by Signe Pike
This might be a good time to come clean: I am actually petrified of the paranormal. I’m convinced the second-floor hallway of my apartment building is haunted. Why else would I get a creepy, forbidding feeling when I round the second flight of stairs on my way to work every single morning? When my cat stares off into a corner of the bedroom I can instantly feel the hair on the back of my neck begin to rise. I don’t like Ouija boards, séances, or cemeteries. I have no desire to see dead people, get touched by the hand of God, or attend a taped session of Crossing Over with John Edward.Yet here I was headed to Tulum, Mexico, to meditate—or something—in the ancient temples of the Mayans. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew that I had to go.
Nearly three hours later the van reached the town’s outer limits. I watched the road go quickly from paved to dirt as we passed a wild outcropping of rocks and open ocean, where dozens of brown-and-white pelicans were swooping at fish or waddling along the rocky shore. The first view of turquoise water was breathtaking, but I was anxious to arrive at Casa Violeta, where I could unload my bags and get a little downtime before dinner. At long last a purple picket fence came into view, and we pulled into the sandy driveway of our accommodation for the week. I felt my jaw slacken as I caught sight of the mistress of the inn, bounding gracefully toward the van as though she’d been awaiting our arrival all afternoon. Petite and darkly tanned, Karla had beautiful, large brown eyes and a pearly white, celebrity smile. Her long brown hair was touched with caramel highlights, and following close at her heel was a sandy Jack Russell terrier adorned with a collar of red Mexican beads.
“Welcome, welcome!” she cried. Karla caught each of us in her arms, giving us a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek before leading us through a courtyard bursting with flowering bougainvillea and softly swaying palms. Stepping into my cabana, I let out a breath—draped in a cloud of gauzy white mosquito netting, my king-sized bed faced the ocean. The windows were cast open, and a gust of sea wind met my face. Breathing in the sweet salt off the water, I sank into my new surroundings. Paradise. I dropped my things and rushed out to the beach to relax on the sand and soak up some late afternoon sun.
Night greeted us with a million sparkling stars. The Milky Way arched like a midnight rainbow across the blue black sky—the Pleiades glittered, and the Big Dipper scooped down toward the water of a darkened ocean. There were clouds over the jungle, and toward the west, heat lightning flashed with a vengeance. The presence of the natural world in Tulum was so wild, you felt as though it could sweep you from your feet in a whisper of breath.
But later that night, as I squirmed under the mosquito netting in my muggy room, homesickness began to creep in. I couldn’t open the windows because wind would blow the netting, the purpose of which was to protect me from the scorpions that nested in the thatched roof (it had looked so quaint in daylight) over my head, not to mention whatever creature was making that fluttering, squeaking noise. So I lay there sweltering, missing my boyfriend, Eric, horribly. He would investigate the squeaking. He would find some way to rig the netting so we could sleep in blissful, cool slumber. I was too petrified to move. Aside from being rescued, I wanted to share the experience of this place: the stars, the pelicans, the torrid tossing of the waves—because I knew he would instantly understand the natural “magic” of Tulum. I was dismayed by the fact that his absence made me feel like I was experiencing Mexico as half a person—which was perhaps why I was so adamant about coming here without him in the first place.
Without really noticing it, I had become used to waking up to find him there next to me. I was sure if I loved him too much, he’d stop loving me. In that way I am a consummate Scandinavian. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Men like a challenge. But sometimes, in those moments when he was sleeping and I was awake, I loved him so much that my chest clutched and I could hardly breathe.
One particular morning a few weeks ago, when the cat woke me up and sleep failed to find me again, I was content to admire his perfect triangle of a nose, his lips, his dark lashes against the flush of his sleeping face.
He must have felt my close scrutiny, somewhere in his depth of slumber, because he turned his face to the wall. It was then that I saw it. An unmistakably gray hair. I reached out and gently tugged it to make sure it was really attached to my twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend’s head. It was. When it hit me, I couldn’t help it—I started to cry.
I have come to a horrible realization since losing my father: we are here for however long our lives turn out to be. And in one lifetime, you will lose every single person you love. You will watch every single person you love die.
It is the saddest realization of life. I think about my mother; my sister, Kirsten; my aunt Micki; my uncle Ron; Eric. The incredible ache of it doesn’t cease—not until you’re gone, too. And maybe not then, either. Sometimes I wonder how we can have any happiness, with this huge elephant of loss lurking in the corner of the room. Eric and I were in love, and maybe someday we’d get married and have years and years of life together—the things we always talked about: growing our own tomatoes and sugar snap peas, grilling dinner outside, taking walks together on the beach, reading, writing, laughing, traveling, walking our dog, maybe raising some kids . . . and then one of us will pass away. And instead of those perfect Saturday mornings cuddling close, feet touching, curves snuggled in sleep, one of us will be sleeping alone. Feeling the never-ending burn of losing what we once had.
Am I the only person haunted by this? If other people recognize it, how can they bear to go on? How can they just walk down the street to buy bread or catch a movie? Maybe those people can say, you’ve only got this one chance, so forget about tomorrow and live life to the fullest!
Most of the time, I think that, too. I try to come to terms with the reality of it, push it away, and think, “Mmm . . . what should we have for breakfast?” And luckily, there are so many phenomenal distractions: the beauty of nature, good food, friends, family, great architecture, music, art, entertainment, animals, and twinkling white Christmas lights.
But I realized, when I saw that first errant gray hair, that my favorite distraction was there next to me, breathing softly, his feet twitching occasionally, and I was content to enjoy that soft limbo—snuggle myself against him, waiting for him to stir, for us to begin, for today. To move through our time with appreciation, with joy, with excitement, being close and loving, and falling into bed when it’s all over, to dream our dreams and wake up again to mumble, “I had the craziest dream last night . . .”
The next morning I woke when sun struck my pillow. Outside the ocean was calling. I pulled on my swimsuit and waded in, letting the warm, salty water lap at my legs. I am used to the cool green, fish-filled waters of Ithaca. The ocean . . . ancient, powerful . . . well, it scared me. There were jellyfish to be considered. Stingrays with barbed tails. Sharks. Seaweed. Murderous currents. But I was so sick and tired of living in fear. I vowed that this trip would be a new beginning for me. No more would fear cripple me. I was here for seven days, staying in a picturesque cabana by the sea—a situation clearly requiring morning swims in the ocean. I sucked in my breath, mentally crossed my fingers, and plunged into the sandy-bottomed blue.
Over breakfast, I spoke with Karla about organizing a group trip to the Tulum ruins. When she suggested hiring a tour guide who could tell me more about the faery lore surrounding Los Aluxes, I cringed. I could just hear myself: “Hey, I’ve got a question: Ever spot any gnomelike creatures while you’re touring people around? Are you sure? You’d recognize them because they’re very little . . .” We spent the day doing meditation workshops and yoga, and I fell exhausted into bed that night, deep into the dreamless sleep of the well exercised.
The next morning there were three white taxis waiting for us in the driveway, each meticulously clean and equipped with black sunshades that pulled down over the back windows—presumably to keep the blazing sun off our already-burning white flesh.
The ruins were
easy to find because after about a mile the road just ended. Outside insects hummed and a cacophony of birds called from the edges of the jungle. We purchased our tickets and commissioned the services of an Oakley-clad tour guide named Luis. He smelled clean and spicy, and his English was proficient but clipped. He had a rather endearing habit of pursing his lips and saying, “Mmm . . . uh-huh!” before or after he concluded any sentence. Like, “Mmm . . . Let’s head this way now, mmm . . . uh-huh!” He’d clearly guided this tour about four thousand times too many. And Luis was obviously a man in demand because his mobile rang. Constantly. Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like salsa tones blasting from a cell phone to make you feel at home in an ancient wonder.
We left the pebbled trail, ducked through a portal in the stone wall, and emerged on what could only be described as the other side of the looking glass. In front of us lay a grassy expanse that sprouted with tall bursts of palm trees. Stunningly intact stone buildings lined the edge of a cliff, looking more like sun-bleached bone in the bright sun. Beyond the cliff’s edge I could see the glittering of the ocean. We walked the grounds as Luis poured rich Mayan history and customs into our ears—things I hadn’t read in books.
It was then that I learned with great dismay that visitors were no longer allowed inside the buildings, which of course ruined my plan.
How am I supposed to encounter Los Aluxes now, Luis?
As I felt the tour winding down, I forced myself to swallow my timidity and ask Luis straight up what he might know about the little people. My first attempt at faery journalism was feeble at best. But behind his Oakleys Luis looked momentarily surprised. He studied me a moment. “Mmm . . . Aluxes, uh-huh, yes, I know them.” I couldn’t believe my luck.
“I don’t know where they came from,” he continued, “but if locals want to live somewhere virgin, they have to leave an offering, because they’re all over. They’re everywhere. So if we don’t do that, they’re not going to let us build there. So it’s like little persons, and yeah, they’re very, very small. So yes. That’s the, uh . . . details about them.”
“And people still believe in them, to this day?”
“Oh, yes. They do.” He nodded seriously.
“What about you?” I pressed. “Do you think they exist?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, yes. They exist, for sure. You can buy them, actually. There are places, maybe at the market. Not here, you’d have to go more inland, where the Mayan places are. But there you can buy them and feed them.”
My heart sank. “You can buy them and feed them?” Luis, I may be a pasty tourist, but I will not be mocked!
But Luis laughed. Reaching up to lower his sunglasses, I saw his brown eyes were puzzled and full of humor. “Uh-huh, it’s kind of weird that you’re asking, but yes! If you buy one, they can help you to take care of your home. But if you’re not a good person, they’re not going to be a good person to you. They’d always be bothering you, and if you sleep in a hammock, they’ll always be poking you while you are trying to sleep.”
“So . . .” I lowered my voice. “Have you ever seen one?”
“No, no, I’ve never seen one.” He shook his head. “But I’ve heard lots of stories. People see them all the time.”
“So, some people can see them, and others can’t.” I tried to make sense of this. “Do you think it’d be easier maybe for Mayans to see them?”
He thought on this. “Ah, yes. For Mayans it would be very easier, I think.”
This was getting perplexing. “But if you can’t see them, and you were to . . . purchase one, wouldn’t you be buying it completely on faith?”
“Well,” he considered this, lifting one finger as if to make a point. “Los Aluxes only come out at night. So if you bought one, it wouldn’t be around in the daytime.” He silenced his ringing cell phone and raised his eyebrows at me. “So no, you wouldn’t see it.”
Ah . . .I see?
My conversation with Luis left me befuddled. His answers seemed so casual, so authentic, and he’d had such an unexpected response. Tour over, I made my way down a steep set of stairs that led to the beach. Wouldn’t it be crazy if this place was just crawling with these little invisible creatures? Smiling, I couldn’t help but peek into the dark crags of the cliff as I made my descent. Could Aluxes be hiding in the cave’s inky depths? Suddenly I saw a rustling in the blackness toward the back wall of the cave, and gasped. A pair of sinister, beady eyes were staring back at me. Squinting harder, I nearly doubled over with laughter as my faery waddled into daylight: it was an iguana. The other tourists spotted him, and in an instant fifty cameras were flashing as he beat a hasty retreat back to safety.
Grinning to myself, I made a mental note to move to Tulum immediately and begin selling Aluxes to tourists at exorbitant prices. No, you see, they only come out at night! No, you have to be asleep. Like Santa Claus! Or the Tooth Fairy! And then they come out! Yup, you’ll love it. You still can’t see it? Just be patient. And, uh . . . try not to sleep in a hammock.That’ll be six hundred pesos, please.
That night I woke with my bladder near bursting. I knew a visit to the bathroom was unavoidable, but I was filled with dread. You see, Casa Violeta shut their generators off at eleven p.m., so you couldn’t just flip on the light. Sure, I love the quasi-religious sanctity of bathrooms. I just hate going to the bathroom by myself at night. Especially in dark, foreign, spooky places. So much so that once, while camping, when I was beyond old enough to know better, I wet the bed because Kirsten wouldn’t get up to go with me. Yes, I would rather sleep in my own urine than cross a scorpion-and-bat-infested cabana with no electricity at night to pee with the geckos in an open-air bathroom. But remembering my oath of courage, I reached for my penlight, pushed the mosquito netting aside, and scurried into the bathroom, repeating, I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I am so not scared . . . all the way to the toilet.
As I sat there in the dark, the palm fronds brushing the screen overhead, I got the strangest feeling that I wasn’t alone.
I shone my penlight in the doorway, but there was nothing there. Still, every receptor in my body tingled. I could feel something. I looked away for a moment. When I looked back, it was there: a short, long-haired, troll-like man, with wild, brown, matted hair. His eyes were ovals of chocolate brown, his face was leathery and creased with wrinkles. His shoulders were hunched forward, his arms straight down at his sides, his chin thrust out, and he was staring at me.
I blinked hard. He was gone. Or had I even seen him in the first place? I weighed my options. I could grab my ladies’ razor and face it head-on, just in case it had somehow scurried off into my bedroom. I could shatter the quiet Mexican night and yell for Karla or Raven, which was pretty tempting. Or I could realize that it was just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. Bolstered by common sense, I washed my hands and, with a tight grip on my penlight, ran quickly back to bed, plunging my feet under the covers and tucking the mosquito netting tight under the mattress.
But no sooner had I closed my eyes than I saw it again. This time it was standing just inches from my face on the other side of the mosquito netting, staring. My eyes shot open. Nothing there. I closed my eyes, this time squeezing them tightly. Again, the image popped back into my head. Okay, I can handle this. I don’t know what possessed me, but I knew that if I was serious about getting to the bottom of this question about faeries, I had better, imagination or not, try to talk to it.
Okay, little guy . . . I began. Uh, I’m really glad that you’re here! But . . . you know what? Tonight just isn’t the best for me. ’Cause, God! I am so tired! And right now, I just really need to sleep. So . . . if you could just please leave me alone so I could go back to sleep, that would be great. Then I added for good measure, But, if you want to come back tomorrow, we can talk then, okay? Okay. Now there was nothing to do but pull the covers over my head and wait for the sun to rise. I was certainly too shaken up to even fantasize about falling back asleep.
I d
id my best to push the events of the previous night from my mind as Karla and I discussed my search over a bowl of papaya the next morning. She recommended I visit a hotel up the beach, closer to the ruins, called the Diamante K.
“The Diamante K is full of Aluxes,” Karla said, wide-eyed. “Just go there and ask the bartender. They speak English and they’ll tell you—people see them there all the time.” As up front as Karla assured me I could be, the amateur faery sleuth in me knew this was clearly an undercover job. I mean, really. You can’t just show up at a hotel bar and start asking around about faeries. So I recruited my new friend Cheri from the group, and after our morning meditation let out, we hopped into a taxi to lunch at the Diamante K. As we made our way down the bumpy dirt road, I couldn’t help but open up about my late night, possibly pee-induced hallucination.
“I don’t know, Signe.” Cheri frowned. “That completely gives me goose bumps . . . how do you know you weren’t really seeing it? You know, these things, if they are real, maybe they don’t exist in the same way we do, on this plane. Maybe the only way we can see them is by somehow using our imaginations. But that wouldn’t make them any less real in their world.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “But if that were the case, then what’s the difference between imagination and reality?”
“Perspective.” She smiled.
Who knows, maybe she had a point.
We pulled up to the hotel and made our way down a sandy path to the open-air bar, where we settled in. Dos Coronas, por favor. The bartender gave us a once-over and nodded. The restaurant was open to the elements, and dozens of ornate mobiles—crafted from driftwood, shells, coral, and fishing wire—swayed in the wind. Also swinging were dozens of winged female figures, like those found on the prows of old whaling ships. Arrayed in hand-painted hues of purple, green, hibiscus, or sea-glass blue, they seemed to float in the ocean breeze. By the kitchen a waitress chatted with a line cook in Spanish, and behind us on the gently sloping beach, sedate hotel guests lounged in cushioned chairs or suspended hammocks.The atmosphere of the place was utterly tranquil.The bartender reappeared with two deliciously frosty beers.
