‘This is serious, Sabir. You need to explain it to him.’
Lamia reached forwards between them. ‘I will explain it to him. I speak his language. It is my face that is frightening him, not yours.’
Calque dropped back into his seat. Sabir turned his concentration back to the road. Both men were acutely embarrassed. The placation and the bringing to understanding of this young Maya man had become far more important than any half-baked ideas of getting themselves out of the spot they were in.
Lamia hunched towards Acan. She spoke softly to him in Spanish. He began a reluctant nodding of the head. At one point Lamia took Acan’s hand and held it to the side of her face. Acan snatched it away and crossed himself. Lamia watched him, sadness mingled with her desire to make him understand. Then, unexpectedly, Acan stretched out his hand one further time. This time Lamia did not attempt to influence what Acan could or couldn’t do.
Acan’s fingers were trembling. He had quite forgotten about his rifle.
Sabir instinctively sensed that he was in the perfect position to wrest the rifle away from Acan and take control of the situation again. True, he was top-and-tailed by two other vehicles, each with a number of armed men inside them, but he could see a side-turning looming half a mile further up the road. All he needed to do was to time his move to coincide with the arrival of the slip road.
Only then no crystal skull. No book. No answers. Sabir hesitated for a moment, his skin crawling with a sudden inner certainty which whispered ‘and no more Lamia, either’. She would never forgive him for abusing her tacitly given word.
So Sabir did nothing. For the very first time since his mother’s suicide, he realized that he was putting the welfare and happiness of another person before his own. The thought was a novel one. Was he really beginning to emerge from nearly ten years of emotional lock-down? He glanced possessively at Lamia in the rear-view mirror.
Acan reached out and touched Lamia’s face. Something changed in his eyes as he made the movement. The fear went out of them. He nodded, as if something had been successfully explained to him – some secret to which he had always wished to be privy.
He turned back to the front. ‘It is all right now. I am very sorry.’ Then he began to cry.
Sabir stared hard at Lamia, and then at Calque. ‘What brought that on?’
Lamia shook her head. ‘It was nothing. I reminded him about the mark of Cain. I said that God had given me this mark because I had come of an evil cradling. And that I took the mark as a sign to me that I must turn my back on the evil represented by my family and stand on my own two feet. Like Herman Hesse’s Demian.’
‘Which he’d read, of course?’
‘Don’t laugh, Adam. I explained to him that the god Abraxas concatenates all that is good and evil in this earth, and that we each have to destroy a world if we wish to be reborn. I quoted to him from Hesse’s book. The original goes “Der Vogel kämpft sich aus dem Ei. Das Ei ist die Welt. Wer geboren werden will, muß eine Welt zerstören. Der Vogel fliegt zu Gott. Der Gott heißt Abraxas.” I translated it for him like this: “The bird fights his way out of the egg. The egg is the world. He who wishes to be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God is called Abraxas.”’
‘Lamia, he’s crying, for Christ’s sake.’
‘My image of the egg. It meant to something to him. Over here they use the egg to rid themselves of evil thoughts. I think he understands about me now. He no longer thinks I have the evil eye.’
Sabir glanced furtively across at Acan. Then back at Lamia. He could feel Calque’s eyes burning into the back of his head.
Sabir felt uninformed and inadequate. Unworthy of Lamia’s love. What was he doing here? What right did he have to interfere in all these people’s lives? To act as some sort of unholy catalyst, uniting forces that he little understood, in ways over which he had even less control?
‘I’m sorry I made that crack about the Hesse book. I don’t understand my own motives sometimes. I felt possessive of you, and didn’t like the fact that you weren’t involving me in what you said to …’ He hesitated, really acknowledging the man beside him for the very first time. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Acan.’
‘This is Lamia. Lamia de Bale. Back there is Calque. Joris Calque. And my name is Sabir. Adam Sabir.’
Acan smiled through his tears. ‘My name is Acan Teul. I am Maya. From the village of Actuncóyotl. My father is called Anthonasio – Tonno for short. And my mother is called Ixtab.’
Lamia smiled gratefully at Sabir. Then she turned back to Acan. ‘Ixtab. That is a beautiful name.’
‘Yes. She is named after the Rope Woman. Our goddess of suicide. In Yucatec Maya, suicide can be a positive thing. It can be an honourable way to end one’s life. Ixtab is the goddess who accompanies the person who has killed themselves to paradise, making sure that they are welcomed there, and given the respect that is their due.’
Sabir turned on him, his face instantly suspicious again. ‘Suicide? Why are you talking about suicide all of a sudden?’
Calque laid a restraining hand on Sabir’s shoulder. All of their nerves were on edge, and Sabir’s most of all. Calque knew that Sabir hadn’t been sleeping. During the past few days the man had been becoming more and more wound up – just as he’d been in the aftermath of his tangle with Achor Bale. It was as though Sabir lacked three or four of the normal protective outer layers of skin that ordinary people possess by default.
At first Calque had made the not unreasonable assumption that Sabir’s newly fledged relationship with Lamia might even serve to calm him down a little. But, paradoxically, the love affair appeared to have had the exact opposite effect, turning Sabir into an even more hyper version of himself. Calque decided that he and Lamia would have to tread very carefully indeed if Sabir was not to crack up on them. He measured his words carefully, therefore, like a schoolmaster addressing a room full of freshmen.
‘He means that the goddess Ixtab acts as a psychopomp, Sabir. A spirit guide. Escorting the newly deceased to the afterlife. Shamans can also fulfil this role, I understand. It’s a quite innocent pastime.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Acan looked grateful for Calque’s intervention. ‘This is what my mother does. My mother is iyoma.’
‘Iyoma?’
‘A female shaman. A midwife, really. It is she who tells, when a child is born, if he will become a shaman or not. Whether he is born with a separate soul, like a true shaman, and will give his mother much pain in the birthing. This can be a very bad thing for the mother. Sometimes the iyoma will not even tell the mother and father about their child for this reason, but only reveal what she has learned later on.’
‘Why was your mother called after the goddess of suicide?’ Sabir was still staring at Acan as if the young Maya was personally responsible for his mother’s death.
In his own heightened emotional state, Acan picked up on Sabir’s anxiety and didn’t feel threatened by it. He waved one hand in a downwards movement, as if calming a child, using the back of his other hand to brush away his remaining tears.
‘The old iyoma we had in the village at that time recognized my mother as a shaman at birth. She knew instinctively that my mother was connected by her umbilical cord to the goddess Ixtab. Without telling my father and mother, she went to the old people and suggested the name to them. In our village we respect our elders. We do what they ask of us. So my mother was named Ixtab. She has guided many people into the afterlife – and brought many others into this world as earth fruits. She is a very wise woman.’ Acan nodded, as if what he was saying was self-evident. ‘You will meet her, Adam. We are going to Ek Balam. Very near to my village. My mother will be there, waiting for you.’
Acan looked strangely at Sabir. For suddenly, without any warning, Sabir, too, began to cry.
65
The Halach Uinic had never known the like before. Who had dictated the events of the past few hours? Hunab Ku? Itzam Na? The maize god? Th
e god who had no name? And what was their meaning?
Why, for instance, had foreigners been needed to find the thirteenth crystal mask – the mask without which the twelve other ritual masks would not sing? And why had it needed another foreigner – a man from Veracruz, of all places – to bring the Maya this incredible gift of a fourth complete codex, to stand alongside the Dresden, the Madrid, and the Paris codices, all of which had been stolen from the Maya by descendants of the conquistadors? The Halach Uinic realized that he was being told something – that voices were being carried to him on the wind, and that he urgently needed to listen to them.
The Halach Uinic turned to the mestizo who had brought him the book. His face in no way revealed the tenor of his inner thoughts. ‘We cannot take this book from you. It has been in your family’s possession for many generations. It belongs to you, and not to us. It would be wrong of me not to tell you what value this book has. If you were to take it out of the country – to the United States, for instance, or to England – the gringos would make of you a very rich man. You could buy cars, and houses, and make love to a different woman every day. You could travel on aeroplanes through the sky, and see things that most of us know nothing about. You must not give us this book, therefore. It is yours. You must do with it as you will.’
As the Halach Uinic said these words, he felt a pain in his lower back, as if a kidney stone had formed there and was struggling to get out. He knew that by saying the words he risked losing the greatest gift his people had ever received. Yet he also knew that he had to say them – and mean them – or the gift would be worthless.
The mestizo was looking ahead of himself, out of the car window. He seemed to be concentrating on the vehicle in front of them – the vehicle that was carrying the gringos.
He half-turned towards the Halach Uinic. ‘And the skull? The gringos found that, not you. Will you offer that back to them as well?’
The Halach Uinic felt the weight of fate descend upon him like the lid of a coffin. How was it possible that this campesino could see things with such clarity? Pose him such questions? The man must have been chosen by God. There was no other possible answer.
Before the Halach Uinic could address himself to the question, the mestizo turned to look at him face on for the very first time. ‘You are the High Priest, are you not? The one they call the Halach Uinic?’
‘So they tell me. I am not entirely in agreement with them on this subject, however.’
‘The other priests …’
‘The Chilans and the Ah Kin?’
‘They will do as you say?’
‘No. They will do as their spirit tells them.’
‘But still. They listen to you?’
‘I am a mouthpiece. Yes. That is so. This much they accept.’
‘Then will you offer the gringos back the skull?’
The Halach Uinic closed his eyes. This was the thirteenth skull they were talking about. The skull of power. He had heard tales about this skull for the entire length of his life. Of where it might be hidden. Of the secrets to which it might provide the key. Some thought that it might even hold the answer to what would happen after the time of the Great Change – the date of 21 December 2012 that marked the end of the Maya Long Count calendar.
The Halach Uinic knew that only with this skull in place, and with suitable offerings, would the twelve other ritual skulls agree to sing and tell the Chilans of what might come to pass in the future – of what might come to pass when all was said and done.
You are being a nicanic, the Halach Uinic said to himself – a simpleton. The others priests would do well to tie you up now and throw you into the X’Canche cenote – let you drown upside down as a sacrifice to the gods.
‘I will offer the gringos back the skull. Just as I have offered you back the book that you brought us. Will that satisfy you?’
‘Yes. And when will you do this? Now?’
‘As soon as we reach Ek Balam. I will order the site closed for the day. We will mount the great pyramid together. I will make you both the offer there. In front of the Ahau Kan Mai, the Chilans, the Ah Kin, and the shamans, all of whom I will request to assemble.’
You nodded. What had caused you to make this stipulation? Why had you spoken in this way to the great man? Had you turned mad? In your entire life, you had never spoken back to one in authority. You had surely entered a realm of being beyond even your wildest dreams.
Your stomach gave a sudden lurch, and you found yourself picturing your hut, and the figure of your mother waiting for you in the doorway at the end of the day. You wished to be back in Veracruz, returning from your day’s work, tired but content. You wanted your mother to scrub your back and face with a damp cloth. To tease you about not yet finding a wife to do these things for you. A daughter-in-law to help her in the kitchen and about the hut. To give her grandchildren.
You closed your eyes and you thought of all the money the Halach Uinic had said would be yours if you sold the book to the gringos. Surely the Halach Uinic could copy the book? This way you could take the money with a clear conscience. Wasn’t this what he had been suggesting?
Then you could build a larger house for yourself and your mother. Find a wife to marry, who would honour your mother and make her life a little easier. You might buy a small chayotal. Grow squash and coffee beans. Even run a few cows.
You knew the Halach Uinic was watching you. He had a strange expression on his face. As if he understood the thoughts that were passing through your mind, and was refusing to judge you for them.
66
Alastor de Bale watched the Mexican with what passed for interest. In truth, it had been many years since Alastor had taken an interest in anybody but himself.
He had the wasting disease, cachexia – in Alastor’s case it wasn’t caused by cancer or Aids or any of the other usual suspects, but came about thanks to metabolic acidosis, as a result, his doctors told him, of decreased protein synthesis twinned with increased protein catabolism caused by five or six generations of inbreeding.
Alastor had no idea what any of this meant, nor was he interested enough in his condition to find out. He knew that the cachexia would do for him in maybe two to three years tops, and all that concerned him now was to procure himself a regular adrenalin rush – this was the only thing that cut through the inevitable lethargy, fatigue, and weakness bought about by his condition. And if he read the signs right, the bumptious Mexican he was looking at was definitely going to come up trumps on that score.
‘I can get you anything you want, man. If you can pay, that is. US dollars. Small denominations only. Nothing over a twenty. I get you Uzi. Even Mini-Uzi. I got a Model 12 Beretta. I got a Heckler & Koch MP5K. I even get you a Stoner M63. Still in its wrappers. Never used. Guy who ordered it got himself whacked on the way to pick it up.’
‘Handguns?’
‘Anything you want, man. Anything you want. I got Makarov. I got PSM. I got CZ.’
‘I don’t want anything Eastern bloc.’
‘Okay. Okay. I got a Glock 18. I got a Walther P4. I got a Star 30M. I maybe even got a MAB P15.’
‘I don’t want a MAB P15.’
‘Anything you say, man. I get you anything you say.’
‘You got a Beretta 92SB?’
‘What? US military model?’
‘With the extended hammer pin. Yes.’
‘I get you that too.’
It was at this exact moment that Alastor knew that he was about to be taken for a ride. Manna from heaven was all very well, but, like walking on water, you had to believe in it in the first place. ‘We need eleven guns in total. Get me everything we talked about bar the big Uzi. And no Eastern bloc crap, remember?’
‘No. No. I’m not stupid. The customer always king in my book.’
‘How much?’
The Mexican almost drooled. ‘Ten thousand bucks.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘Eh, man. I don’t want to do that. I get girls for th
at. All sorts. You want girls too? I get you anything you want. Green. Black. Red. White. Pussy on the slant. Pussy straight up. You call it.’
‘I’ll give you five thousand bucks.’
‘Now you got to be kidding me, man. You know how hard it is to get these things into the country?’
‘About as hard as trafficking those girls you told me about. I know all about the tunnels you guys have got below Agua Prieta.’
‘Lower your voice, man. Are you crazy?’ The Mexican didn’t seem too bothered by Alastor’s comments though – his eyes were still flashing dollar signs. ‘Okay. Nine thousand. But that’s my final offer. The Federales are cracking down on illegal guns. We got serious trouble here now. We got extra expenses.’
‘Six thousand.’
‘No. No. Man. That’s impossible.’
Alastor was enjoying the Mexican’s discomfiture. The guy was having to decide just how amenable he could appear to be in order to reel in his prey. Too amenable, and the minnow would run. Not amenable enough, and the same thing happened – Alastor would simply put two fingers up and go someplace else. It would take fine judgement.
So Alastor sat watching the Mexican. Waiting. He had learned that waiting nearly always produced results.
‘You need to eat something, man. You real thin. Too thin.’
‘Six thousand.’
‘Is impossible. But I tell you what. We forget the Stoner, and I can do it for seven thousand straight.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘I didn’t want the Stoner anyway. Too big. Too loud. Too easy to fucking trace.’
‘I thought the same, man, I thought the same.’ The Mexican was sweating now. The thought of the seven thousand dollars was eating into him like nitric acid. Maybe he could have driven the gringo up to eight?
‘Where do I pick up the material?’
The Mexican glanced around the cantina. It was an all-male watering hole, as good as empty now in the early afternoon, with most of its denizens either taking their siestas or pretending to work. ‘You coming alone?’
The Mayan Codex Page 29
