Maya Gods and Monsters

by Carol Karasik

  They followed the owls down a steep canyon, crossed the river of spikes, crossed the river of blood, and stumbled down the black road to Xibalba. By the time they arrived, all the lords were laughing so hard their bones were rattling. “You’re already finished,” they said. The brothers didn’t even have a chance to play the ball game. The Lords of Death sacrificed them, buried them, and hung the head of One Hunahpu in a cacao tree that was growing beside the ball court. As soon as they placed the head in the fork of the tree, the tree bore delicious chocolate fruits. All of Xibalba was forbidden to go near it.

  One day a beautiful girl came along. Her name was Blood Woman, and she was the daughter of Blood Gatherer. As she was reaching up to pluck the sweet fruits from the tree, the head of One Hunahpu spoke to her.

  “Why would you want the bones from this tree?” said the head of One Hunahpu.

  “You think they’re tasty, you think they’re sweet, these hard black seeds in a white shell?”

  “I do,” said Blood Woman.

  “Well, I will give you a sign for my firstborn sons. Tell them their father hasn’t disappeared. He is alive and will go on living.” And the skull spit in the girl’s hand. Immediately she conceived.

  Pretty soon her horrible father noticed she had something growing in her belly, and his hollow eyes burned red with rage. “Bring me her heart!” he commanded.

  Blood Woman escaped through a hole in the earth and fled to the house of One Hunahpu’s mother. It wasn’t easy putting up with Xmucane’s miserable temper. The suspicious old crone didn’t want that girl around and said so whenever she had the chance. Still, her stubbornness was no match for Blood Woman’s brains and magic powers, which she naturally passed on to her beautiful twin boys, Hunahpu and Xbalanque.

  “Cry babies,” Xmucane called them the moment they were born. And so they went to live in the mountains, and when they grew up they became great hunters and ballplayers. The clever boys learned everything on their own.

  “Why would you want the bones from this tree?” said the head of One Hunahpu.

  Every gray, sunless day the boys practiced ball, and every gray, sunless day the Lords of Death woke up fuming and cursing. They couldn’t help it. The sound of the bouncing rubber ball was giving them a splitting headache. “Who’s that kicking and banging over our heads?” they grumbled. “What nerve!”

  Again they sent their owl messengers to the surface of the earth. But the boys were playing in the ball court and only their grandmother was at home to receive the bad news.

  Old Xmucane gave the message to a tiny louse, but on the way, the louse was swallowed by a toad, the toad was swallowed by a snake, and the snake was swallowed by a laughing falcon. When the falcon reached the ball court, he called out, “Woo-koo! I have a message in my belly.”

  The falcon spit out the snake, the snake spit out the toad, and the toad spit out the louse, who said, “In seven days you are to come and play ball with the Lords of Death.”

  Down they went to the Underworld, down the steep canyon, across Pus River and across Blood River, and when they arrived they greeted the Lords of Xibalba most cordially, because a mosquito had already whispered their secret names:

  “Good morning, One Death, Seven Death, House Corner, Blood Gatherer.

  “Good morning, Pus Master, Jaundice Master, Bone Scepter, Skull Scepter.

  “Good morning, Wing, Packstrap, Bloody Teeth, Bloody Claws.”

  The Lords of Xibalba weren’t laughing now.

  Every day the twins played ball against the Lords of Death. And every day the twins outsmarted them. Every night the Lords of Xibalba put them through a dangerous test, and every night the twins tricked them.

  First the lords locked the boys in Dark House and gave them a torch and a lit cigar. “Don’t let the flame die,” they were told. The boys put red macaw feathers at the end of the torch and a glowing firefly on the tip of the big cigar, and in the morning, the torch and cigar were as good as new.

  They locked the boys in Razor House, but the knives that were supposed to slice them in two refused to move and stuck their razor-sharp points in the ground.

  They locked the boys in Cold House, but the boys drove out the ice and wind and hail.

  The lords locked the boys in Jaguar House, but Hunahpu and Xbalanque fed the jaguars animal bones, and the jaguars didn’t eat them.

  Next, they locked the boys in the House of Fire, but the boys were just lightly seared. The lords were amazed.

  When the boys entered Bat House, they encountered monstrous snatch-bats, which had knives instead of noses. The boys just curled up inside their blowguns and went to sleep. But when Hunahpu stuck his head out to see what time it was, a bat snatched his head right off.

  At that moment a coati came along, rolling a big squash. Xbalanque picked it up and carved a new head that looked and talked exactly like his handsome brother.

  When the boys entered Bat House,

  they encountered monstrous snatch-bats,

  which had knives instead of noses.

  The next morning, there were the lords, playing ball with Hunahpu’s real head, bouncing and kicking it around the court. But Xbalanque intercepted and sent it flying into the woods. The Lords of Death went running after it, and in the excitement, Rabbit rescued the real head and gave it back to Hunahpu. The lords were no match for the boys and their animal helpers.

  Even though the twins passed many tests and trials, the lords still hungered for their deaths. “We’ll throw them into a burning oven,” they howled. “That will put an end to them for sure.”

  But Hunahpu and Xbalanque heard their gleeful shrieking and came up with a clever plan. Willingly they sacrificed themselves and jumped into the raging fire. Their bones were ground as fine as flour and scattered in the river. Five days later, the boys reappeared as catfish, and the next day they appeared as poor vagabonds dressed in rags.

  Disguised as wandering actors, they went to the palace and entertained the Lords of Death. They danced on stilts and performed many magic tricks. They sacrificed a dog and then revived it. They burned down a house full of demons and then raised it—walls, roof, devils, and all. The lords were filled with wonder and delight.

  “Sacrifice yourselves!” they shrieked. “Let’s see it now!”

  Hunahpu sacrificed his brother and brought him back to life.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” cried One Death and Seven Death. They were crazy with joy. “Now do it to us! Sacrifice us!”

  But the Lords of Xibalba did not come back to life. All the wicked creatures fled to the caves and canyons, shaking with fear. Ever since, death remains in the black shadows of the Underworld, feeding on sap and broken gourds and tormenting the guilty and wretched.

  After their great triumph, the Hero Twins found their father and uncle and brought them back to life. Their father became the god of corn, who dies and is reborn each year.

  Then the boys rose to heaven and became the sun and the moon.

  The

  GIFT OF CORN

  BLOOD,

  FLESH AND BONE

  A tiny corn stalk sprouted from the body of One Hunahpu and started growing up through the long, dark passages of the Underworld. Finally it broke through a crack in the earth, put forth two huge ears of corn, and sank again into the soil. The seeds lay in heaps inside a secret cavern.

  Coyote happened to be out scavenging in the mountains when he sniffed something sweet in the air. He followed the scent over the cliffs, and just as his mouth was beginning to water, he butted his nose against a great stone. No matter how hard he pawed and scraped, he couldn’t find a way in. It seemed the scent was coming from a cave, and it was locked tight.

  Coyote heard a woodpecker tapping at a tree. “Excuse me,” he said, “there’s something so much sweeter than mealy bugs inside this cave.”

  Woodpecker tapped at the rock until his beak was blunt, but he couldn’t find the entrance either.

  In a little while, an army of
ants came parading along. “There’s something sweet and wonderful inside this cave,” said Coyote. “You’re little. Maybe you can find the door.”

  “No problem,” said the ants, and they filed right in and found heaps of yellow corn. “Mmm, this food is tastier than ginger petals,” they cheeped. The captain, the sergeant, and every stouthearted soldier hoisted a kernel, and without wasting time, they marched straight to the palace of the gods.

  “Mmm, this corn is ambrosial,” said the gods. “It is the most marvelous food on earth. Bring us more!”

  The ants skittered off, and a few days later, they delivered more corn for the gods. By now their backs were aching, their feet were sore, and they were huffing and puffing after their long march. The gods took pity on the little creatures. “We see you need some help,” they said.

  Chak, the rain god, flew to the mountain, and with one dazzling silver lightning bolt he split the sacred rock. There lay the golden treasure!

  When the gods saw the mounds of gleaming kernels, they were overjoyed. “At last we’ve found the perfect substance to make a woman and a man. They will be full of strength and full of light.”

  The Creators carried the corn to the house of Xmucane, the grandmother of the Hero Twins. She ground it on her grinding stone until the corn meal was as fine as powder. Then she spit on it to add some grease, and the gods offered drops of their own blood to the mixture. And with this holy corn meal, they made the skin and bones of human beings.

  They were beautiful in every way. The women tied their hair in tassels. Their arms fluttered like corn leaves in the wind. They used the kernels of their teeth to eat, and to measure cloth and string. These men and women were able to talk properly and to praise the gods with beautiful words. They knew how to walk, they knew how to think, and they knew how to work. When spring came, they planted the corn seeds in rows. When autumn came, they harvested their corn and had enough to eat all winter. They wouldn’t have to search the woods for nuts or grubs or rely on wild greens and berries. They wouldn’t have to eat stone soup. There would be enough corn to feed them and enough to sustain the gods.

  And so the people multiplied and spread across the mountains and plains. They hoed and weeded, and when they weren’t tilling the fields they built magnificent temples where they worshipped the god of corn. And when the cities fell, the people moved on. They knew in their hearts that everything—kingdoms, people, animals, plants, and stars—were part of the same natural cycle, growing, dying, and coming back to life.

  But corn is hard work, and some people are lazy. Once there was a farmer who was out clearing his land, but after he cut down a few bushes he was already worn out.

  The man said to himself, “When Hunahpu and Xbalanque were still ordinary boys and had to tend their grandmother’s fields, their axes and hoes did all the work. The soil turned itself and the trees fell on their own. I wish my axe and hoe, my land and trees could do the same.”

  He was lying on his back, about to take a nap, when he noticed a buzzard circling in the sky. “Oh buzzard,” he called. “You just fly around and find your food. You don’t have to sweat and toil.”

  The buzzard swooped down and spoke to the man. “But first I have to see the fumes rising from the carcass. For that I have to fly around all day. It’s harder than you think,” said the buzzard. “Why, the way you were lying there, stretched out, I thought you were a corpse.”

  “Yes, just look at me, all bent over and full of blisters. I’m always fighting off ants and aphids. I have to compete with mice and deer.”

  “But corn can grow everywhere—mountains, swamps, and deserts,” replied the buzzard.

  “There’s so much life swarming over and under my plants. It’s really too much,” the man whined. “And sooner or later, everything that grows in this forest will rot and die. The earth gives us sustenance and then she takes it away.”

  “But life comes from dead things,” said the buzzard. “I ought to know.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind it, why don’t we change places?”

  So the man put on the buzzard’s wings and flew away. The buzzard put on the man’s pants and started working. He cleared the man’s field, planted the man’s corn seeds, and then went home to the man’s wife.

  “You stink like a buzzard!” she said.

  “Oh, it’s just because I’ve been working so hard,” said the buzzard.

  Every day he went out to weed the fields. Thanks to Our Holy Sun and Chak, the rain god, there was an abundance of corn in September. The buzzard harvested his corn and hauled it to the man’s house. Stooped and bent under his heavy burden, occasionally stopping to wipe away the sweat, he plodded along, just as the gods carried the days on their backs over the hills toward home.

  “All this hard labor is worth it,” the buzzard thought. “It’s easier than searching for my meals.”

  The man’s wife was delighted. Up at the crack of dawn, she soaked the kernels, then knelt before her stone metate and ground the corn into meal. She was careful not to drop a single kernel, because corn has human feelings. It cries if it is dropped or stepped on.

  The woman made a small tortilla, and in the center, she punched three holes—two holes for eyes and a bigger hole for a mouth. She fed it to her baby, saying, “Here, my little one, open your mouth like this round tortilla and speak to me.”

  She gave a tortilla to the family dog, saying, “Here, dog, take your tortilla, you will carry me across the river to the Land of the Dead someday.”

  And then she made tamales stuffed with turkey and beans and fed them to her “husband,” saying, “Thank you.”

  After eating six tamales, he patted his bloated stomach and burped. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said. “You see, I’m not a man at all. I’m a buzzard. That’s why I stink so much.”

  The woman thought about it a minute and then shrugged her shoulders. “That husband of mine was a worthless loafer. We never had anything to eat. Now I have plenty of corn and beans. I have white corn, yellow corn, red corn, blue corn, and black corn. I never have to worry. So what if you’re a buzzard,” she said. “I’m content. It’s a small price to pay for a handful of Our Lord’s sunbeams.”

  Hun Hunahpu, the god of corn,

  lives inside each kernel of the

  corn plant. Hun Hunahpu,

  the first father, lives inside

  the Maya people. His spirit

  is the essence of life that

  grows and dies and renews

  itself each spring,

  now and forever.

  K’INICH AHAU

  EYE

  of THE SUN

  It makes no sense, but the Sun is always grumpy. You’d think he’d have a pleasant disposition, but being sunny and radiant every day is hard work. Up before the break of dawn, with only the stars and the planet Venus to guide him, he begins his long, steep climb to the pinnacle of the sky. At noon, when he stops to catch his breath, he really has no time to rest. Gazing down upon the earth, he surveys the lives of all his creatures. Then he pulls out his pen and his thick gold ledger and makes a note beside each name: who is thieving, lying, or sleeping late, who is working and praying and content with the little bit they have. He writes it all down in his ledger—name, place, date, and hour. If the sin is grave, he will send sickness upon the wicked immediately. Or he will wait. At the end of the world, some souls will rise to heaven and others will stay in the stinking black Underworld forever. The Sun is the one who keeps track. That’s why people today call him Saint Salvador, the Judge. Otherwise, they’d call him a spy. High jinks, crimes—he’s seen it all.

  When he’s finished writing, the Sun continues down his daily path. Now he’s strolling under his big straw hat, a fancy dude heading for lunch at three. Now he’s so tired he has to hold on to the cords that hang down from the sky, just to keep from stumbling off the trail. At sunset he’s ready to sink into the ocean, which is filled with his golden treasures. Hot
and weary, he crawls into his cave. Maybe his wife, the ever-changing goddess of the moon, has fixed him something good for supper or at least prepared an ice-cold bath. He likes to soak in his big stone tub until the bathwater boils and the air is steaming hot. Sometimes his wife whacks him with a eucalyptus branch, which is good for his circulation. Some people say she does it just to get his attention. “All right, I’m leaving now. I’m going to make my rounds,” she says. But by then he is usually snoring.

  Long ago, he worked even harder. Some swear that when he was younger he was the spitting image of Hunahpu, full of vim and vigor. But at night he prowled like a jaguar under the bone trees of the Underworld. At dawn he turned into a scarlet macaw streaking across the morning sky, or a hummingbird darting from flower to flower.

  Others believed he was a golden puma leaping from his cave on Trogon Mountain. His tail whipped the grass, his claws scratched burning lines across the palace floor. At noon the king could hear the sounds of war and wailing. The pillars began trembling. “The puma is searching for ghosts,” people said. “He has come for our souls.”

  But where would we be without the Sun? How would we eat or see? He is the eye of heaven and the burning heart, the Lord of Time keeping the days, months, and years in motion. He is the god of Number Four, who presides over the summer and winter solstices, lord of the northern and southern light as they rise and set at the four corners of the sky. The Sun and Number Four look exactly alike. They have the same T-shaped teeth, the same mirrored brow, and the same squint in their square eyes.

  The day moves on. But as the Sun limps across the plaza and through the empty market, he is the image of every aging wanderer slipping slowly toward the grave.

  In the red setting sun, the old man turns into a monkey, and in his monkey body he will mark the hours of the night. That jaguar prowling below him, fishing in the pool, is his animal spirit too, walking slowly eastward toward the dawn.