THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK FOUR: THE BOOK of SCIENCE

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

Every wheeled vehicle in Merida that had thronged the Paseo de Montejo the previous night, and even some that had not, gathered now in a honking, braying mass before the bull ring. Its gates stood open to anyone with a ticket and these had been passed out weeks before, reflecting the mercurial favors of Governor Molina. Don Antonio and his sons arrived early and a tight-lipped José guided brother and father underneath the stands to the rooms that quartered the bullfighters and, now, were filled with indians, strapping layers of white cotton padding around their hips. These were the ballplayers from Santa Cruz del Bravo… representing the Federal Government and, by association, the President against the crew mobilized by the montes under the flag of the state and Governor Molina… and the General himself was watching their preparations with a scholarly air.

"This is the one who has been helpful," Bravo said and called an old man towards his guests. "You must remember him, José, our sacristan? He hasn't had much to do in that line and he's too old for gathering chicle, but he knows a bit about the old games. This is Captain Macias and his family."

"I know you," said Chankik. The ancient curandero now peered closer at José, as if stretching out the lines at the corner of his eyes to make the face fit over a skull. "I know you."

Don Antonio shook the General's hand. "On my son's word, I have made a considerable wager on your ball players. So the good fortune I wish is as much for myself as for you." He and Rigoberto started back, but José remained by Bravo, whispering something into his ear. Don Antonio turned, seeing the General nod, smile and whisper something back. Abruptly, José turned to them, waving them towards the exit.

Perhaps through Rigoberto's interests, their seats were in the shade and only a few rows from the rail. A policeman was waiting by the aisle, holding an indian by the scruff of the neck. "This old fellow claims to know you. He has a ticket, but I should think he would be more at home on the other side," and the policeman pointed to that portion of the bullring warmed by the sun, where the people of small influence had been placed.

"He is mine," Don Antonio acknowledged, "and this is his place." The policeman, puzzled but respectful of one of Merida's venerated citizens, released the man who, José observed, was Mariano Chable, that old fellow of Idznacab who did small favors around the estanción and told fortunes for a few centavos. Don Antonio showed him the way in as though he were an honored guest, and to the seat between himself and José with Rigoberto on the other side. Buffering, José thought with a wry smile.

Elena Villareal had gone back to Campeche; Don Antonio still worried, but José had shown his brother nothing but icy gentility since his return at dawn... rebuffing Rigoberto's entreaties for a hearing before their father, but offering no prospect of violence. The Patrón had been horrified at Rigoberto's conduct but, while Molina's indians and those of the Territory stretched their limbs and adjusted the curious waistbands, reflected that his older son's audacity had surprised him, and not entirely for the worse. There was more to the Licenciado than one fathomed at the first, even a recklessness... although still not nearly so unloosed as that of José.

"It is no simple thing, this game," Don Antonio explained, lowering his opera-glasses turning first to one son, then the other, "not like a bullfight or the roulette wheel, where the rules and the terms of victory or defeat are apparent. Perhaps you already know that it was used to tell the future in antiquity, the time before Montejo came. Are you comfortable," he turned to the old indian, "did Flaco prepare something to eat?"

"Very comfortable," said Chable, rubbing his stomach to show the patron how he had relished his breakfast. He took a pouch of tobacco from his shirt and began to roll a cigarette.

"Mariano knows a bit about the ball game and will make us, perhaps, not so ignorant as the others here. The game predicts the future?" he prompted.

"Oh yes, Patrón." Mariano pointed to the court with his finished cigarette, directing their eyes to the marks painted on the wooden walls and spread with powdered lime upon the sand, into which the blood of hundreds of bulls and a not few toreadors had sunk. He pointed to the far end of the ball court where a row of columns exceeded either edge of the two walls, making the impression of a letter "T" laid on edge. "Seven pillars," he said, and moved his cigarette across the far wall, which had been divided into unequal thirds. On the side to his left, the faces of seven indians turned northwards had been painted in the ancient and exaggerated features of Maya kings. The center square... shorter than those enclosing it... was blank, that to the right contained seven more indians, these facing south. "The days," said Chable. "Seven to the north, the world, and seven south. Fifteen. Again, fifteen on the court and fifteen more that you cannot see, as reflected on that wall beneath us in Hell.

"I am not a master counting man," he admitted, lowering the cigarette. "Don Miguel Chankik of Quintana Roo is that knower of all things and, somewhat also, Ladaslao Cunil, adviser to the Governor. But," he added and pointed to the row of columns, "that is how the days are numbered."

"Like a chessboard," said José, who had been taught to add and multiply and, so, had calculated that the forty five figures, taken eight times... to represent all of the spaces between columns, those upon the ground beneath the walls and those of the walls themselves... numbered three hundred and sixty squares. This was the number of days, less the unfortunate five days the peons called the 'uayab', on which it was most difficult to compel them to work, for reason that the superstitions which the indians held portended all manner of painful accidents.

Mariano Chable shrugged at the suggestion of a chessboard. It was a game he had seen the dzulob play, a worthless thing with no bearing upon the future, which the players enjoyed solely for the vanity with which they expressed their prowess. "Each day has its aspect," he stated, "and these are determined whether the ball finds that spot from the northeast, northwest, southeast or southwest."

"Fine," said Don Antonio, "now give us an example." He pointed to the ball field. "That fifth image facing south, between the second and the third columns."

Chable stared. "That is the day of 18 Dusk, one of the days of the ending of affairs. It is a day you call the tenth of the month of November, a day of San Andreas and, also, Santa Ninfa... but it has another meaning that is known only to the tellers of days. But merely to know a day is without value without knowing the direction the ball takes in seeking it out."

"Very well, old fellow," Rigoberto suggested, "so, what if from the southwest?"

"That would be a most unfortunate direction, though not so inauspicious were it to come with the summer rains. It is a direction of the drought... the wind which blows away the soil, it is still u lob kin, a most unlucky day sign." Chable shook his head at the thought. "Let us hope that that should not occur."

Below them, and to the left, Governor Molina stood and introduced the President whose few words were lost to the wind that had unexpectedly sprung up.

"Perhaps this game is without significance," added Mariano Chable. "The ancianos only played at sundown, and there are many others errors here. The Governor gives offense to the old gods. It shall be interesting to see how they reply."

Now the ball players on the Governor's team appeared, taking their places. They wore padding around their knees as well as their hips, but seemed disorganized... wandering from spot to spot while the small, elderly man Mariano had identified as Cunil shouted oaths. General Bravo, seated in the Governor's box, now rose as the players from the territory ran from their rooms beneath the bull-ring, assembling briskly in a line before the dignitaries.

Miguel Chankik addressed them. "Bix cabal!" he hailed in the voice of one fifty years younger.

"Ma alo!" the players replied and ran to their places. Molina handed Porfirio Diaz a rubber ball which the President of Mexico contemplated for a moment, then released.

"That is one who senses the nature of the ballgame," Mariano noted. "It is even said that there were times when the severed head of a royal captive was used in place of rubber balls." He lit his cigarette and smoked with evident pleasure. "But that is only a tale told by priests to shame the mazehualob."

Even knowing little of the rules, José could see that the difference between teams was great. Molina's players had little concept of the game and its rules. They flailed out at the ball, striking it illegally with hands and feet or sending it rolling across the earth. By contrast, the indians of Quintana Roo moved with military precision and when, on occasion, the ball remained upon their own squares for a few volleys, it was driven from wall to earth to hip like a pheasant startled into flight.

"Were the game genuine," Chable said with evident contempt, "those would be sacrificed." He motioned towards the Governor's players. But, when a member of Molina's team drove the ball against the face of an indian on the opposite wall, he followed its path with a concentration that troubled José.

Such subtleties of flight wholly escaped the crowd housed in the shade, although many of the mazehualob in the sun followed the bouncing ball intently, breaking out into smiles or frowns as its passage dictated. As ten minutes passed, and then another ten, without the ball even approaching either of the rings positioned high upon the walls, an angry muttering arose.

"What a bore," someone sighed behind Don Antonio. The muttering began to be sprinkled with whistles as people began standing up to leave; most of those in the shade at least lowering their heads so as not to be recognized by the President as expressing disinterest in the amusement that he and the Governor had provided for them. Diaz remained attentive, staring at the spectacle with polite, if puzzled interest. Molina whispered an occasional word in his ear, and José requested the use of his father's opera-glasses to attempt to read the Governor's lips. Ramon Corral, however, had falln asleep, his head thrown back upon his chair, his mouth open and a purulent chancre visible on the side of his tongue.

Had José not been looking towards the Presidential box, he would have missed the gesture that Bravo gave to Chankik. The brujo barked a few words at the players.

"Something's happening," José said, nudging Mariano Chable. "He told them to hurry up or put an end to it, didn't he? Tell me the position of the ball."

One of the Governor's team had scooted the ball across the ground past the columns and a boy stationed there returned it to Molina. The Governor, having apparently lost all faith in his own players, tossed it to one of those from Quintana Roo who kneed it high against the wall beneath.

"Four Macaw," said Chable, "from the northwest."

It was taken by another of the same team who thrust at it with his hip, knocking it towards one of the Governor's players. "Two Corn," Chable whispered. The indian kicked the ball with his foot, the ball sailing past the wooden ring on the opposite wall and rebounding almost all the way across the court.

Chable turned towards José with a sad smile. "Seven Monkey," he said, "if you wish to count it." Another indian on the Governor's side kicked feebly at the ball and it spun into the dirt.

One of Chankik's players used his toe to raise the ball off the ground, striking it with his knee off the wall in a westerly direction to a spot near the center of the ball court. "Fifteen Claw," said Chable, scratching his chin.

The indian nearest the ball was the only of Governor Molina's players who had any capacity to contend with those from Quintana Roo. He caught it on one bounce with his hip and drove it high upon the opposite wall, from which it bounced in a lazy arc towards the captain of Bravo's team who stood just to the right of the Presidential box. This man backed away slightly, leaped, and gave it a sharp blow that sent the ball, at an impossible angle against the back edge of the ring and through it.

There was a moment's peace, then President Diaz rose and applauded the players and the crowd... less than half those who had arrived, on the shady side... did the same. There was no rush to tear the clothes or the heads from the losers but in small, huddled groups, money was exchanged. Corral awoke with a start, coughing. People yawned, stretched, gathered their belongings.

"What did that last shot mean?" José asked.

"It came from the northeast, a place of Six Deer, which is a month associated with the hunt, the direction is that of birth," Chable said, "but also of death. Upon passing through the ring, it ended its journey on the war sign, one which, also, is that of certain musicians. It is not an easy prophecy to interpret. However," the old indian added, "so many things were out of place that the whole game cannot be of any consequence. Mariano turned towards José with, as the youngest of the Macias family interpreted it, a sneer. "Otherwise, something of significance might be expected to take place on the twenty seventh of the month."

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