Mayan Lover (3 page)

The perfectly manicured lawn and freshly swept
porch loomed in front of her. The up-kept older home looked so warm
and welcoming from the outside. Inside it held the good and bad
memories of her father and the twisted perspectives of her mother;
both had ruined Gwen’s view of what a healthy relationship was
for all time. Paranoid fear returned, threatening to overwhelm her.
Panic gripped her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
RUN,
her
mind screamed. Before she could take the first step, the screen door
opened with a creak.

“Gwennie.” Her mother sounded so
happy to see her. “Please, come in and set the table. Dinner
will be ready in a few minutes.”

****

Arka sat up, still clutching the skull. Twelve
men and women with stunned, gaping jaws stood in the exact spots
where the shamans had stood only seconds ago. They each held crystal
skulls that were far different than those he’d left behind.
These were small, fist-sized, and the skeletal faces lacked the
nuance of power and wisdom.

“Wow.” A man pushed through the
circle. Arka didn’t know the word he spoke, but he understood
the look of awe on his face enough to gather its meaning.

“Ci’.” Arka grinned. He’d
made it, alive, to the future. The question was … where in the
future? The man was dressed in dirt-colored fabric made of a material
that Arka was unfamiliar with. “You are shaman?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I’m
told. My father was a shaman, and his father before him. We all are
descendants of shamans. My name is Enrique. And if the stories are
true, you are Arka, many times my great uncle.”

Arka’s sister Gia was fifteen years
younger than him two minutes ago. He adored her, doted on her, taught
her to fight, and lavished every minute of his spare time on her. He
wished he could have seen her reach womanhood. Held the children she
obviously brought to life. To look upon her descendant filled him
with his love of her. He could see his sister’s smile on
Enrique’s face. “How far have I traveled?”

Enrique held out his hand; Arka took it and
stood. “By current account, it’s the twenty-first
century. By ancient Mayan calendar, it is two years before the end of
time.”

He swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his
throat. That meant Arka only had a short time to meet the Goddess of
Moonlight, gain her trust, and unite her with the amethyst skull of
her Moon Goddess mother. The weight of the future bore down on his
shoulders.
Remain near the skull. When the time is right, she will
come to you.
He reminded himself of the simple knowledge gifted
to him by the crystal skull in his hands upon his final communion. He
looked out over the land that once supported his people. Except for
the sacred temple beneath his feet, everything was gone, replaced by
strange lights, sounds, smells, and unfamiliar structures.

Most of the structures were made of wood and
cloth. A few were some type of metal set above black round things.
Laughter floated up from the structures, as did the odd hum. They
encircled deep-pitted holes with wooden ladders dropped into them
where his village had once sat. The edge of the forest had reclaimed
much of the fields. Those that remained were littered and untended.
Arka wondered how this new tribe grew enough food to sustain the
people. And what was the gods’ awful noise?

“It’s called a generator.”
Enrique answered his unasked question. Was his nephew able to read
minds? Did Enrique have a connection to the Goddess? “You had a
confused look on your face. I was told growing up that if …
err … when you came, it would be my duty to teach you of the
modern world. Those people are archaeologists. They dig up the
remnants of ancient times and study them.” Enrique’s
language skills were crude, but Arka could understand him.

“
Ancient times” … he means
my time. Have they discovered the amethyst skull?
His gaze fell
to the spot he’d buried it, and he was relieved to see the
ground undisturbed in the distance. As Enrique loaded the items he’d
traveled with into strange bags, Arka tried to speak with the shaman.
He touched his skull to each of the small ones belonging to the
shaman who had aided his arrival. Only a few used words he
understood. Using those words as a reference in relation to those the
others said, he learned the words for greetings, welcome and hello.
Body language and facial expressions gave him more new words and
phrases to describe something incredulous. Words like “oh my
god,” “un-fucking-believable,” “you got to be
shitting me,” and “amazing.” He added them to the
“wow” Enrique had said.

When he’d given the shamans a personal
thank you, he bid them each farewell. He noted that none entered the
strange village; instead they scattered into the forest. Odd. Enrique
handed him a thin, square rug. Arka had no idea what was expected of
him. Enrique snatched the rug back and tied it around his waist in
demonstration, then offered it to him again with a grin.

With the rug tied on, Enrique handed him one of
the strange bags that carried Arka’s wealth and lifted the
other to his shoulder. Arka mirrored him and followed his
many-times-grandnephew down the crumbling, nicked, and weather-ruined
steps.
Twenty-first century.
Never in his wildest imagination
had he thought his Journey would bring him 2,600 years into the
future
.
The moon, full and bright, bathed his back; it felt as
if she were smiling down on him in welcome.

John watched Gwen get on the bus and then
backtracked to the truck where she’d put her luggage earlier.
That fucking attorney had made Gwen’s destination sealed from
any record he or his private investigators could find. He riffled
through her things, looking for something that wouldn’t leave
her side. The canvas-insulated canteen was perfect. With a quick
slash of the material, he inserted the tiny GPS tracker into the thin
strip of foam insulation and super glued the cloth back in place.

The order to remove the restraining order had
been denied, but it had been easy to have the document forged to show
a different verdict. A quick phone call to the courts, and he found
out Gwen’s attorney Martha was in a trial that would take
several more hours. That meant Gwen wouldn’t know the truth of
the verdict. She would believe his forged documents to be real.

He only needed a few minutes of face-to-face
time with her to convince her to come back to him. The GPS was his
backup plan. He knew he’d gone too far but Gwen had pushed him
to hurt her. She had no right to leave him.
Divorce
him. He
tried to calm the rage her actions created in him. She drove his dark
side on purpose over and over, and then she behaved like a victim.
His vision turned red with two equally powerful urges. The desire to
pound into her body until she cried out her love, and the desire to
end her torture of him by squeezing her neck until she stopped
breathing.

He sat behind the wheel of his car to calm down
for nearly a half hour. When he felt composed enough, he fired up the
engine and weaved through the streets to her mother’s house,
whistling the song she played over and over when she thought she was
alone.

****

The aroma of fresh-baked bread reminded her of
happy childhood memories with her mother. Gwen had helped her mother
knead dough every Sunday growing up. The living room had not changed.
Hand-made, intricate doilies protected couches and chairs in a floral
fabric. The wall dividing the kitchen from the living room still held
a 10x13 framed photograph of her and John on their wedding day. Even
in print, his seemingly warm smile made her ill. At least the
question of her mother’s loyalty had been answered.

“I was so surprised to hear you were
leaving from the ladies in the salon. Is it too much for a mother to
expect that news to come from her child directly?” Let the
guilt-fest begin. She steeled against the guilt by reminding herself
that no one at the hair salon could possibly know about her
internship.

Gwen gathered two table setting from the
cupboards. “I didn’t think my internship would interest
you, Carol, especially since you didn’t come to my graduation.”
Two could play at this game.

“Gwennie, you knew that was my bridge
night.” Talk about priorities. Gwen didn’t harness her
snort of disbelief. “Well, your father would have been so proud
of you.” Gwen didn’t miss her mother’s failure to
express
her
pride. At least she hadn’t mentioned John …
yet. “I wish he had lived to walk you down the aisle. Your
wedding day was so wonderf—”

“You bring up marriage and I will leave
right now.” Gwen snapped, cutting off her mother’s
speech. Carol’s eyes widened with a flash of fear. Gwen had no
idea what her mother saw reflected in her eyes, but Carol swallowed
and nodded, then pasted a false smile as she carried the casserole to
the table. Life with her father had made Carol understandably
skittish, and Gwen felt badly for bringing that expression to her
mother’s face.

Taking one of the chairs, Gwen tried to lighten
the mood. “So did you win the bridge game?”

Her mother smiled. “Of course. This
casserole dish was first prize.” That brought a true chuckle to
Gwen. Leave it to the historical society to figure out a way to
gamble at bridge. Like those cutthroat, gossiping old biddies didn’t
compete enough.

The wife of a professor opened doors to Carol in
the town’s social circles. Gwen often wondered if her mother’s
friends knew of the abuse in their home and turned a blind eye.
Maggie had been her best friend growing up. When they were in high
school, Maggie had spent the night only once. Gwen’s father had
come home drunk from his men’s club and pushed her mother
around. Maggie had wanted to call the police, but Gwen had begged her
not to. The guilt of doing nothing to protect her mother, now that
she had first-hand knowledge of what her mother suffered, ate at
Gwen’s conscience.

Small talk carried them through dinner. Then
Carol dropped the question Gwen had been dreading as she served
desert. “So where are you going?”

“On a dig.” Gwen tried to deflect.
She wasn’t the greatest liar.

Carol lifted a brow and set the cherry pie on
the table. “I know that. I was married to an archaeologist for
years. Where is the dig?”

Gwen struggled to come up with a nice way to say
what she knew she had to. Nothing polite came to mind. “I won’t
tell you, because I don’t want John to know. He’s stalked
me for the last two years and he’s dangerous.” She pushed
back from the table.

“John is a good man, Gwennie. He loves
you. I’ve spent hours on the phone with him while he’s
cried. He feels horrible for getting angry with you and he’s
promised to never lose his temper again. You must realize that it
takes two. If he’s willing to give you a second chance after
leaving him … why can’t you give him a second chance?”
Gwen cringed inside. When she’d said John’s name, the
floodgate her mother had held at bay opened wide.

Her mother refused to believe that two marital
years of hearing the same promises, only to have John hit her again
and again, equated to enough second chances. “It’s true,
Gwen. I do love you … and I am sorry.” She jerked around
at John’s voice behind her as he entered the back door like he
owned the place.

“You can’t be here. I’ll call
the police.” Her voice whispered past the rush of terror that
constricted her throat. With a triumphant smile he pushed a paper
across the table so she could read it. The court order was stamped
“dismissed” with today’s date. Gwen felt her slowly
rebuilt life slip through her fingers like water.

“Would you like some pie?” her
mother offered in the singsong voice Carol had used when trying to
pacify her dad. She gave Gwen a look that told her to “be
nice.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kramer. You know how much I
enjoy your home baking.” He pulled out the chair next to hers,
sat, and leaned in so his face was mere inches from her. “You
look beautiful, Gwen. I’ve missed you so much.” The brush
of his fingers on her arm brought up the casserole and Gwen vomited
across the table.

John jumped away from her with a hiss. His hand
rose as if to slap her. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and flinched
instinctively, but the impact never came. When she peeked John was
grinning at her playfully. “You always have gotten sick when
you’re nervous.” She had to get out of there. “I
brought you a present.” He reached into his briefcase and
pulled out three florescent pink books.

“My journals.” Gwen reached out her
hand. They were the only things she had regretted leaving behind when
she’d escaped him.

He held them just out of her reach. “I’ll
trade them for a kiss,” he teased.

“Oh, you kids.” Carol sighed loudly.
“Young love is so inspiring.”

Gwen managed to stand. Her legs felt like
noodles as she started to back away from John, past her mother and
toward the front door in the living room. “Keep them.” It
broke her heart to see the written account of childhood dreams in
John’s slimy hand.
If you give him power he will take
advantage of it. You must be willing to set aside pride, ego, and
personal desires if you wish to remain free of him in heart and mind,
Gwen. Breaking the pattern of abuse requires more than just leaving
your abuser.
Her therapist sessions floated into her mind.

The smile vanished from John’s face with
every step backward she took. Recognizing the moment he snapped, she
turned and dashed through the screen. His hand shoved right between
her shoulder blades, sending her tumbling down the few stairs onto
the concrete walkway. The wind whooshed from her lungs. She tried to
crawl away from him on her skinned knees and battered hands.