The Xibalba Murders

CHICCHAN

Chicchan is the day of the celestial serpent, that double-headed creature that arches over the earth to create the sky. It is considered a good day in the Maya calendar, and by and large it was, an oasis of calm between the tragedy that had been and the horror that was to be.

It began well enough. It was still dark when I was awakened by a soft but persistent tapping at my door. It was Jonathan.

“You’ve been sprung,” he whispered. In my semiconscious state, I wasn’t sure what this meant.

“Santiago has got you released in Isa’s and my custody until nine p.m. tonight. So hurry up, Lara. Bring your swimsuit and a sun hat.”

I was downstairs, showered and dressed, in ten minutes. Lucas and Isa were there, both yawning, as I was. It seemed Jonathan and Lucas had come to check on me the previous evening, after I’d supposedly turned in for the night, had met Isa, and together they had hatched this plan to cheer me up. We tiptoed out the door so as not to wake the other guests, to a Jeep Cherokee outside.

Isa sat up front with Lucas, Jonathan and I in the back. As I began to doze off again I heard Isa valiantly trying to draw Lucas into some semblance of a conversation. It was not easy. I was trying not to fall asleep with my head slumped on Jonathan’s shoulder. That wasn’t easy, either.

We headed out on Highway 180, and with no traffic at this ungodly hour, Lucas covered his seventy-five miles to Chichen Itza in record time, despite the fact that we forsook the new toll road and took the old highway through myriad little towns, all characterized by speed bumps and countless mangy dogs. My favorite town was called Libre Union, free union, because, Isa told us, of the high percentage of couples living there without benefit of holy matrimony. With my less than satisfactory marital record, it sounded good to me.

By seven a.m. we were in the ruins, heading for El Castillo to catch the early-morning sun as it cleared the mist from the site. We had the place to ourselves, the site not yet open to the public. Lucas knew the gatekeeper.

Chichen Itza was once a magnificent metropolis, built over several centuries by generations of people who ruled the northern Maya. El Castillo was, and is, its most impressive structure. Also known as the Temple of Kukulcan, the four-sided pyramid rises seventy-five feet from a grassy plaza. We scrambled up one of the restored stairways to the temple on its summit.

The sun began to cast its light on the Temple of the Warriors, below us and to the east of our position. This smaller temple, a three-tiered structure with rows of columns at its base that long ago formed a colonnade, has, at the top of the steps to its entrance, a Chac Mool, an ominous-looking reclining figure that guards the space, flanked by the heads of two carved serpents that must have formed the original doorway.

For an instant the early rays of the sun backlit the sculpture, adding its fiery glow to the chilling figure, then moved on.

I walked around the top of the temple, gazing out across miles of forest broken occasionally by a green mound that would one day reveal another lost structure. To the south the sun lit the top of El Caracol, the snail, visible above the trees, an unusual round building thought to have been the observatory from which the ancients tracked the planet Venus with great accuracy.

When I had circled around to where the others were sitting, Isa reached into the large tote bag she was never without and brought out a thermos of cafe con leche, four plastic cups, and some biscuits. We sat in companionable silence, our backs to the temple wall, and watched as more and more of the site was revealed from the mist.

In a few minutes the first busloads of tourists would arrive, but for now the place was ours. For a few minutes at least I was able to put the face of Luis Vallespino aside, distracted by the magic of this place.

None of us spoke for several minutes. Below and behind us, the vendors were arriving with their wares— soft drinks and handicrafts for the tourists—and their conversations carried across the great plaza to our vantage point.

Our personal reveries were broken by the sound of the first tour group coming through the entranceway. Ahead of the pack were two young boys racing to be first up the pyramid, their mothers gasping behind them, telling them to be careful.

“Let’s stay one jump ahead of them,” Jonathan exclaimed, and we moved quickly to descend the steep staircase, I by gripping the heavy metal chain for support and sliding down on my rear end. Going up the pyramid in a hurry may be tiring; going down is positively terrifying.

We quickly crossed the plaza to the Temple of the Warriors. As I approached the top of the steps, I hesitated, savoring a short moment of anticipation.

This temple had been my favorite when I was first here as a young girl. When Isa and I told each other ghost stories up in that old tree, Chac Mool always featured prominently.

The carved stone figure reclines, knees drawn up and head twisted to face the west, the direction the Maya regarded as that of darkness and death. He—it could only be a “he”—holds to his chest a flat plate on which, legend has it, the hearts of sacrificial victims were placed, still beating, to appease the gods.

Worse yet, as you reach the top of the stairs, you find yourself looking right into his sightless eyes. He never blinks. He knows all. He waits. Isa and I, as sophisticated as we used to think we were, still clung to each other as we went up and over the top of the stairs, giggling in embarrassment and fear.

Lucas suddenly looked at me and smiled. “He is rather intimidating, isn’t he?” I liked him for saying that, and thought there might be more to him than his conversation to date had indicated.

Then Isa came up behind me and, putting her arm through mine, said, “Here we go again, Lara, tempting the gods.”

“It’s just a statue,” Jonathan scoffed. “A not particularly interesting example of Toltec carving in my opinion.

“It’s only real interest is the inspiration it gave to Henry Moore, one of my more talented fellow countrymen.” He smiled. “Spawned several rather famous Moore reclining figures.”

“Tempting the gods yourself, aren’t you, Jonathan?” Isa teased.

“Rubbish!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I countered. “Didn’t I hear someone got killed up here fairly recently?”

“Yes, indeed. Struck by lightning. An archaeologist, too, if I remember correctly,” Isa said.

“It is true,” Jonathan admitted. “These temples are not the safest places in a storm. A well-known archaeologist was unfortunate enough to be on the top of the Temple of the Warriors during one. He was struck dead.”

“The Chac Mool, no doubt, was briefly appeased,” I said. “Although he isn’t saying, I suspect he regards Henry Moore as a mere blip in the passage of time.” Lucas smiled for the second time since I had met him.

“Oh, no, here come those little monsters again,” Isa groaned.

She was right. It was the two kids, leaders of the pack, their mothers still in hot and breathless pursuit.

Jonathan grabbed my hand and we descended the steps, turning north across the plaza, then past what is called the Venus platform, then onto a trail, now lined with numerous souvenir stands, heading east.

“This may look like an ordinary trail to you, or perhaps even an excuse for an outdoor market.” Jonathan smiled, still holding my hand. “But it is, in fact, a remnant of an ancient Maya road or sacbe There are traces of these sacbaob throughout the peninsula, many of them apparently linking the major cities.”

His voice trailed on, noting various points of interest, but I was not really listening. Instead I was thinking how long it had been since I’d held someone’s hand, and how nice it felt. Such simple gestures of closeness had so long been missing from my life—from most of my marriage, not to put too fine a point on it—that I felt I wanted to hold his hand forever.

Too soon we came to the end of the trail and stood by the edge of the Sacred Cenote or Well of Sacrifice.

The cenote, or dzonot in Mayan, is huge, 180 feet in diameter, almost exactly circular, and from the high edge, one looks at least eighty feet down to the water. The sides are striated limestone, with scrub bushes clinging to them.

Jonathan slipped amiably back into his role as professor and tour guide.

“As impressive as it is as a natural phenomenon—a cenote occurs when the walls of underground caves and rivers collapse and break through to the surface—it is its man-made context—”

“Cross-eyed virgins!” Isa interrupted, winking at me.

She was referring to the very popular notion that the Itza sacrificed cross-eyed virgins in the cenote to appease the gods.

“As scarce as water is in this area,” Jonathan continued, undeterred, “we don’t believe this cenote was used as a water system. It may have been used for ritual or sacrificial purposes. The well has been dredged several times and a great trove of artifacts has been found—jade, gold, and about fifty skeletons.”

“Aha, the cross-eyed virgins at last.” Isa laughed.

“As it turns out,” Jonathan said, “the skeletons are of adults and children, both male and female.

“And to borrow a phrase from one of my learned colleagues, if any or all of them were either cross-eyed, or virgins, let’s just say their skeletal remains do not give us enough information to be definitive on the subject,” Jonathan said dryly.

We all laughed at that.

“I think what is interesting about these places is that you always have a sense of something, some power, when you are in a place considered to be sacred,” I said.

Lucas looked bemused, Jonathan slightly perplexed.

“Meaning?”

“You can understand why these walls were so special. They were supposed to be the entrances to the watery underworld, to Xibalba, the realm of the Lords of Death.

“Have you noticed how still and heavy the air is here. Almost oppressive. Back in the plaza there was quite a pleasant breeze. I’m sure there is a physical explanation for this—we’re in a sort of a depression here, aren’t we?—but to me there is an almost hypnotic quality to this place. Sacrificial victims might be drawn to their deaths by its power.”

“Or maybe they just fell in,” Jonathan suggested. “This place was occupied for centuries. Fifty skeletons is not a lot over that time period.”

“If they fell in, why didn’t they climb out?” Isa queried.

“Have you seen how far down the water is? And the sides are worn smooth down below by the water. It would be an extremely difficult climb,” Jonathan explained.

“The Itza were supposed to be water wizards or something, weren’t they?” Isa asked.

“That’s correct,” Jonathan answered. “That’s the literal translation of Itza, and Chichen Itza is the Mouth of the Well of the Itza. This was, as Lara points out, a very sacred place.

“But all this talk of water is making me thirsty. How about lunch? If I remember correctly, there is a little cafe nearby. Not fancy but the food is good. You’ll love it, Isa. It has a tacky mural of nubile cross-eyed virgins, all trussed up, being hurled into the cenote while lascivious gods look on.”

We headed back along the sacbe, pausing to allow a gaggle of tourists following a guide carrying a sun umbrella to go by.

“Perfect timing,” Isa murmured. “Let’s get out of here!”

On our way, we took a detour through the famous ball court, where games of life and death were played. Jonathan told us that the Itza did not record their history in hieroglyphics, as the classic Maya did, but instead chose to adorn the walls of the ball court with the most amazing pictorial carvings, some depicting their creation mythology, many others their ritual game.

“In this ball game, the ball is believed to have been a symbol of the movement of the sun through the sky, and the game itself therefore had the highest ritualistic importance,” Jonathan said. “To lose was to die—by decapitation or by having your heart cut out. Such deaths ensured that the universe would continue to unfold as it should.”

While Isa, Jonathan, and I lingered over the carvings, enjoying the sunshine, Lucas went off to talk to some of the guides and groundskeepers.

Later we crossed the great plaza, pausing only long enough to see hordes of tourists climbing up and down El Castillo like busy little ants at a picnic. Perfect timing, indeed.

We took the Jeep and headed west, Jonathan driving this time, doubling back along the old Highway 180 to the cafe he had spoken of.

He was right about its decor. There really was a mural depicting young women being hurled into the cenote. Whatever the artist lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm. We opted to eat in a little courtyard out back.

After a lunch of sopa de lima and grilled fish, we lingered over the last of our wine and beer, and inevitably the talk turned to the murder of Luis Vallespino and the disappearance of Don Hernan.

“Do either of you have any idea where Don Hernan might be?” Jonathan asked.

“None,” we both agreed.

“I suppose we can take some comfort that the police are looking for him, even if it is for the wrong reason,” I said, although I was not entirely convinced of this myself.

We all nodded at that.

“Does anyone really believe he had anything to do with the robbery?” Isa asked.

“Or the murder?” I added.

Isa looked surprised. I told her about my conversation with Major Martinez. “He really seems to feel Don Hernan is implicated in all of this.”

“Speaking of Martinez,” I said, “How did Don Santiago get me sprung, to use your expression, Jonathan?”

“He just called some of his former colleagues in the government. We should tell you a couple of things, though,” Isa said, glancing at Jonathan, who nodded.

“My father does not much like what he is hearing about Major Martinez, and he suspects that your freedom today may not last, unfortunately. He thinks Martinez will have the ban on your leaving the hotel reinstated very soon.”

“So enjoy your freedom while you can, Lara,” Jonathan said.

I took that one in, then changed the subject.

“Does anyone know anything about Luis Vallespino?” I asked.

“Nothing at all,” Jonathan replied.

“All I know about him is that his older brother is in one of Alejandro’s classes at the university. No one has associated him with Don Hernan in any way,” Isa said.

“Except that he was found dead right over Don Hernan’s head, as it were,” Jonathan interjected.

While we chatted Lucas left us again, and I could see him through the doorway, talking in an animated fashion to the waiter. Obviously he was not quite so taciturn in others’ company.

“I have a suggestion,” Jonathan said, changing to a more pleasant subject when Lucas returned to the table. “There’s lots more of Chichen Itza to see, and we could easily spend the rest of the afternoon here.

“But Lucas and I are working on a very interesting project not too far away. We’re excavating in an underground cavern. Would you like to see it?”

“Definitely!” I said. Isa agreed.

Lucas drove this time, back to the highway, then east. Several miles from Chichen Itza, he pulled onto a dusty dirt road marked no exit. We followed it for another mile or two, until near its end, we sighted some activity. Lucas pulled the Jeep off the road and parked it beside a couple of old pickup trucks and three very ancient Volkswagens of the sort endearingly called Bugs.

“The fleet,” Jonathan said, gesturing toward the vehicles with a smile.

We walked a few yards through the forest on a trail that had been cleared in a rudimentary fashion, soon coming upon what at a distance had appeared to be an outcropping of limestone. Up close, it was possible to see a narrow entrance to a cave. A small generator puffed and belched outside.

This part of the Yucatan is very, very flat and there are no surface rivers. There are only two physical features of note, one, the green mounds that often hide ancient ruins, the second, the unseen caves and rivers beneath the limestone surface.

“This is a little tricky here, at the start,” Jonathan said as Lucas slid down a fairly steep slope and soon disappeared.

“Come on,” he shouted, and Isa, casting a mock-terrified glance in my direction, followed him.

I went next. The entrance to the cave angled steeply downward, and it was rather muddy. I found myself sliding as the others had, and was very glad to have Lucas offering a steadying hand until I reached the point where the ground leveled out. Jonathan followed closely behind.

We were in a tunnel, lit by a few lightbulbs strung on a long wire from the generator at the entrance.

In this spot, it was possible for all of us, including Jonathan, who was tallest, to stand quite easily, but ahead there were some very low overhangs.

Lucas led the way, sticking to what appeared to be the main tunnel, which was barely wide enough for one person to pass. Workmen were coming and going, and when one of them approached with a wheelbarrow, we had to press ourselves flat against the wall of the tunnel.

Occasionally we needed to crawl on our hands and knees under low overhangs. From time to time I could see side tunnels branching off into darkness.

The tunnel always angled downward, and the air became increasingly warm and dank as we proceeded.

After several minutes of this, when we must have been many feet below the surface, the tunnel came to an abrupt end, and we found ourselves in a large round cavern, several yards in diameter.

Here a very bright spotlight had been set up, and in its beam, three or four workmen were patiently brushing away at the rock face on one side of the cavern.

Two huge carved masks dominated the cavern, one on each side. Still partially covered in dirt, they were nonetheless impressive, at least seven or eight feet high, with large eyes complete with staring pupils, long noses, and earlobes adorned with large round ornaments. Mouths agape, lips drawn back, tongues protruding, they were Chacs, Maya rain gods, much revered by the Yucatecan Maya at the time of the conquest.

After several minutes of gazing almost hypnotically at the masks, I became aware of the sound of water. At the far side of the cavern was another tunnel. This one, however, dropped off precipitously into darkness.

At the bottom, Jonathan told us, was a cenote, a smaller version of the Well of Sacrifice we had seen earlier at Chichen Itza. A rather rudimentary rope fence strung from wooden stakes protected the edge. Leaning over, it was not possible to see the water below. Jonathan dropped a pebble. It bounced down the sides, and then splashed. The water was a long way down.

“Are there artifacts down there?” I asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Jonathan replied. “We aren’t planning to dredge the cenote until we finish the work up here, several weeks from now. As you can appreciate, it will be quite a task, with no daylight to help us.”

Over to one side was a mound of pieces of rock, bits of bone, pottery, and other things.

“What are these?” I asked.

“That”—Jonathan smiled—“is what we archaeologists lovingly refer to as the GOK pile—God Only Knows. We’ll work on identifying it all later.

“But come and see what we can identify,” Jonathan urged, taking us over to some large wooden crates, about three feet by four feet, in which were laid out trays of pottery shards, all carefully numbered and cataloged and set in unbleached cotton, beads that might be jade, and in one tray, beautifully carved flint blades, each different, and each a magnificent work of art.

“So far we have found eight of these blades,” Jonathan explained.

“There will be nine,” Lucas said. “Nine blades for the nine Lords of Darkness.” His infrequent contributions to the conversations never failed to surprise me.

“Lucas may be right. There is no question these caves were considered to be entrances to the underworld, to Xibalba. We believe this must have been a very sacred spot. We don’t really know why these blades were hidden here, or what ceremonies may have taken place beneath the surface of the earth, but we feel it must have been important,” Jonathan said.

“Perhaps this was a place their king, the ahau, would come alone to fast and commune with the ancestors and gods. After days of fasting and praying, in a trancelike state, the king would pierce his tongue or his genitals with a stingray spine. The blood thus shed dripped onto paper which was burned to appease the gods. The king would then appear before his people, his white robe stained with his own blood. As gruesome as it might seem to us, blood was believed to carry the soul, and this was a powerful ritual for the Maya, one that, like the ball game, ensured the continuing cycle of life.”

“Think of the people working underground, without benefit of electric lights, carving these magnificent masks,” Isa breathed.

She was right. While their friends and families toiled and played above them, Maya artists must have conquered the most primitive of fears, that of the dark, and with the aid only of torches, made their way to this spot to carve these awesome faces.

As we turned to leave I noticed on the wall around the tunnel opening the faint outline of a carving that the workmen had not yet uncovered. It was of a rather intricate design with what appeared to be two tendrils extending up from a base, rather like two raised arms.

I would have liked to ask more about it and to take a closer look, but it was clearly time to go. We were each immersed in our own thoughts as we left the cavern and made our way slowly to the surface.

We returned to the Jeep and headed back toward Merida. About halfway, we once again pulled off the road and stopped at a charming little house.

“Humble, but mine own,” Jonathan announced. “Or at least it’s mine while I’m supervising the dig. Let’s go for a swim!”

The house may have been small, but it had everything one could want. A large open kitchen, a fireplace in the living/dining area, and a very nice bedroom overlooking a patio and swimming pool. We all had a dip and a cold drink beside the pool.

After about an hour, as the sun set, we began the long journey to Merida.

Even seeing Major Martinez at the front desk could not spoil the day for me, although it was obvious that my escape had made him even more irritable than usual. He merely harrumphed when he saw me and made a big show of looking at his watch.

But we were not late, and there was nothing much he could do about it.

I invited the others to join me for dinner but all had other plans: Isa to help her mother in the kitchen, Lucas and Jonathan some other engagement.

As they left, Jonathan’s hand brushed mine. “I hope you will come back to visit my little house very soon, just you and me. Would you do that?”

“Love to,” I said. And I meant it.

When I went upstairs to my room, I had a very strong feeling that someone had been there. Not the young woman who made up the room, but someone else. It’s strange how you always know, even when nothing appears to be out of place.

I tried to cast the idea out of my mind. The thought of an evening with Jonathan in his delightful little house helped a lot.