CHAPTER 46
Ah Bahlam looked down on the Ball Court, waiting for the players to enter. He stood on top of the wide wall that the players would hit the ball against, near one of three small flame temples that sent prayers and messages out to the world on sacred smoke. Julu sat on his shoulder, ruffling his wings from time to time.
A sharp elbow stung his side. He turned to find a small page of the high priest’s attached to the elbow. The boy could not be older than seven. His high child’s voice cracked with excitement. “K’uk’ulkan requests you tell him the whereabouts of Hun Kan.”
Hun Kan was not in the high priest’s keeping? He struggled not to give away his happiness. He addressed the boy directly. “Tell K’uk’ulkan I have not seen her since she went with him. I offer myself to help him look.”
The boy bit his lip and backed away, then climbed down the steps like a monkey.
Should he have followed him? But he had not been asked.
Ah Bahlam forced his attention back to the Ball Court. He had wanted to play, had daydreamed all the long summer of playing well, or ill.
He had dreamed these things since he was five summers old.
Disappointment burned inside, only slightly cooler than his desire for Hun Kan beside him. A part of his very being was glad to be Ah Bahlam and not a sacred ball player, a man rather than a god. A man might yet save Hun Kan.
He had been given no place of honor. Instead, he chose this place available to all of the minor Lords of Itzá; it was near enough to see the place they held captives. Here, he would be able to see Hun Kan if she were brought to join the others, be close enough to exchange glances if not words. The dishonorable feel of hoping her Way was to live and bear his children rode him like a slight ill wind. But he could not stop hoping it.
He would not betray Chichén to save her. He couldn’t. Nor could he leave and let the night play out without him.
Ah K’in’ca was the only one of his friends chosen to play. The others were defending Chichén or dead, the men chosen to game with the gods below all older. The faces of those who died on the white road home danced inside him with the jaguar and his guilt and his dream for strength for Chichén.
The game needed to be good.
Ah Bahlam bit his lower lip as Ah K’in’ca walked into the court, cotton pads covering his elbows and knees, the great yoke settled against his hips. There were four others beside him, and five on the opposing team. They all entered from the same side of the Ball Court and stood in the center, with the Ball Court marker directly in front of them.
The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan, Ah Beh, and the High Priest of War stood in front of the players, solemn, dressed in full regalia.
Silence started with the players and the three high priests, flowed over the Ball Court and up the walls to the spectators, damping whispers and movement on the steps of the Temple of the Jaguars.
All of Chichén rested in the silence.
Sound began as a low hum, like butterfly wings or bees, then rose slowly, the sound separating out into the words that spoke of the birth of the sun, the passage of the sun into the well of the world, the game as symbol for the movement of the sun. The next words belonged to Ah Beh alone. “Let all who attend the festival be of one heart. Let all be of one blood. Let all be of one purpose. Let the very gods attend our game!”
The High Priest of War’s turn was next: “Let all who defend Chichén be strong. May the Ways and the gods ride with them. May the enemy die! May the gods fight beside us.”
The High Priest of K’uk’ulkan spoke last. “Let the blood of sacrifice bless this game, this day. Let the sun flow through the wheel of power and the proper side win. Let the gods game with us.”
A rustling nearby told Ah Bahlam that one of the captives was being removed.
The chant of sacrifice started, the priests first, then the players and then the watchers, the sounds issuing from Ah Bahlam’s mouth as well as the mouths of thousands of others, rising up to the sky as the high priest slowly ascended the steps of the Temple of the Jaguar to stop by a stone altar shaped like a man holding a bowl for blood: the Chac-Mool.
The sun’s angle was so low it illuminated the high priest’s mask and bounced from the shells and beads woven in his net skirt. Four of the warriors of K’uk’ulkan walked up the steps and stood behind the Chac-Mool. A naked man, painted blue, stood unbound in the midst of the four.
The man was not held or restrained in any way, although he stood as if he were, head bowed, hands folded in front of him.
The captive was about Ah Bahlam’s age, maybe a year or two older. A person of unrest who might have fought beside the people of Chichén once, might have danced next to them in ceremony. Did he love a woman, or perhaps have a first child?
Ah Bahlam had never wondered such things about sacrifices before.
The high priest raised his hands, crying out, his voice full of fierce joy and demand, edged with the wild glory of his Way. The crowd’s answer swelled from below him. New thoughts or not, Ah Bahlam’s voice joined with all the other voices of Chichén, strong and sure.
It was in his blood.
The joined chant nearly drowned his doubt.
The bloody arms of the Chac-Mool cradled the blue-painted man.
The high priest held his hand out for the sacred obsidian knife.
The sacrifice spit in the priest’s eye and screamed, “I die for freedom, for my people!”
That was wrong. The captive should not fight his Way, he should submit. Another sign of the long peace falling in on itself.
The high priest’s hand clasped the rounded stone ball on the back of the obsidian knife and his hand rose and fell in a too-quick motion, ensuring the captive had no more breath to give cry with.
The heart glistened in the hand of the high priest, still pumping, blood falling to the body, the Chac-Mool, the floor, down the high priest’s arm in a last splash of life.
Ah Bahlam fell silent. Did the balance of powers that kept Chichén strong feel so fragile to all of the other adults, or only to him? They had never seemed so before.
A red warrior walking by clapped Ah Bahlam on the shoulder, a congratulatory touch. It was the warrior who had accompanied him down the steps to the dance of the Way. He smiled and said, “Good dance.”
“Thank you,” Ah Bahlam replied, and nothing more. He did not want to feed the idea that he might attack the High Priest. Was he being set up? And if so, to succeed, or to fail?
He turned away from the sacrifice, glancing back toward the other captives.
A cry escaped his lips.
Hun Kan stood near them, a warrior of K’uk’ulkan beside her. Her eyes met his, glowing, happy, as if the sacrifice had somehow fed her even while it weakened him.
Her skin had been painted deep blue.
CHAPTER 47
Nixie stared at the empty patch of grass where Hun Kan had flopped down beside her moments before. They’d held hands and touched and been almost like one girl, like best friends. The world had shifted under their flying feet, dizzying her. She was dizzy still, and the place where Hun Kan should be, beside her, was empty.
Ian laid one of his long arms across Nixie’s shoulder. “That was beautiful.”
“But she’s gone.”
“I bet you still helped her,” Ian said.
“It felt like dancing with sunshine and wind. Like something else danced with us.”
Ian let her go, but stayed close. “What else?”
“Just . . . just something. Maybe the jungle.” That wasn’t quite right. Something bigger than her or Hun Kan or both of them, but there weren’t any words for it. “Maybe Hun Kan can tell us what it was. She seemed to know.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing them up to her chin. “I miss her already.”
Ian sat down on the grass with his knees drawn up near his chest, as if he were her mirror. “She thought this was a dream, but I think you gave her hope. Of some kind.”
“She thinks she’s going to die.”
“Maybe she is.” He was silent for a few minutes. “Nix, she’s already dead in this time. It’s just . . . just a choice.”
“But I don’t want her to die!”
“It’s not
your
choice.”
She flinched but stood up. “Let’s go find Mom.”
“A fabulous idea.” He glanced at Cauac and Peter. “I can get in anywhere.” He tugged on his security jacket. “But neither of these guys has a ticket.”
She stuck her hand in her pocket, feeling the crisp edges of hers. “Mom is with the director, Marie. She can make anything happen. Maybe you can go in and explain, and I can wait out here with these guys.”
He looked doubtful, but went and shook Peter on the shoulder. “Put that away, we need to go.”
Peter blinked up at him. “We need to talk. Codes are falling out of the air.”
“Codes?”
“Data. Codes. Ordered, like information. It’s not from here, okay? You need to know this.”
Ian shook his head. “Later. I need to get Nix back to her mom before we get in trouble for kidnapping.”
Peter giggled, the sound odd from him, a little like he was breaking. “You need to see Alice. The whole world is changing and you need to see a girl.”
Ian stared at Peter and then shook his head. “It’s okay. Calm down. The girl is smart. Maybe she can help.”
Peter brightened.
“Come on,” Ian pressed him.
Nixie almost felt sorry for Peter as she listened to them. And he was still wearing the purple socks. Hopefully they’d at least been washed. He even acted like a perfect geek. She sat by Cauac, breathing in the last smells of copal and ash and his own smell which was only human with nothing of the modern world making it wild. Pleasant, like the jungle. Although she expected he wouldn’t understand, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He blew the ashes from his shell and packed it up, sliding shell and drumstick into their places in his pouch.
When he finished, she stood and offered him a hand up.
He took it, smiling at her thinly.
The four of them started toward the Ball Court, the sun now threading through the tops of the trees, making their shadows long and lacy.
As they rounded the corner and connected with a wide concrete path, two men dressed in black came up from behind them, walking close. They held rifles. The taller one said, “Stop.”
They stopped.
Nixie looked up at them. Not Federales. Americans. She relaxed and put a hand on Cauac’s arm, hoping to reassure him.
The same one asked, “Nixie Cameron?”
They were looking for her? She nodded, but Ian interrupted before she could say anything. “Why do you want to know?”
The soldier lifted a handheld up to Nixie’s face, squinting a little, probably comparing a picture. He didn’t answer Ian at all, but looked down at Nixie, his brows knit together. “Are you okay? Are these men hurting you?”
“I’m fine. They’re my friends.”
The soldier looked at the three men. “I’ll need to see your identifications.”
Uh oh. Cauac couldn’t have one.
Peter produced his wallet immediately, and Ian started fumbling in his pocket, as if he was having trouble finding his ID.
She had to do something. She called her mom. “Mom. Are you there?”
“Nix? Are you okay?”
“Did you send soldiers after me?”
“Yes.” A beat of silence. “Marie offered them to me. She said they’d find you faster.”
“All right.” Nixie cut her off. “I need you to help me. I was on my way. I was coming back to you.”
“Good.”
“I had to find Hun Kan. I’ll explain later. I have to get Peter and another friend of ours in. Can you help?”
“Are you okay?” her Mom repeated. Then, “You had to . . . you did?”
“Yes. I was on my way back. You didn’t have to send people after me!”
Silence for a moment. “That was before you texted me. I was worried.”
Nixie bit back an angry reply. It was going to work out—if she could use them to get Peter in. “Please tell them to bring us all? It’s me and Peter and Ian and another guy you don’t know, but who knows Hun Kan.”
There was a momentary silence. “Nix . . . I can’t ask Marie to break the rules in someone else’s country.”
“I’ll give Cauac my ticket. Ian can get in. He has a security jacket. But you want to talk to Peter.” How could she convince her? Peter was such a geek. “Maybe Marie even wants to talk to Peter. He keeps trying to tell us about something happening on his computer. He’s sure it’s important.”
“What is he saying?”
“Something about codes falling out of the sky. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was dancing with Hun Kan, but he thinks it’s really important. Mom, please?”
“Okay. I’ll ask.” She closed the connection.
Silence fell for a few long moments. Nixie stuck her hand in her pocket and palmed the ticket. Ian watched her and the men in black, looking caged. Peter opened his computer screen again, holding it awkwardly while standing, peering over it from time to time as the silence continued.
The security guard who’d demanded she come with him suddenly put a finger to his ear—listening.
Nixie held her hand out to Ian. “I’ll leave with them. I’ll have to.”
He took her hand and she left her ticket behind in his palm. “Bring Cauac and follow.”
The guard whistled softly. “Okay Nixie, and Peter, I’m Alan. Follow me.”
Nixie took Peter’s hand to make sure she didn’t lose him.
CHAPTER 48
Ah Bahlam started toward Hun Kan, but forced his feet to stop. Never mind the warriors between him and the captives, never mind the shame it would bring on his family. She wasn’t dead yet. Might not die. Her life depended on the high priest now, and maybe on the game. He swallowed.
It didn’t depend on him. Not unless he did something smarter than just trying to take her from her destiny. She might not even go.
He couldn’t help glancing at her from time to time, savoring the curve of her cheeks, the brave set of her shoulders and the fall of her dark hair. He kept hoping she’d return his glances, but she stared at the Chac-Mool, at the trail of fresh blood.
Did she long for death?
He felt for the jaguar, nothing now but a small wisp. His instinct at the cenote last night had been to call on K’uk’ulkan, the very same god she might die for. So he did it again, praying to Feathered Serpent.
Save her. Save us all. Make Chichén strong. Show me what to do.
She fingered her wrist, the watch, as if it were a bead for prayer. A sad, quirked smile touched her lips.
Who did she pray to?
The high priest balanced on tiptoe, at the top of the steps leading to the Temple of the Jaguars, holding the heavy game ball above his head. “We call on the spirit of One Hunapu, whose sons’ ball-playing skills banished the evil lords to Xibalba.” He screamed, a high deep scream meant to invoke the spirit of Feathered Serpent. The ball flew through the air, aimed at the center of one of the team captains. The man thrust his hips to the side, sending the ball careening off the wall and out into space, where two men converged over it, one barely beating the other, both falling as the ball shot away from them in a high arc.
The game was on.
Sacred smoke rose from the small temple near Ah Bahlam, making his head light. People watched quietly, parents shushing children and young people whispering between themselves, trying not to be caught.
Hun Kan watched the game.
If only he knew what the high priest planned. What outcome would result in Hun Kan’s life and what in death? Or would either promise death?
The ball flew back and forth the across the court. Players fell to their knees or slid on their sides, sending the ball careening with their hips, elbows, knees, or head. Sometimes their grunts and slight exclamations floated up to the parapet. Blood and sweat mixed with the dirt of the Ball Court.
Ah K’in’ca screeched his disappointment as one of his hits on the ball just missed the round circle below the captives.
If only he were down on the court beside his friend, racing to and from the ball, dancing the ball, playing the gods, every motion critical.
Below him, the players started to merge with the gods. They began to leap higher, to run faster.
The ball remained in play. His lip bled where he bit it each time it appeared the ball would hit the ground.