Deity (10 page)

“You’re
referring to the five thousand year Long Count Calendar, right?”

“Five
thousand one hundred twenty-five years and some change to be more exact. Each
cycle of the Long Count represents a world age. And how many world ages are
there in Mesoamerican thought?”

“Well,”
Lori said thoughtfully. “According to the Toltecs there are five world ages.”

Chac
nodded. “And according to the Long Count Calendar, this year’s December
solstice marks the end of the fifth age. Five Long Count cycles add up to twenty-five
thousand six hundred twenty-six years, the same number of years astronomers
estimate it takes for the earth to complete one cycle of precession.”

“So
it takes twenty-five thousand six hundred twenty-six years for the earth’s
wobble to complete one full rotation?” Lori asked.

Chac
nodded. “Now you see what’s so special about the 2012 end date.”

“I
thought you weren’t buying into all the doomsday hype,” Lori challenged.

Chac
suddenly spun on her, his eyes frightfully dark. “I don’t care what’s popular
or what sells books or movies. I’m more interested in what 2012 meant to the
ancient people who knew they’d never see the day we live in now.”

Lori
was taken aback. “Oh.”

Again,
she quietly fell in line beside Chac as he led the way into the grassy,
I-shaped enclosure of the ball court. The walls loomed on either side with a
temple structure at each end. One of the first things Lori noticed about the
ball court was its amazing acoustics. She estimated the court to be over five
hundred feet long, perhaps just over two hundred feet wide. The structure lay
open to the sky and yet, she could hear conversations from individuals at the
far end of the ball court as clearly as though they were standing next to her.

As
Chac led her to the highest wall mid-court, Lori considered the teams that had
battled over the ground she now leisurely strolled. This was the place that
determined the fates of men. This was the place where athletic warriors won
their honors on stone pillars, or were decapitated and beaded along gruesome
skull racks.

Chac’s
pace slowed and his voice took on that appreciative tone again. “While the
priests were counting down the days to the sun’s passage into the underworld,
the ball game held symbolic parallels. To begin with, this ball court aligns
perfectly with the Milky Way.”

“That’s
understandable,” Lori agreed, not caring to upset him again.

“Yes, but there’s much more to the game itself.
See that ring up
there?”

Chac
pointed to a large stone hoop protruding high atop the nearest wall like a
basketball hoop turned ninety degrees. The stone rim was thick and, as far as
Lori could tell, displayed a writhing serpent carved in relief.

“That
ring represented the hollow bulge in the Milky Way. The game ball was the sun.”

“And
the object of the game was to pass the sun through the portal to the
underworld,” Lori guessed out loud. She studied the ring hanging twenty feet
above her. “That must have been difficult considering the size of the hole the
ball had to pass through, and the thickness of that rim.”

“That’s
not where the challenge was,” Chac said. “The difficulty comes from the fact
that the players were not allowed to touch the ball with their hands.”

Lori
was amazed. “You mean they had to kick the ball through there?”

“Kick, hip butt, head bump, or any other means
to get it through.”

“Wow.”
Lori couldn’t fathom the chore.
Getting a ball through the
goal ring seemed improbable enough, but to do it without hands seemed highly
unlikely.
How long would a game go scoreless?
Days?
Weeks?
Five thousand one hundred twenty-five years?

“I
take it these were low scoring games,” Lori thought out loud.

“The
game wasn’t played for points,” Chac corrected. “Remember, the players’ lives
were on the line. Their primary objective was to pass that sun through the
portal.”

“So
what exactly happens after the sun slips into the underworld?”

Chac’s
expression grew solemn. “Game over.”

Itza

“How
do you expect to find Profesor Webb in all this?” Father Ruiz asked as he
scanned the clearing now swarming with people.

Peet
shouldered through a tour group just getting their first eye-full of the ruins
looming before them. He’d never seen such a diverse collection of people. There
were Chinese and Portugese, people speaking Spanish, German, French and all
forms of English from New York
brogue to Australian drawl. Of course there were Mexicans and indigenous Mexicans
with a surprising spattering of Middle-East and South African people. All
corners of the globe seemed to be congregating at Chichen Itza.

“I
think we’d have a better chance of finding your friend if we flew over at
twenty knots,” KC remarked sarcastically.

“You
already did that,” Peet said.

His
stomach was still recovering from their landing thirty minutes ago. KC had
located a small runway right across the highway from the archaeological zone. From
the air the runway looked like the rigid needle of a vast, green compass holding
due north as KC swept directly over the great ruins, circling for a landing. From
that point of view Peet could envision the improbable task of picking out a
familiar face from such a vast spread of people.

How
were they going to find Matt Webb? The groomed plazas between the temples and
pyramids were overwhelmed. Chichen
Itza faced self-destruction by its own popularity. The
INAH must be alarmed. No archaeologist in his right mind could work in the
midst of such chaos. Nevertheless—

“The
lady in the visitor’s center said to check the Castillo.” He glanced at the
great stepped pyramid they were approaching—the crowning centerpiece of
constant attention.

“This
place is an orgy of weirdos,” KC said, eyeing a woman perched nearby, lifting a
crystal toward the sun. Her eyelids fluttered over streaming tears.

Not
caring to sit and stare at the thirsting rainforest encroaching upon the lone
runway, KC had opted to join them to the archaeological zone. Peet wondered if
she wasn’t regretting her decision. After all, the solitude of the runway
suddenly seemed more tolerable than the bedlam laid out before them. Doomsayers
appeared to have strategically placed themselves around the ruins, attracting
the curious and the fearful. Between them were niches of New Agers, proclaiming
not the end of the world, but a rejuvenation of it and urging passers-by to
prepare for inner renewal. And then there were the dancers, Mayan and
otherwise, intriguing the crowds with their interpretations of “The Great
Event”. Finally, there were the tour guides, struggling to hold the interests
of their groups as they led them through the chaotic ruins.

As
Peet surveyed the Castillo he became aware of a mob of dancers, complete in
Mayan ceremonial costumes, closing in around him. Each participant looked
convincingly affiliated with the costumes they wore but there was something
about their dance that caused him to doubt their authenticity. Nevertheless,
the dancers chanted and gyrated ever closer while in their midst, two icy,
emotionless men marched straight for Peet like a chosen sacrifice. Before he
knew it, the men grabbed him by the arms and the dancers cut him off from KC
and Father Ruiz.

“What
the—”

Peet
pulled back but the grips on his arms only drew tighter. The chanting of the
dancers grew louder as they pressed upon him, shifting his feet, herding him
away from the Castillo.

“Hold
on a minute—” Peet argued.

The
closeness of the dancers smothered his movements as he struggled against them. “What’s
going on?” he hollered but the only response he received was stronger chanting
that echoed off the thicket of trees he was being led into. Through the
flailing arms and bobbing heads of the dancers, Peet glanced back at KC, just
before he lost sight of her behind the trees.

* * * *

KC
neither believed or
understood what she was seeing. At
first she thought she was witnessing a sideshow that had swept Peet into their
act but the dancers were pulling him away from the crowds, away from the ruins
themselves.

“Those
sun-worshipers intend to harm our archaeologist,” Father Ruiz said as he
grabbed KC by the arm and dragged her after them. “They must know we’re looking
for the cross.”

“Get
real,” KC smirked. “How could they possibly know that?”

“Matt
Webb might have sent them. If he went through all that trouble to steal the cross,
certainly he’d assign someone to protect his trail.”

KC
yanked free from Father Ruiz’s grip. As outlandish as it sounded, the priest
did seem to have a point. Even Peet had admitted that he didn’t know what they
were getting themselves into. Was it possible that the ex-BYU professor had advanced
from petty religious pranks to serious criminal activities, leaving thugs
behind to cover his trail?

“Seems
pretty drastic over a silly crucifix, doesn’t it?” she asked.

Father
Ruiz couldn’t be dissuaded. “The fact remains, they’ve captured Profesor Peet!”

“For
a spiritual guy you’re sure stuck on facts,” KC quipped, though inside she
wondered if the priest might be right. Peet had disappeared into the woods and
by the fade
of his captors’ chanting, they weren’t stopping
.
She picked up the pace.

“We
have to do something,” Father Ruiz said.

KC
was already working on that. Her combat training with the Navy hadn’t been for
nothing, but not only were there a good dozen or more dancers to fight off, she
seriously doubted the priest’s abilities to help.

There
were a lot of men and only one of her—her and a fallen tree limb.

KC
grimaced as her fingers curled into the dry moss coating the limb. After all,
she was one of the hardest hitters on her brigade’s softball team.

The
dancers were now chanting at the top of their lungs. They’d entered a wide path
cutting a straight line through the trees from the Castillo to a large natural
pit sunken before them. It was suddenly clear now that they were intending to
throw Peet into the pit, even before the mob’s chanting unified into one
ominous word.

Sacrifice!

KC
had to act now.

* * * *

Peet
could see the pit coming.

The
dancers had picked his plowing feet off the ground, speeding their progress
toward the pit. Peet was lifted higher, more hands binding him until he was
laying spread eagle over the mob’s heads. He couldn’t kick. He couldn’t fight. He
couldn’t move! Peet had never felt so powerless until—

KC charged out of the trees, club
raised
,
lifting a blood-curdling scream into the air. The dancers, now absorbed in the
ecstasy of their ritual, pressed ever onward toward the gaping pit.

“KC!”
Peet cried. “Get out of here!”

The
woman didn’t stop. She rushed ahead and swung her club with all she had. It
smashed into the first dancer she came to. The dancer vainly ducked but was
otherwise undeterred as the club exploded over his back in a spray of moss and
bug-infested splinters. KC hesitated, staring at the wooden stump she now held
between her hands, staring as though dumbfounded by the result of her rescue
attempt.

“Run
KC!” Peet demanded but a portion of the dancers had already split off and
quickly captured her. Within seconds her small, writhing frame was hoisted
beside him.

“What
the hell was that?” Peet hollered above the chanters as they paraded toward the
pit.

“I
didn’t know the bugs ate out the inside.” Any further explanation was cut short
as the dancers stopped. Peet and KC were now floating above the edge of the
pit. It was a perfectly round pit, and huge—a good hundred feet across. Peet
could smell the green water pooled sixty feet below, a faint stench of stagnant
humidity wafting toward them. The chanting grew more frantic. Peet and KC were
lifted higher into the air.

Peet
tried to struggle in a last ditch effort to get away. An arm broke free, then a
leg. He twisted his body and suddenly he was loose. The dancers’ hands gave out
beneath him and he fell.

But
the ground never caught him.

Cenote

Peet
surfaced, kicking and sputtering to the sound of KC gulping and thrashing
nearby. The stench of stale water felt heavy in his lungs. The chanting above
them had stopped while a growing round of applause erupted from the crowd of onlookers
now gathered at the lip of the cenote. Even the dancers were smiling down at them,
laughing.