The Xibalba Murders

CAUAC

The storm began just after dawn with surprising ferocity. Just before the first light, the air became very heavy and still, the calm before the storm. Then the first large drops of rain fell, forming little craters in the dry soil. But these soon vanished before the onslaught. Sheets of water, driven by heavy winds, blasted the roads, making them muddy tracks in a matter of minutes.

Thunder rumbled almost constantly, and lightning cracked with elemental force, sending the little dogs in the village whimpering for favorite hiding places.

The storm’s intensity, together with its arrival several weeks ahead of the rainy season, surprised everyone. Anyone unfortunate enough to be out and about that early was caught largely unawares, and scurried quickly for cover.

By noon the storm was the number-one topic of discussion and debate in the village, where theories ranged from clouds of dust in the stratosphere, caused by volcanic eruptions in the South Pacific, to holes in the ozone, to destruction of the rain forest, to my personal favorite, the rain gods’ anger with the current political shenanigans in Mexico City.

From my perspective, the last theory was closest to the truth. The storm was here because this was Cauac, a day of thunder and lightning. The Tzolkin was unfolding as it should.

By midafternoon, I had ensconced myself in a little lean-to in the forest, one tarpaulin under me to keep me out of the mud, the other strung from three branches over my head to provide some shelter. Fortunately the storm was abating.

My binoculars were trained on the entrance to the cave, several hundred yards away. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I watched with a concentration that surprised me, brushing the droplets of rain off the lenses as I waited.

Siesta time over, a number of the workmen returned to the cave and made a dash for the entrance, newspapers or paper bags, or whatever was at hand, held over their heads for protection from the rain.

About five once again, a pickup truck arrived, and Lucas got out and made the dash for cover. A few minutes later Jonathan arrived and did the same. From what I knew of activities of the dig, both had arrived to check the day’s work, and to assist with the recording of any of the archaeological finds.

Darkness came soon enough, and I could see little except shadows emerging from the cave, running for the trucks and departing for the evening. A dark figure that I assumed to be Jonathan got into the Jeep and pulled onto the road, or what was left of it after the torrents of water, turning in the direction of his house.

A few minutes later another figure followed, presumably Lucas, the generator at the entrance was turned off, and a truck pulled away, leaving the site in silence and darkness.

I waited, my binoculars trained on the spot where the sentry had stationed himself the previous night. If I had calculated correctly, Lucas would be doubling back to the spot. Soon I saw some movement in that general area, but I couldn’t be sure. Lucas, if there, was stealthier than last night’s sentry.

Right on time, Carlos, my young and unwitting co-conspirator, showed up, his flashlight announcing his arrival long before he actually got there. By the time he reached the cave entrance, Lucas was down there to meet him. Carlos handed him a letter and Lucas read it by the light from Carlos’s flashlight.

Carlos left, and shortly after that I could see some movement in the darkness down by the entrance. A few minutes later I heard an engine start up somewhere down the road, and soon Lucas’s pickup went by the site, heading out to the main road.

I did not have to ask what the note said. It was from me, telling him I had news about the murder of Don Hernan and asking him to meet me at the museo at ten p.m. I figured that would mean he would have to leave right away for Merida, and it would keep him fully occupied for the evening. I believed that unless he found someone else to stand his watch—and I didn’t think I had allowed him enough time to do so—I now had the place to myself.

I very carefully checked my watch in a short burst from my flashlight, concealed as best I could. It was now about eight p.m. I decided to wait another couple of hours before proceeding. I unwrapped the torta Guadelupe had given me and sat munching it, taking swigs from my water bottle. A rather soggy dinner, but it would have to do.

The time passed extremely slowly, and I was beginning to lose my concentration. Suddenly I had the sense of another presence. I froze in my place and peered in the direction of the cave.

I thought I saw some movement near the cave entrance, but in the darkness, and without benefit of the moon on such a stormy night, I couldn’t be sure. The generator was certainly not turned on, and I had not seen a flashlight.

I waited another hour, however, just in case. I neither heard nor saw anything else except the sound of the wind in the trees, and the rain, and in the distance, thunder. Even the creatures of the forest, the owls, the night insects, had all taken shelter from the storm.

Just before midnight, I decided to make my move. Leaving my tarpaulin behind, I moved as quietly and carefully as I could to the cave entrance. I remembered that the entranceway was fairly steep, but was unprepared for the slippery slope it had become because of the storm. I slipped in the mud and slid down the first slope on the seat of my pants, making a fair amount of noise as I did so. I moved cautiously after that, holding on to the line from the generator to find my way, until I felt I was a safe distance inside.

Then I switched on my flashlight, certain that it could not be seen from the entranceway, and proceeded toward the cavern, stopping at intervals to listen for any sounds that would indicate someone else was still there in the dark.

The passage seemed much more menacing than when I had first visited it with my friends, or at least people I thought were my friends. It was sobering to think that one of them might be a murderer.

I reached the cavern at last, and shone my flashlight around the area, trying not to be frightened by the awful visages of the Chacs on either side. I took a quick look at the faint carving over the tunnel, which dropped off into the cenote, and was both gratified, and terrified, that it seemed to match the drawing in Don Hernan’s diary and the pottery shard I had found in Jonathan’s desk.

Everything in the cavern was much as I remembered it. The large crates containing the artifacts, all cataloged and ready for shipment to the museo for safekeeping were still there, although there were fewer. I remembered the crates I had seen in the basement of the museo. Presumably they had come from here.

The beam of my flashlight swooped over the pile of unnamed artifacts—what had Jonathan called it?—the GOK pile, for God Only Knows. It had grown considerably, I noted, and smiled as I thought of its name.

I passed by it on my way to examine the carving around the tunnel leading to the cenote, to see if in fact it was the symbol for the Maw of Xibalba, the place where Smoking Frog’s codex might wait.

As I did so I stepped over a dark rivulet that meandered between me and the tunnel opening. A leak from the storm above, I thought, but then I looked again.

It was not water. It was blood. I followed its winding course with the beam of my flashlight. It appeared to emanate from the GOK pile just a few feet away from the tunnel entrance.

I didn’t want to look, but I knew I had to. I moved woodenly to the pile of dirt and artifacts and, setting the flashlight down with its beam aimed to assist me, used a stick lying nearby to scrape away the layers of dirt. Soon the very dead face of Major Martinez stared up at me.

I backed away from the horrible sight and turned away quickly, my back to the GOK pile and facing the tunnel entrance, my hands over my face.

I heard a sound, but before I could turn I felt someone grab me from behind. I struggled as hard as I could and almost broke free. But as I did so I lost my balance, and strong hands pushed me very hard, propelling me through the tunnel opening.

It seemed a long way down before I hit the water. Unprepared, I hit it very hard, and my mouth and nose filled with water. Gagging, I flailed about in the water, trying to find first the surface, and then the side of the cenote.

My attacker, above me, had moved quickly to get a flashlight, probably mine, and soon the beam of light was swinging about searching for me. Fortunately it was a long and steep way down into inky darkness, and it would be difficult to lean far enough out to see the bottom without falling in yourself.

I pressed myself to the side of the cenote directly under the opening and tried to get my bearings. There was a small ledge or outcropping above me that afforded me some protection from the light. But otherwise the sides of the cenote seemed very smooth. It would be difficult at the best of times to climb out of this. I was not sure it could be done without ropes and some kind of assistance. In this case, even if I could, there was certainly no point with my attacker waiting up there for me.

I stayed in the water, hugging the side of the cenote, and watched the flashlight move erratically around the space above me. With one swing I could see that there was another opening, just a couple of feet above the waterline. Another tunnel perhaps, or a small cave.

It was the only chance I had, but the beam of light kept moving in a frenetic way above me. Whoever was above me was making sure I was not climbing out.

Fortunately for me, it is human nature for people’s actions to fall into a pattern, whether they intend to or not. The beam of the flashlight, unpredictable at first, had, over a period of several minutes, begun to settle into a fairly consistent rhythm.

By and large I found I could count slowly to about fourteen or fifteen before the next round of light came by, and the beam now invariably swung from right to left.

I waited for the beam to swing by, then very carefully, trying not to let my arms or legs break the surface of the water, swam toward where I remembered the opening in the side of the cenote wall to be. When I reached the far side of the cenote, I reached up in the darkness to try to find the ledge below it.

By my count I was now at thirteen, and sure enough the light began to swing around the perimeter, right to left, and I felt very exposed. I took a breath and sank below the water’s surface. With my eyes open under the water, and looking up, I could see the distorted beam of light pass overhead.

When the light vanished, I surfaced carefully, then felt once again for the ledge. It took to the count of ten to find it, so I waited in the water and once again ducked below the surface as the beam went by.

I knew I would have to move fast, because it would not be possible to haul myself out of the water and into the cave without making some sounds as I left the water. Once again I waited for the beam, ducked under the water, and then pulled myself up as quickly and quietly as I could.

As I had expected, there was what seemed to be a thunderous splash as my body left the water. The light reappeared quickly, but my attacker must have moved back from the edge after the last swing by, and by the time the light had reappeared, I had pulled myself back far enough into the opening that I was reasonably sure I could not be seen.

I sat with my back to the side wall of the cave to try to get my breath. I could hear voices now, and sounds of activity from the cave. I had an idea that I could outlast them, maybe wait for the staff to come to work in the morning. But I was not sure that I could climb out of the cenote, and I was afraid that whoever was up there must have heard the splashing as I moved into the cave. Either he would find some way to come after me, or would wait long enough that he was sure I was drowned.

So I sat there for what seemed to be a long time, watching from the darkness of the cave as the beam of light flashed around the sides of the cenote from time to time.

I wondered who would be up there. Had those shadows I thought I had seen while I waited outside the cave been Martinez and his killer, or had he been killed during the day? The last person to leave had been Lucas, that much I remembered, but I had not seen Martinez enter in the daylight. I found it difficult to think the body had been there all day unnoticed by the workmen. No wonder they went on strike! But maybe they were all in on this. I’d heard more than one voice above me, but could not recognize them, perhaps because of sound distortion in the cenote.

And why was Martinez here at all? Still looking for me?

Despite the dank, humid air, I began to get very cold. I was wet, and I was frightened, and my teeth were chattering. I tried to huddle up to keep warm. It was some time before I realized that I could feel a definite draft on the right side of my face, the side away from the cenote. Air was coming from the darkness on my right.

That had to mean that there was another way in, or more importantly in this case, out. I turned my face toward the darkness. I could see nothing at all. But I could feel the cool air on my face.

Turning my back on the menacing light, I began to edge my way into the inky darkness. The walls of the tunnel were very damp and the floor very rough. Many times I lost my footing, a couple of times I banged my head on protrusions. I could taste the saltiness of the sweat and probably blood that was running down my face.

From time to time I was wading through water as deep as my thighs. Other times I had to crawl on my hands and knees to clear overhangs.

Another time I felt something brush past me, and it was all I could do not to scream. I could hear a loud squeaking from off to one side, perhaps a side tunnel of some sort, and a stench assailed my nostrils. Bats!

As one swooped past me I lost my balance and fell, lying breathless for a few minutes, the wind knocked out of me by the fall.

But always I felt the draft, the breath of hope, on my face. I picked myself up and kept going.

At some point in my long journey, I began to feel that this was what the last several days had been leading up to; that I had been destined to make my journey through the dark and watery realm of Xibalba from the moment my feet had touched Maya soil. That the darkness I had sought, my almost nightly nocturnal journeys, had been but a preview of this night and this journey.

I began to realize that my obsession with the dark, the pain the light had caused me, had been a symptom of a dark depression of the soul that had begun to show its face during the last few months of my marriage, divorce, and the loss of my precious business, and had become a pervasive and powerful force with my discovery of Luis Vallespino’s body and the death of my friend Don Hernan.

I began to see this journey, the crossing of the river of blood, the fall into the dark chasm, and the struggle through this house of darkness and bats as my own personal life test.

I wondered what creatures could live in this darkness so far from the light of life. I remembered having read about fish in the waters of underground cave systems that, in a stroke of Darwinian logic, are born with no eyes. I thought how strong the life force must be for there to be fish with no eyes in these waters.

I had no idea how far I had come, or how far I had yet to go. But I knew that I wanted to live, to see the light again, to regain the zest for life that I knew I had once felt and whose loss was a terrible ache. I knew that I wanted to love again, no matter what the risks.

I felt, or imagined I did, that the breeze was becoming stronger, fresher, every step I took. That the path was angling upward, to safety.

And then I hit the wall. Literally. I was up to my waist in water when I came upon a wall of solid rock.

But the breeze was still there. I could even hear the air whistling. This had to be the way out. I felt the rock like a blind man, trying to fathom what was ahead of me.

And then I realized where the breeze was coming from. It was through a crevice only about six inches wide and maybe fifteen inches high. On the other side might be freedom, life, and love. But I could go no farther.

I pulled myself out of the water onto a narrow ledge, leaned my forehead against the opening, and cried.