by Evan Hunter
Immediately there was panic below. The barbarians threw their weapons into the air and scrambled away from the machine, climbing over one another, stumbling, falling, shrieking frantically, as they hurried to escape this monster that bellowed and showered fire.
They ran from the court, and behind them was Erik, his ax slicing away at their backs. And now Mayas began to appear from doorways and from streets.
The barbarians were in full retreat, and the blond giant was chasing them! Surely these were not men to fear, the Mayas reasoned. Surely these were not the bloody murderers who had overrun their city.
With new courage they flooded the streets, taking up the chase, their weapons joining Erik’s as the barbarians fled in wild disorder.
Neil watched them flee, the Mayas in close pursuit. He wiped his brow and grinned. Dave dropped the machine to the ground and slowly came down the aluminum ladder.
Together, they stepped through the hatchway into the coolness of the night. In the distance the shouts of the barbarians still pierced the night in terror.
“Well,” Dave said, “that’s that.”
“That’s that,” Neil agreed. But his mind was troubled with the persistent thought that the barbarians would return some day. And next time there might not be a time machine here to save the city.
All at once he felt terribly sorry for the Mayas.
Dawn came quickly. The sun poked long red fingers into the blackness of the sky, chasing the shadows, chasing the fear that had lurked in every corner the night before.
But the spoils of war remained, a sickly reminder of what had happened during the long night.
There were the sick and the lame. And the dead. There were the women, wailing women who covered themselves with soot in mourning for their loved ones. The men were buried along with their possessions: a spear, a favorite garment, a piece of jewelry, a bowl of food. In some cases dogs were killed and buried with their masters.
And the city mourned.
There was much to do. The streets were a mass of tangled bodies and drying blood. The women worked hard, scrubbing the stones of the city on their hands and knees, while the men carried the bodies of the dead barbarians to a common burial ground beyond the city.
Fires still smoldered in many of the buildings, and the Mayas persistently fought the flames, carrying jugs of water, stamping at the fires with twigs and blankets.
Neil ran across Talu once. The priest was busily scurrying about the city, supervising the removal of the dead, the extinguishing of the fires, the washing, the cleaning, everything.
“They did a good job,” Neil remarked dryly.
“We are thankful to the gods,” Talu replied in a strangely solemn voice. “We could have been destroyed.”
Neil smiled. “We’re still here,” he said.
“The gods must be thanked,” Talu said, and then he was rushing away again, like a nervous bird with white feathers.
Neil continued walking through the city, watching the Mayas hard at work. He found Erik seated on a low stone step.
The Norseman held one of the barbarian rattles in his big hands, turning it over slowly.
“Loafing?” Neil asked, conscious of the hurried activity around them.
Erik grinned. “Yes,” he admitted, “just loafing.”
“You deserve a rest,” Neil said.
Erik turned the rattle over in his hands. “A curious thing,” he said.
“They sure raised hob with those last night.”
“Yes. A very effective trick. Yes.”
“Psychology,” Neil murmured, basking in the sun, feeling the warmth seep into his tired bones.
“Hm-m-m?” Erik asked, his eyes intent on the rattle.
“Psychol . . .” Neil hesitated and shook his head, remembering that this was a concept unknown to the Norseman. “Never mind,” he added.
Erik shook the rattle, as if to test its powers.
“You worked greater magic than theirs,” he said softly. He paused and turned his piercing blue eyes on Neil. “You can fly, my friend.”
“Not I,” Neil said. “My vessel does the flying. It only carries me.”
“Powerful magic,” Erik whispered.
Neil wondered if he should tell Erik about time travel and the twentieth century and America, and . . . No. Erik wouldn’t understand. It was better to leave such things unsaid.
“In my land,” he explained weakly, “we have many such vessels. They are not strange.”
Erik’s eyes moved to the sky. “To fly,” he said softly. “To be able to fly.”
“Your people will fly some day too,” Neil promised.
Erik’s eyes sparkled. “Will they, Neil?”
“They will fly,” Neil said. “I promise.”
Erik’s hands tightened on the rattle, and it split into a hundred brittle pieces. It was, Neil saw, a dried-up squash, hollow, and filled with what appeared to be tiny pebbles. These pebbles clattered to the stone now, spilling from the hollow shell of the rattle.
Erik reached down and held one between his thumb and forefinger.
Neil looked at it closely. It may have been yellow in color once, as parts of it still seemed to be, but it was now more a deep, brownish hue.
“Looks like a corn kernel,” Neil exclaimed.
Erik turned the morsel over in his fingers. “Maize,” he said simply. “This is maize.”
Neil realized that corn was probably still called maize in Erik’s time and land. He shrugged and agreed. “They probably filled the inside with these dried maize kernels to produce the noise.”
Erik seemed to be thinking. Suddenly, he said, “The Mayas have no bread.” He seemed to remember Neil, turned to him, and added, “Had you noticed, Neil? They have no bread.”
“Yes, I had noticed. But what . . .”
“And I’ll bet they have no maize, either.” Quickly, he stooped and gathered the kernels from the ground into the palm of his hand.
“We must find more of these rattles, Neil. They will help our friends a great deal. Come.”
Neil followed Erik, lazily getting to his feet.
They found fourteen rattles and then they searched for Talu . Erik stopped the priest and showed him the kernels in his hand.
“What are they?” Talu asked.
“Maize,” Erik replied.
“And what is that?”
“You will plant it,” Erik said.
“But why? What does it grow?”
“You plant it, and when its yield is collected at harvest time, I will show you how to use it.”
Talu was apparently very busy. He agreed hurriedly. “Yes, yes. All right.” His arm darted out and stopped a running Maya. “Get some men,” he ordered, “and follow our friend to the fields. He will show you how to plant these seeds.”
He smiled at Neil. “I am sorry,” he said, “but I must go. There is much to do.”
He was off again, fluttering through the streets in great haste. Erik took his Maya workers and headed for the fields. Neil, time on his hands, strolled through the city again.
He met Rixal rounding a corner, and was surprised to see his young guide without Tela . Rixal, too, was in far from high spirits.
“Hi,” Neil said, “what’s new?”
Rixal bowed his head quickly and continued walking.
“I am busy, Neil,” he said.
Neil scratched his head and looked at the retreating Maya. Now, what on earth, he wondered. Why was everyone so busy? The city was fast becoming clean and orderly again. And yet, everyone was running around frantically.
Neil shrugged, then shook his head. Perhaps he would never understand the ways of the Maya. He wandered through the city, observing with wonder the undertone of excitement that seemed to radiate from every passer-by. It was as if . . . as if some great preparation were being made.
But for what, Neil wondered.
He was surprised to find himself beside a large well in front of one of the temples. He remembered this
as what Rixal and Tela had called “The Sacred Cenote.”
He remembered, too, how they had described it in their unique running patter.
“This is The Sacred Cenote,” Rixal had said, pointing to the large well. “It is very large.”
“One hundred and fifty feet across,” Tela had added, nodding.
“And very deep.” This from Rixal.
“The water level is sixty feet below the ground.”
“And the depth of the water is thought to be almost as much.”
Neil smiled now as he thought again of his enthusiastic guides. On the steps of the temple, just before the gaping mouth of the cenote, several Mayas were working furiously.
Neil’s brow creased in curiosity, and he walked closer to the workmen. They seemed to be constructing a platform made of wood. The platform was long and narrow and rested on four stout logs. The workmen bustled about the logs, seeing that they were firmly wedged against the steps. Then one Maya climbed onto the platform, sat there stiffly, and gripped the sides with his hands. Two other Mayas walked to the back of the platform and slowly tilted it upward so that it formed a sort of slide-upon. The lower end of the platform was just above the mouth of the cenote.
Golly, Neil thought. If that man weren’t holding on, he’d slide right into the well. He’d better be careful.
At that moment, apparently satisfied that they’d done a good job, the Mayas lowered the platform onto the logs again, and the man Neil was worried about leaped to the ground.
Then, methodically, they began to pile straw and twigs onto the platform, lashing them to the wood with long pieces of braided lianas or vines. The twigs covered the straw and held it in place on the platform. The men tilted the platform again, apparently testing it to see if the bed of straw and twigs would slide off into the well. They rested it on the logs again, after they saw the mat was securely lashed to the platform. Then they began picking up the stray bits of wood and straw that had dropped onto the temple steps.
Neil yawned, suddenly aware of the fact he’d been awake most of the night.
He walked lazily across the city, leaving The Sacred Cenote and the industrious Mayas, and seeking the dark quiet of his own chamber.
He dropped onto the straw mat on the stone floor and was asleep almost instantly.
It was almost dark when he awoke. He glanced at his watch, then rubbed his eyes. Through the small window, the sky was painted a dull gray as twilight reluctantly gave way to night.
He got to his feet and shook the sleep from his body, stretching luxuriantly. Then he walked out of the chamber and down the steps that led to the street.
The city was strangely quiet.
Sleepily, Neil looked down the street to his left. Then to his right. The street was deserted.
Neil scratched his head, a frown beginning to work its way across his face. He looked at his watch again, supposing he’d made a mistake in the time. No, it was only a little past seven. He held his watch to his ear, thinking it had stopped. But the watch ticked away noisily.
Then why were the streets deserted?
Perhaps the nobles were playing another basketball game.
But in the dark? Or perhaps . . .
Neil’s thoughts were interrupted by the steady thump of a drum. Ra-bohm, it sounded. Ra-bohm. A long pause. Ra-bohm. Pause. Ra-bohm.
In the distance, winding their way through the city like little sparks of light scattered on the streets, Neil could see the glow of many torches.
A mournful dirge rose in the distance, and Neil was alert now, his eyes and ears straining into the darkness.
The torches came closer, and Neil saw the solemn faces of many Mayas, their wailing voices reaching his ears like the sound of a wounded animal. He watched as they filed past, solemn, slow, their faces pale in the light of the torches. Leading them, his long white robe flowing behind him, was Talu .
Slowly they twined through the city like a great snake, step by step, in time with the monotonously slow beat of the drum. Ra-bohm. Ra-bohm.
Neil watched with interest, wondering exactly what was happening. The procession circled the city and stopped at one of the thatched huts on its fringe.
Neil walked down the steps and into the street. He ran to the spot where the procession had halted, and sought out Talu in the crowd. “What’s happening?” he asked.
The old priest’s face looked like wrinkled parchment. His eyes reflected pin points of light from the torches.
“We are thanking the gods,” Talu explained.
Neil nodded. He had learned not to interfere with the religion of the Mayas. It was far different from his own, but they were honest and sincere about it, and he accepted it without question.
He was surprised to see Tela , the young native girl who’d been his guide, step out of the thatched hut. She was dressed in flowing white, and her hands were folded and tightly clasped over her chest. Her eyes were lowered as Rixal led her through the door.
Two men lowered a wooden platform covered with straw and twigs, and two others lifted her and placed her on it gently.
She lay back stiffly, her hands still folded on her chest, her eyes closed.
Two men went to the front of the platform and lifted it, as two others did the same at the rear.
“What’s Tela doing?” Neil asked Talu .
Again Talu said, “We are thanking the gods.”
“But why is Tela dressed in white? Is she part of the ceremony?”
Talus face was emotionless as he said, “The gods have demanded a sacrifice.”
“Well, what’s that got to do with Te . . .”
Neil’s voice caught in his throat. His mind flitted back to the Mayas on the temple steps that afternoon. They had been tilting a platform toward the well — the very platform that Tela was stretched out on now.
They were going to throw Tela into The Sacred Cenote!
Neil gulped hard. Sixty feet down and sixty feet deep!
“Talu ,” he gasped. “Tell me. Tell me!” he put his hand on the priest’s arm. “Is she to be the sacri . . .”
Ra-bohm, the drum sounded. Ra-bohm.
Ra-bohm.
Talu was silent. He raised his hand, dropped it to his side again, and the procession began moving toward The Sacred Cenote.
Torches gleamed. Faces were drawn and taut. On the platform, gently resting on the shoulders of the Mayas, Tela lay with her eyes closed and her arms folded.
The procession marched past Neil to the beat of the drum. He stared in horror as they wound their way through the city, a glowing spiral of chanting humans.
A cry tore itself from Neil’s throat. “Erik!”
And then he began to run, sweat bursting out on his body, to leave him cold and damp.
Chapter 15 — Blood of a Fruit
BOOTS clatter against the stones of an empty city. The wail of a sacrifice chant is heard in the distance. Overhead, the sky turns black, and white stars etch brilliant pockmarks against the richness of the night.
You run. You run and your heart leaps against your rib case, and the lining of your throat is like sandpaper. Your eyes are blurred, and the sound of your thumping heart drowns out the sound of the incessant wailing.
A girl is about to be killed, and you run. You run swiftly, with the sound of your labored breathing and the clacking of your boots echoing through the deserted streets.
Run, RUN! Faster, faster, faster.
Neil leaped up the steps to his building two at a time, his feet barely touching the ground.
He tore into the room he shared with Erik, his eyes flicking from wall to wall.
“Erik!”
His own voice echoed around the empty stone chamber.
“Erik.” he called again.
Swiftly he turned and ran out of the room, out of the building, into the street again, pausing before the building, turning his head frantically to look up and down.
Where? Which way? Where, where is he?
In desperatio
n, he shouted, “Erik!” And again there was no answer.
He turned to his left and began running again, his long blond hair whipping over his forehead, his breath struggling into his lungs. “Erik,” he called. “Erik.”
He ran down a long alley-like street, his shadow thrust before him like an inquisitive, sniffing hound.
Deserted.
He stopped short, whirled around, reversed his direction, and began running again. He stopped in front of a temple, looked to his right and left, and then behind him.
Where was he? Where was he?
“Erik-k-k-k,” he screamed, arid his scream came back to him, bouncing from a hundred stones.
Where would I go if I were Erik, he wondered? Where!
The ship! Erik would be down by the beach near the ship.
Stopping only long enough to locate his position in the city, Neil began sprinting for the beach. He was almost at the edge of the forest when a new thought struck him.
The maize. The crops. Erik might be at the fields.
He stopped, forced to make a decision that might cost Tela her life. The beach or the fields. Which?
His mind made the decision rapidly, and he fled toward the city again, over the stones, past the temples, past the palaces, past the basketball court and the Temple of the Jaguars, past the storehouse, running all the way, running, past one well, and then another, past the thatched huts on the fringe of the city.
The clatter of his boots stopped abruptly as his feet dug into earth, his knees pumping, his lungs ready to burst. He ran with the swiftness of the wind, for the life of a girl was hanging in the balance, like a leaf poised to drop from a tree.
The fields stretched ahead, black in the glow of the moonlight.
He stopped at the edge of the nearest field and scanned the entire area. His breath came in short, agonized spurts as his eyes swiftly moved from field to field.
A tall figure was standing far across the field, looking over the land. The moonlight touched a reddish-gold beard and a strong nose.
It was Erik!
Neil tore across the field, leaping over the young plants. Erik’s name tore from his lips, and the Norseman looked up curiously.
