THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rain ceased in the night, the morning of the dance dawning clear and brilliant with the magnificence of Lord Kin. From his wooden box, Miguel Chankik removed a scroll of deerskin... the alleged Book of God, in which was recorded the ceremonies by which the great clock that is the world is moved by right conduct and the appropriate rituals: Zaazahzipil, the forgiving of sins, Okotbattan, the sacrifice of animals before the Chacs, the rain gods, Chumumchacab, the assembly in honor of the village patron. There, too, were the ceremonies of the days and months: among them, the gathering of warriors, Pacum Chac, accompanied by flutes and drums and the dancing they called the Holcan Okot. The Talking Cross had been severe in its attribution of the loss of Santa Cruz upon the failure of the Cruzob to maintain their idols and observe ceremonies. And this year's gathering was especially of note for the emergence of the new generation of commanders in the wake of defeat, dispersion and the plague.

Silvestro Kaak observed the dance respectfully, but soon was speaking of the war against the dzulob with the chiefs of Acanum and Oxnic. The fasting period had ended, aguardiente had been brought and, as the evening passed, the boasting of these chiefs and their plans for the reconquest of the lost territories grew ever more elaborate. Silvestro, perhaps guided by the inner seed of knowledge Chankik had planted, exercised his ears and spared his tongue. What was there for these Cruzob jefes to boast of, after all? The drums and trumpets had not ceased with nightfall, but continued in a strange and muffled fashion. Once Silvestro, hearing music he could not identify, stepped outside the hut that he shared with these men and stared into darkness. It appeared to come from all directions at once, but principally from the earth. He placed one ear to the ground and the blood rushing to his head made him dizzy and he tumbled on his back. He stared upward, but could not locate his position by the stars. Their configurations were irregular to him and, shaking his head, he rose and hurried back into the hut where there was a small but comfortable fire of twigs within an enclosure of old stones and warming liquor to drink.

Shortly afterwards, an old man in white pantaloons and shirt appeared, his forehead broadened by deformation as only the very ancient and very remote villages still practiced. Abruptly the chiefs ceased talking for there was, as always, much dissension among the Cruzob... and while violence would have been unthinkable here, careless words would be remembered, and a chance remark overheard turned to the advantage of a village or a clan. There had even been accusations that some of the tribes had gone to the Mexicans to point out the milpas and the villages of rivals, although none had ever been caught in this detestable act. Some of these chiefs had not seen one another since the fall of Santa Cruz, but none were comfortable in the presence of a stranger.

"Where are you from?" Silvestro asked respectfully, but the man merely pointed to the ground, then to the bottle. The jefe of Oxnic, Juan Cab, passed aguardiente to the visitor, who took a deep swallow and smacked his lips noisily. As he showed no inclination to leave and even less to speak, the chiefs resumed their conversation, but now keeping to topics without risk, matters of routine religious observation, hunting and the planting of corn. All the while the bottle circled, and the stranger took such gulps that it was shortly empty and a second bottle opened. The silent visitor showed no effects from the drink, no tears came to his eyes and he continued sitting straight as a ceiba while the chiefs of half his age or younger began to sway, their heads falling forward in weariness. Finally Silvestro tried to stand; he placed his hand against the wall and steadied himself.

"Now," he said to the visitor, "we wish to sleep, for it is late and we must take down this hut we have built tomorrow morning before we leave. Nothing must remain of our presence here." The old man nodded and rose, showing no effects of the quantity of aguardiente he had consumed.

"It has been a pleasure to take balche with the great chief of the mazehualob," the old man said, and left.

"Now what did he mean by that?" said Victor Chuc, jefe of Acanum. "Was he being sarcastic? Surely he doesn't expect us to prepare balche in our time of fugitiveness."

"He meant nothing," Silvestro replied. "Liquor goes to the legs of some and to the heads of others," he added, dismissing the prophecy as the foolish prattle of a drunkard. "Still, I wonder who he was? People just don't bind their heads that way in these times."

"Maybe he's one of those from Guatemala, the ones from those mountains beyond the Peten," suggested a chief. "They don't speak as we do, even their days are numbered differently, for their dogs are rabbits, trees are snakes and kings are crocodiles in such high country."

"Nonsense," another declared, "he's just crazy. Where did he go anyway?"

Again Silvestro wandered outside, glancing up and down the temporary village which was growing quiet as the fires dimmed, heads dropped and bottles fell from hands. There was no sign of the old man, and the stars above were ordered in their appointed constellations. Shivering, Silvestro returned to the hut.

There would be one more incident, however, before the pilgrims to Coba dispersed. Having dismembered the hut and buried its remains in the monte, kicking dust and leaves over the corner where they had built their fire, Silvestro wandered through the ruins of the old city. Coba covers an enormous area, far greater than those places discovered and cleared by the Europeans and Americans. Most of the images upon its temples had been worn by wind and rain or cracked by vines, but one face on a stone building was clearly visible, and so impressed Silvestro that he sought out Miguel Chankik, whose knowledge of the old stones was as extensive as his medical powers.

The brujo followed Silvestro back, appraising the carving with a shrewd eye. "Ah... this is a Batab, one of the Itza kings. It is said, you understand, that, when the Spanish came, they went into a cave near here and down into their city beneath the earth." Chankik shrugged and smiled. "Who is to say whether this is not true?"

Silvestro nodded and turned away, waiting for Chankik to depart before bowing and pressing his ear to the ground. He heard nothing. But when he looked up at the stone face once more it remained, in every aspect, that of the old man who had visited and drank with them all through the previous night.

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