The Mayan Codex

81

Sabir was focusing all of his attention on Lamia’s translation of the Chilan’s words. At one point he reached forward and took her hand in his, either to offer or to receive comfort, he was not entirely sure. She allowed her hand to rest in his for a moment, and then she withdrew it, as if she were unable to countenance such a two-way split in her concentration.

Calque stood beside them, his head turned away, to all intents and purposes as if he were refusing to listen to de Landa’s story. But Sabir knew him well enough by now. He could tell by the way Calque stood – by the stiffness in his back and by the sideways tilt of his head – that he was concentrating on every word that Lamia was translating for him.

The Chilan paused in his reading. He was dripping with sweat. His voice was growing increasingly hoarse. His hands shook where they held the book, and he seemed unable to meet anyone’s eyes. It was as if the horror of what he was reading formed a direct part of his own experience, and was not merely a story, written by another, which he was recounting to a partially illiterate audience.

Acan’s mother, Ixtab, hurried to his side. She unpinned her rebozo and mopped the Chilan’s brow and face. He nodded to her in grateful acknowledgment, but he was unable to summon up a smile. The Halach Uinic stood off to one side, his face in his hands. There was neither a mutter nor a murmur from the vast audience below them.

The Chilan gave a profound sigh, and addressed himself once again to the book in front of him.