The Mayan Codex

24

At first you had a good run of it. Two lifts in as many hours. The first to Loma Bonita, in a feed truck, and the second as far as Isla Juan. Then the lifts dried up.

You slept that night in a roadside coffee plantation, under a banana tree. You wrapped yourself in your mother’s rebozo, which you had brought along in the absence of any other form of portable sleeping cover. You kept your machete clasped tightly to your side, in case you encountered a rabid dog, a snake, a rat, or a black widow spider.

You slept well, despite the cold. In the early morning, when you woke up, you had no idea where you were, nor exactly how far it was to the Palace of the Masks. Someone you asked had told you six days. But then when you had asked them if that was by bus, or by car, or by horse, they were unable to answer you. All you knew was that you must head south – south all the time – keeping the coast always on your left. When you were near Campeche, then that would be the time to ask. Someone would doubtless point you in the right direction then.

You had grown up believing in a greater power – a power which you served, and which you therefore obeyed, as any servant should. This power would protect you if it chose, and it would allow you to die if that was its will. Asi es la vida. ‘That is how life is.’ Pointless to fight against it. Pointless to argue.

What you were doing now was at the behest of this power. Your family had been chosen to guard the codex. Your grandfather told you how the original guardians – the ones who had saved the codex from the vengeful ignorance of the Spanish priests – had ultimately paid the price with their lives. He had told you, too, of how his father had come by the codex from the hands of a dying man. How he had been forced to promise this man, upon pain of damnation, that he would protect the codex, and not give it up to the Spanish. Or else they would burn it, as they had with all the other great books of the Maya priests.

‘But I am not Maya,’ your great grandfather had said. ‘I am part Totonaca and part Spanish. I understand nothing of this. We do not even believe in the same God as you.’

‘There is only one God,’ said the dying man. ‘And everyone believes in Him. It is only the names that differ, and that cause strife.’

‘But when must I take it? And to whom?’

‘You, or your son, or your grandson, or even his son, must wait until the great volcano blooms once again with fire. That will be your signal. Then you must take the codex from this cave and travel south, to the Palace of the Masks. A sign will be given to you there.’

‘But where is this palace?’

‘In Kabah. Near Campeche. I will draw you a map in my blood. This you will pass down alongside the codex. There is a sign on it. See? I have drawn it here. It will be recognized.’

Now you took out the map and laid it carefully on the earth in front of you. You had finished your remaining tacos long ago, and your stomach felt empty, as if a worm was gnawing away at it.

Sucking on a stone to conserve your saliva, you followed the line of dried blood with your finger. How far were you down the line now? One thumb? Two thumbs? If you were two thumbs down the line, as seemed most likely, then you had eight thumbs left to go. That meant another four nights on the road.

You reached inside your pocket and retrieved your small bag of pesos. You had many coins, but they were almost worthless. Some scrumpled notes. You straightened them out on the map. Three hundred pesos. Five 50s, two 20s, and a 10. It would simply have to be enough.

You leaned forwards and looked at the sign. It was a snake – yes – it had to be a snake. Its mouth was wide open, and it seemed to be swallowing the head of a man.

What sort of person would recognize such a thing?

For the very first time since you had begun your journey, you began to feel fear.