidence.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Lola. “Who—or what—is behind all this? You said yourself there’s something in the air.”
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”
“I’m just saying that we need to be careful. It was pretty heavy at Chahk. I’d just like to know what to expect in there.”
“Me, too,” panted Max, catching up with them.
“Itzamna was Lord of the Heavens, and Lord of Day and Night,” said Hermanjilio. “He’s depicted as an old man and, unusually for a Maya god, he was a pacifist—so I wouldn’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
They arrived at a flat, grassy space between two steeply sloping walls. One wall was set against the pyramid; the other had wide terraces built into
it like bleachers.
“What’s this place?” asked Max.
“It’s the ball court,” said Lola.
“The Maya played basketball?”
“They played a game called pitz. See that stone ring sticking out of the wall? You had to knock the ball through it with your hip, knee, or elbow.”
“Doesn’t sound that difficult,” said Max.
“I’d like to see you try,” replied Lola. “The ball was as heavy as a solid rubber watermelon.”
“Although I’ve heard they sometimes made it lighter,” added Lola, “by wrapping a human skull in strips of rubber.”
“Now that’s what I call taking sports too seriously!” said Max.
“Ah,” said Hermanjilio, “but this was literally a game of life and death. The losing team was sacrificed.”
Lola pointed to some carved panels on the side of the pyramid. “Look,” she said, “it’s in the Maya creation story. They’re playing it on the wall here.”
“Who are the two dudes in loincloths?” asked Max.
“They’re the Hero Twins. They’ve been summoned to Xibalba by the Death Lords to play the ball game for their lives. Their father has already played and lost.”
“Do they win?”
“Yes,” said Hermanjilio, “they trick the Death Lords and they rescue their father. He becomes Huun Ixim, the maize god. Maize was revered by the Maya. The upper classes even used to squash their babies’ heads between two boards to make them look like corn cobs.”
“How did they trick them?” asked Max.
“The babies? I don’t think they had much choice.”
“No, the Hero Twins. How did they trick the Death Lords?”
But Hermanjilio was peering at the carved panels. “Now, in my dream … if I press this glyph here … like so … the door should open. …”
“Nothing’s happening,” said Max. “We should go back.”
“Not so fast,” said Hermanjilio. “The stone’s getting warmer under my hand. I can feel a vibration. …”
There was a grinding sound, and the stone in front of them dropped slowly into the ground, revealing a small, dark tunnel.
“It worked! It worked!” Hermanjilio was almost crying with happiness. He stood back and surveyed the tunnel. “It looks a little tight,” he said. “My ancestors were a lot smaller than me. Do you think I’ll fit?”
“No way,” said Max, shaking his head. “Don’t risk it. You’ll get stuck.”
“I’m sure you’ll fit,” said Lola, with absolute confidence. “If you fit in your dream, you’ll fit now.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hermanjilio. He took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s light the lanterns and see what the chamber of Itzamna has in store for us. I’ll lead the way.”
Hermanjilio had to get on all fours to crawl into the tunnel. His body filled every inch. Lola went next, and Max brought up the rear. As they made their way slowly down that suffocating passage, cobwebs trailing over their faces, Max wondered what might be waiting for them at the end. Tombs? Skeletons? Evil spirits?
Hermanjilio eased himself out.
Then Lola.
Then it was Max’s turn.
He could hardly bear to look. …
But he needn’t have worried. There was nothing. The tiny room at the end of the tunnel was completely empty.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” he said with relief.
“Time?” came a voice behind them. “What dost thou know of time?”
The three of them spun around to see a red lightbulb hovering in the shadows. Wait, it wasn’t a lightbulb, it was a nose. A bulbous, glowing red nose.
As the rest of the apparition slowly took shape …
… the nose took its place …
… on an ancient, wizened face …
… with sunken cheeks and toothless jaws …
… on a head topped with a bejeweled turban …
… from which stringy gray hair fell to bony shoulders …
… adorned with a heavy bead necklace …
… above a hunched and scrawny body …
… his organs visible beneath paper-thin skin …
… and wearing nothing …
… but a voluminous and intricately wrapped loincloth.
At first, Max thought it was Chan Kan playing tricks. But the more he stared at the hideous old man, the more he realized that this guy was older than time itself. He turned to Lola to ask who she thought the guy was, but all that came out of his mouth was a strange bubbling sound.
Luckily Lola understood him. “It’s not real,” she said. “It’s like an old hologram or something.”
Even so, she followed Max’s lead and edged into the farthest corner.
Hermanjilio was on his knees.
“My Lord Itzamna,” he said, bowing his head low.
“Who art thou?” croaked the old man.
“My name is Hermanjilio Bol, my lord.”
“What dost thou here?”
“I had a dream. I thought my ancestors had summoned me to this place. I am sorry to have disturbed you. We will leave you in peace.”
Hermanjilio stood up and tried to take a step backward. But he could not move. He seemed to be rooted to the spot by an invisible force.
The old man laughed an eternity-of-smoking-cheap-cigars kind of laugh. “Thou wilt go when I say and not before. I must know who thou art.”
“I spoke the truth, my lord. My name is Hermanjilio Bol.”
“Place thy hand against mine,” commanded the old man, holding up his ancient palm.
Hermanjilio turned to Max and Lola for moral support. Sweat was pouring down his face. He looked terrified. They tried to give him encouraging smiles.
He put his hand palm to palm against the old man’s hand.
And then he screamed.
Hermanjilio was changing. He was becoming different people. Always men, always Maya, always richly attired. As the different faces and bodies appeared in his place, all that was left of him was his scream.
When it was over, he slumped to the floor.
“What have you done to him?” yelled Lola to the old man.
“How darest thou, a mere female, address the great Itzamna?”
“You don’t scare me,” said Lola, her voice trembling.
“You’re just a trick they laid into the walls when this pyramid was built.”
“A spirited wench, indeed.” Itzamna cackled as Lola swept past him to help Hermanjilio.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Hermanjilio weakly. “It was the strangest feeling. …”
“I did but show thee thy lineage,” boomed the old man. “Arise, Hermanjilio Bol, heir to the great city of Itzamna, direct descendant of the keepers of the royal library and all knowledge since thet world began.”
As Hermanjilio staggered to his feet, the old man foraged in the billowing folds of his loincloth. Then, with a flourish, he produced a large bundle. It looked like a football, wrapped up in many layers of rags. He held it out, solemnly, to Hermanjilio.
“This day, Hermanjilio Bol, I entrust to thee the future of thy people. When the time is nigh, thou wilt know what to do. May good prevail, may evil be vanquished, may the sun rise again on the glories of Itzamna.”
Hermanjilio took the bundle. He looked dazed.
“Open it,” commanded the old man.
Cautiously, Hermanjilio peeled away the rags. And there, glowing in the lantern light with all the greens of the forest, was a Jaguar Stone of mottled jade.
He ran a trembling finger over the creature’s head, and it seemed to purr with pleasure. Hermanjilio fell to his knees again to thank the old man. “I never dared hope that one day I would hold the Green Jaguar of Itzamna. My grandfather told me it was lost in the days of the conquest.”
“Not lost, merely biding its time. And now, Hermanjilio Bol, go forth into the Star Chamber and accept thy destiny.”
A doorway
appeared in the inner wall. It was black and filled with stars.
Tears were streaming down Hermanjilio’s face. “This is the greatest moment of my life … I can’t believe it. …” He was babbling and laughing at the same time, as if he’d just won an Oscar.
“Go forth, Hermanjilio Bol!” commanded the old man. “Go forth, Ix Sak Lol and Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy! May you confound your demons!” He straightened up and pointed toward the doorway.
Max and Lola stared at each other in horror.
“How does he know our names?” mused Lola.
“He’s pretty realistic for a hologram,” observed Max.
When they looked again, he was gone.
Hermanjilio seemed unfazed by these events. He was cradling the Green Jaguar in his arms like a child with a new kitten. “Shall we go in?” he said, stepping inside.
“No!” said Max.
“Let’s just take a quick look,” said Lola, pulling Max through the door of stars. There was a grinding noise behind them. A stone descended from the lintel and sealed them in.
Max groaned.
“Sorry,” said Lola.
“Lord Itzamna means us no harm,” said Hermanjilio. “I’m sure there’s another door on the other side.”
They raised their lanterns to cast some light across the chamber. The room was so high that the ceiling remained pitch-black. But none of them noticed this fact. None of them noticed anything but the enormous cube—maybe thirty feet square—that commanded the center of the room.
Its base was a slab of shiny black stone. On each corner of this slab stood a huge statue of a warrior, his arms raised to support an identical slab. It looked like a massive ice-cream sandwich, with black stone wafers. But instead of a thick slice of French vanilla, these wafers held a complex assembly—all in polished wood—of interlocking gears, wheels, and cogs.
“What is it?” said Lola.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” replied Hermanjilio. “Just look at this workmanship—every component is inscribed with glyphs.”
