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Chapter Thirteen

Now that the festivities of the baptism were over, the days began to blend into one another. The routine was always the same: up at five and out to the fields after a breakfast of atole and tortillas supplemented by whatever was left over from the night before. Work in the fields until eleven or so, with a couple of breaks for more atole—and gourds of water, which Nic had finally managed to convince his hosts that he needed—and then lunch, which Bacal brought to them wrapped in a coarsely woven cloth. Many of the things they ate were already familiar to Nic—turkey or venison wrapped in tortillas, roughly equivalent to modern tacos, tamales, often stuffed with iguana meat, grilled fish and various varieties of tropical fruit. Then more work. As the days went by, Nic grew leaner and stronger. His skin, constantly exposed to the blistering tropical sun, acquired a deep tan, for which he was thankful since it made him stand out less among the Mayas.

Once he had resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do about his situation, Nic wasn’t bored. The quiet rhythms of country life were a novel experience for a boy who had grown up in a large noisy city. Seeing the fruits of his labors gave Nic a deep satisfaction he had never felt before. The morning he and Nachancán reached the fields and saw the first light dusting of pale green against the dark brown furrows, Nic was filled with wild excitement. He turned to Nachancán to share his elation only to meet the imperturbable black gaze of his host.

“Did you see the corn?” he asked, feeling ridiculous.

“Now we will pray for rain,” said Nachancán.

Nic looked up at the cloudless dawn sky and felt a twinge of protective anxiety for the tiny new lives he had helped bring into the world.

“Can’t we bring water from the cenote?” he asked.

“Yes, while the corn is small, but it is heavy labor, and when it is high it will need more water than we can bring,” Nachancán answered. He handed Nic a gourd attached to a long cord, and together with the other men they walked to the cenote, where they filled bucket after bucket of water which the men carried to the field and poured carefully around the seedlings. After Nic’s first trip from the cenote to the cornfield, staggering under the heavy weight of the bucket and with water sloshing into his face with every step, the men took pity on him and assigned him the chore of filling the buckets from the cenote with his gourd.

That afternoon, as they walked back to the house after their swim—Nic’s favorite part of the day—he spotted a small fallen tree along the path. He picked up the trunk and dragged it along the path, while Nachancán looked at him curiously. When they reached the house, he asked Nachancán for a flint knife. He sat down beneath a tree and began scoring the tree trunk. After a couple hours of work he had split the small trunk in half lengthwise and hollowed out the pulpy interior. He stopped for dinner and then continued with the other side until the light failed. Nachancán came and squatted next to him and asked him what he was doing.

“It’s for the water from the cenote,” he said.

“The water from the cenote?” asked his host.

“Yes, you see, if we put enough of these together we can draw water from the cenote and then let it run down the tree trunks and into the field. Then we won’t have to carry it.”

“It will be much work,” his host commented. “Perhaps more work than carrying the water.”

“Maybe at first,” urged Nic. “But for the next growing season it will be much easier for us.” For us? As interesting as this experience was proving to be, he hoped he would no longer be there for the next growing season.

Nachancán conceded this with a slight nod. “We will have to consult with the High Priest.”

Naturally, Nic thought. “Why don’t we build it first and then show it to him?”

Nachancán said nothing, but brought another flint knife and set to work on the other end of the tree trunk.

**

It was the nights, though, that really made it worth it. Even though he groaned when Nachancán shook him awake in the morning, Nic couldn’t resist going out almost every evening after Nachancán and Bacal had gone to sleep. He would walk to the Ceremonial Center, stand in the middle of the clearing and turn slowly to look at the majestic shadowy structures looming in the moonlight all around him. Or he would lie on his back and look up at the stars, their lavish brilliance undiminished by artificial light. Best of all was the silence, something Nic had never encountered in all his twenty-first century life.

He saw Ixchel frequently now. She often came to the fields to bring lunch to her father and older brothers. Her father had grown used to Nic’s oddness and no longer suspected him of having designs on his daughter. As a result, the two often ate lunch together or took walks to the cenote nearby, where he would swim, modestly attired in his loincloth, and she would sit on the edge, talking to him. Nic had explained the basics of plumbing to her, though she was still skeptical, and they had moved on to other topics. He had begun to talk to her more openly, though he knew it was risky. The one subject he avoided was the upcoming sacrifice.

She brought up the topic herself one day while they were eating lunch. “Do the High Priests in your village honor the gods at the full moon as they do here?”

“No,” he answered. “We honor our gods in different ways. People’s lives are not sacrificed.” Realizing how his statement might affect her, he looked at her, but she seemed not to have noticed his use of the word sacrifice.

She stared at him in disbelief. “But don’t the gods get angry with you and withhold the rain?”

Nic paused. The last thing he wanted was to sow seeds of doubt in her mind when she would be living her life out in this culture. That is, if the sacrifice were indeed averted, he reminded himself. “I didn’t say we didn’t honor the gods, we just don’t do it the same way.”

“How do you do it?” She took a bite of her iguana tamal and settled herself in the grass.

Nic thought about it. How much detail should he go into? There were so many religions. He decided to stick to what he was most familiar with. “We pray,” he said, bringing his hands together.

She copied his gesture. “And then?”

“Then we talk to our god, or gods.”

Her eyes were wide. “You talk to them? What do you say?”

“Lots of things,” Nic said. “We thank them for all the blessings they’ve already given us and then we ask them to give us something else.”

“Like rain?”

“Exactly.”

“And do they give it to you? Without even a gift?”

Nic decided to skirt the question. This wasn’t the place for a lecture on Christian theology. And if he did explain it to her, it wouldn’t be fair not to talk about all the other religions as well. . . He decided to go in another direction. “Some people don’t believe the gods exist.”

Her eyes opened even wider and her mouth dropped open. “What?”

Nic realized he had gone too far. Out of the corner of his eye he saw with relief that Ixchel’s father was standing up, wiping his mouth, a signal that the lunch break was over. “I didn’t say they were right.”

“Do they put them in the special house for people with demons in them?”

“Yes. Yes, they do,” said Nic, standing up as well. Ixchel got up too, regret on her face. She was insatiably curious, and asked him question after question about his village whenever they met. It had not occurred to her to suspect him of inventing what he said to her, as an adult might have. Even though he had to be careful, Nic looked forward to their conversations. Ixchel had an alert mind, and some of her questions made him rethink certain aspects of his own culture he had never thought to question before.

Back in the field, as Nic thinned a row of small corn plants, he noticed that their leaves were beginning to droop. Until now they had irrigated the seedlings with water from the cenote, but Nic realized the corn would soon need far more water than they could provide. He glanced at the cloudless sky. How much longer till the full moon? He had been here almost three weeks.

Just one week left. . . How was Ixchel feeling? She acted so serene and carefree in their daily interactions that Nic thought she must either be in denial about her imminent death or else have such strong religious convictions that she wasn’t afraid. Once more, Nic was reminded of how different their world views were.

As the day of the full moon neared, Nic sensed a heightened tension among the villagers. Nachancán was more silent than ever, and Bacal seemed distracted. Ixchel’s father continued to work in the fields, his face stoic, thinning and weeding the corn plants. Nic saw the High Priest more often than before, huddled together with the village elders in the Ceremonial Center.

Each night after dinner, Nachancán worked at carving the jade amulet. Nic asked him one night, “Is that for the honored one?”

Nachancán answered, with pride on his face, “Yes. The ceremony will take place in a few days, when the moon is full. It is good. We need rain.”

“Do the gods always send rain after the ceremony?”

“If the gods are pleased with the High Priest’s offering they will send rain.”

“What happens after you finish carving the jade? Will you give it to Ixchel?”

Nachancán gave him the look Nic was now familiar with that told him with no need for words that his host considered him mentally deficient. “No. I will give it to the High Priest. He must bless it before the ceremony. If I were to give it directly to the honored one—” He broke off, shaking his head.

“How does the High Priest bless it?” Nachancán’s face grew darker and Nic protested, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we did this in my village and I’m trying to understand your ways. Please be patient.”

Nachancán’s expression seemed less impatient than fearful at such a sacred topic being discussed so casually. Nonetheless, he answered, lowering his voice as if they might be overheard. “He will use his holy authority to give the jade special powers. When the honored one is touched with the amulet it will draw her soul out and send it to its place in heaven.” He turned away from Nic and bent his head over his carving.

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“What do you want?” she said, in a low voice. She looked around nervously. “If my father or the High Priest sees you here alone with me, I do not know what they will do to you—or to me.”

Feeling like a stalker, Nic said, “I just want to talk to you.”

“Why?” She looked baffled.

“I—I want to learn about your customs.”

“Why do you ask me? Why do you not ask Nachancán, or Bacal, or the High Priest?” Now she looked exasperated, even angry. At least she wasn’t frightened any more.

“Because you are to be the honored one.” Her expression grew doubtful, and Nic pressed on. “When is the ceremony to take place?”

“At the full moon, I told you.”

“About three weeks from now, then.”

“I do not understand.”

Of course, Nic thought, they don’t think in terms of weeks. “Did the High Priest come to see you?”

“He talked to my father.” She had started to pull up gourdfuls of water again and empty them into the wooden bucket.

“Did he give you the amulet to help your soul fly to heaven?”

“The what?” Ixchel got to her feet and tucked the small gourd into a large pocket on the side of her white shift. Nic got up as well. She bent over to lift the bucket.

“Can I carry that for you?” He reached for the handle of the bucket. She smiled at him for the first time and nodded.

“But you must give it to me before we get back to the baptism. It wouldn’t be good if they knew I had been with you alone here.”

Nic nodded. “I will.” He lifted the heavy bucket. They started to walk. The bucket bumped against his legs, causing the water to spill over the sides. He tried to hold it out from his side, but the position was unnatural and his back started to hurt almost immediately. Perhaps if he held it against his chest with both arms. . . He turned to see Ixchel watching him with amusement.

“How do you carry it?”

She smiled again. “On your head, of course.”

He lifted the heavy bucket above his head and set it down gingerly. It felt as if his neck would collapse under the weight. How could a twelve-year-old girl carry this? They set out again along the path, Nic holding the bucket with both hands. Ixchel padded along behind him. He realized it was easier to carry this way, in spite of the pressure on his neck.

“Why do you not put your arms down?” she asked, from behind him. “You will get tired that way.”

He half-turned to look at her and stumbled over a small root in the path. The water sloshed over the lip of the bucket, drenching his face and mantle. Ixchel giggled, and he joined in her laughter. The cool water felt good and he wished he had been able to swim in the cenote.

“I can’t put my arms down,” he said. “The bucket will fall off my head and then we’ll have to go back and get more water.”

She laughed again and said, “The women of your village must carry all the water. In our village the men do it as well.”

Nic decided to take a chance, and said, “In my village no one carries water. The water comes to our houses through tubes.”

She looked at him, round-eyed. “What are tubes?”

He looked around the jungle for an example. “Like those,” he said, pointing at a thicket of bamboo. “Only bigger, and made of metal.”

“What is metal?”

Nic remembered that the only metals the ancient Mayas had were gold, silver and bronze. “Like gold or bronze.”

Ixchel looked suspicious. “How do you know these things? In the village they say you do not remember anything.”

“That’s true. I mean, I don’t remember where my village is or what it’s called or how I got to your village. But I do remember some things about it. Like what I just told you.”

She frowned as she tried to puzzle out what he had said. “So, people put one end of the tube in the cenote and the other end in their house?”

“Yes.”

“But how does the water come up inside the tube? We have to lift it up in a gourd. Rain falls down from the sky, it does not fall up. And how could there be a tube long enough to get from the cenote to a house?” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head decisively. “No, it is not possible. I do not believe you.”

She looked so much like Itzel that Nic smiled.

She flushed. “You are teasing me. Give me the water.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not teasing you. It’s hard to explain.” They were nearing the edge of the jungle. Nic took the bucket down from his head and handed it to her. She set it on her own head, dropped her arms to her sides and padded away down the path, her slight figure lithe and graceful, her shining black hair hanging halfway down her back.

“Can we talk again?” Nic called after her. “I’d like to explain it to you better.” Ixchel paused and looked back, without spilling a drop.

“All right,” she said, with a smile. “I would like to know how this can work.” She turned around and continued down the path.

Nic turned off into the jungle and picked his way carefully through the vines and hanging foliage, keeping a watchful eye out for snakes. As he reached the spot at which he had entered, he remembered Ixchel hadn’t answered his question about the amulet. It didn’t matter. Even if he found it again, there was no guarantee he could make it take him back to the twenty-first century. Would he want to leave before the full moon anyway? Could he just leave Ixchel to her fate? He reminded himself that if José’s theory was correct, something would happen to avert the sacrifice. But how could he be sure? Maybe Ixchel wasn’t Itzel’s ancestor after all—maybe this was an entirely different sacrifice. And how could he save her? The idea of confronting the High Priest was absurd. He shook his head in frustration. Always the same questions, and no answers. And worst of all, he had no idea how, or even if, he would ever get back to his own time.

He rejoined the party. Apparently no one had noticed his absence. Most of the men and some of the women had gourds of mead in their hands and there was much talking and loud laughter. On the trestle tables were large wooden platters piled high with roasted venison. Smaller wooden plates were stacked next to them and there were also large gourds full of salsa, beans and what looked like yams. Some people were eating already, tearing off strips of venison and enfolding them in tortillas. Bacal was serving at one of the tables along with the other women, and she beckoned to him. He walked over to her, and she served him a plateful of food which he ate, lingering by the table and talking to her. She offered him a cup of mead, which he declined. When he had finished, he asked Bacal when they would leave. She told him she had to stay and serve the food and help clean up afterwards.

He looked around for Nachancán, and saw him in a group of men clustered around the High Priest. Nic wandered around, tormented by his thoughts. Suddenly he had an idea. Throwing a quick glance at Bacal, who was still busy serving, and Nachancán, who had his back to him, he walked quietly away, hoping no one would notice him leaving. Once out of sight of the revelers, he turned toward the house.

He opened the front door and slipped inside. Though it couldn’t be more than three or four o’clock in the afternoon, the interior was dim. He went directly to the place where he had seen Nachancán carving the amulet the night before. Nachancán’s blanket was folded neatly in the corner. Nic lifted one corner and saw two amulets, one which looked finished and the other only half-done. Bracing himself, Nic picked up the finished amulet.

He felt nothing. No electrical charge. The amulet was nothing more than a cool, smooth lump of jade in his hand. He brought it close to his eyes and examined it, then turned it over to see the markings on the back. There were none. He replaced it and touched the other amulet, half-hoping for the shock to travel up his arm, but it was as inert as the first one.

Nic covered the amulets with the blanket and went outside into the afternoon sunshine. He walked to the cistern at the back of the house where he served himself several dipperfuls of cold, clear water, then picked out a shady spot under a tree and sat down to think. Why hadn’t the amulets shocked him? That was easy. Nachancán just carved them—it took the High Priest to give them magical powers. And why were there no markings on the backs? Again, he reasoned, the High Priest must mark them when he prepared them for the sacrifice. Might Ixchel have already been given an amulet? That didn’t make sense, Nic thought, if no one was allowed to touch them except for the person who made them and the High Priest. It would probably be used on her at the moment of the sacrifice.

There was nothing else he could do, so he resolved to be patient and wait for whatever came next. He reminded himself that the adventure he was living was going to give him a huge advantage over every other researcher in Mayan history. . . if you ever get back, the little voice in his head reminded him.

 

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“Now they can be married.”

“Married? They’re too young.”

Bacal said, “That is our custom. At what age do girls get married in your village?”

“I don’t remember,” Nic said.

They walked for a few minutes in silence. Then he asked, “Do you know Ixchel?”

“Yes,” Bacal answered. “She lives near our house.” She looked at him with interest. “Do you want to marry Ixchel?”

“Her father told me she can’t marry. Do you know why?”

She looked perplexed. “I don’t know.”

Nic said, “She told me she would be honored at the full moon.”

“Oh!” Bacal answered. This was evidently news to her. She was silent for a moment, then said, “That is good. We will have more rain.”

“Do you think she’s happy about it?” Nic pressed. A crease appeared between Bacal’s eyebrows as she looked at him.

“Happy? I don’t understand.”

Reminding himself that the concept of individual happiness might be meaningless to Bacal, Nic decided to take a more direct approach.

“Does the High Priest give her something to help her?”

Understanding dawned on her face. “Oh! The High Priest will send her soul to heaven before she is sacrificed.”

Finally he was getting somewhere. He pressed on. “How does he send her soul to heaven?”

“With the jade amulet.”

Nic asked, “Where does he get it?”

“Nachancán carves the amulets for the High Priest.” She smiled with pride. “It is a very important job.”

“Can you show me one?”

Bacal looked shocked. “Only Nachancán and the High Priest may touch the amulets.”

At least it had been worth a try. He hoped Bacal wouldn’t mention his interest to Nachancán. He didn’t want him wondering why his strange guest was so interested in the amulets. He could see he was going to have to resort to cunning if he was going to get his hands on one.

They arrived at a house at the other end of the village where a delicious aroma filled the air. Bacal smiled at him and went to join the other women and girls hurrying in and out of the house. Nic saw huge chunks of meat spitted and roasting over an open fire. He guessed it was the deer from the day before, and his mouth watered. Men were setting up long trestle tables. He saw Nachancán in the middle of a knot of men, looking more sociable than usual. He was holding a gourd in one hand and gesturing with the other as he talked. Ixchel was with the other women, who were setting wooden bowls of food out on the tables. She blushed and looked away when he glanced in her direction. Someone handed him a hollowed-out gourd and Nic took a tentative sip. It tasted like fermented honey and he realized it must be mead, the wine of the Mayas. Making a face, he looked around to make sure he was unobserved and poured it out at the base of a tree. He longed for a drink of pure water.

A man, dressed in feathers and shells, his expression stern, approached him. Nic steeled himself. He bowed his head and greeted the other man, who took his arm and said, “The High Priest wants to speak to you.”

Nic looked for Nachancán, but he had disappeared. He followed the man into the house, where the High Priest, still in his red finery from the baptism, but without the miter on his head, was seated cross-legged on a rug on the floor. Nachancán, next to him, nodded at Nic. Flanking them stood two muscular men dressed in embroidered loincloths like the one Nic had on today. Both held long spears in their hands and their black almond-shaped eyes looked right through Nic.

Nic stopped in front of the High Priest and bowed. He wished he had learned the ceremonial forms of courtesy while researching ancient Mayan customs. Of course, he had never imagined he would need them.

The High Priest held out Nic’s i-Pod. “What magic is this? What is it for?” His face looked like a thundercloud.

So Nachancán had given it to him. Nic couldn’t blame him—it would certainly earn him favored status in the High Priest’s eyes. And who knows what kind of trouble Nachancán might have been in had he been discovered with the i-Pod in his possession. Though he had never before experienced it, Nic was beginning to understand what life was like in a society in which individual rights and freedoms did not exist, where one man held ultimate power over his subjects’ lives and deaths. The High Priest continued to glower at him.

“May I show you?” he asked, keeping his eyes lowered. He took the i-Pod from the High Priest’s hand, turned it on, and handed him the earbuds. “You put these in your ears,” he said, pantomiming it. The High Priest did so, his haughty black eyes fixed on Nic. When the music began—Nic had chosen the same Mayan folk song he had played for Nachancán and Bacal—the priest gave a slight start and his eyes narrowed, but he maintained his regal posture. He listened until the song was through, then removed the earbuds. He held out his hand and Nic surrendered the i-Pod. The priest placed it carefully on the rug next to him, crossed his arms across his chest and looked at Nic with an expression that was even grimmer.

“Have you come to conquer our people with this magic?” he demanded. When Nic didn’t answer, he said, “Speak! I command you.”

Unable to come up with a plausible story, Nic said, “No, I haven’t. It’s. . . it’s a gift for you.”

The High Priest continued to glare at him. “Where did you come from? Who are your people?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember. But I have nothing against your people. I’m very grateful that you have taken me in.”

The High Priest turned to Nachancán and spoke in a low voice. Nachancán nodded. The priest turned back to Nic and said, “You will live with Nachancán for now. He will tell you what to do. You may go, but remember, I will be watching you.” Unsmiling, he gestured toward the man who had escorted Nic in, and he was led out.

Outside, he looked for Ixchel, but couldn’t find her. He approached one of the girls who had been with her at the baptism and asked where she was. She lowered her eyes and told him Ixchel had gone to get water from the cenote.

Nic thanked her and wandered through the crowd, edging nearer the jungle which surrounded the village. He made sure no one was looking, then ducked into the trees and tried to orient himself. Where was the cenote he had gone to the first day? He realized he had no idea how to find it, and there was no way to be sure Ixchel had gone to that one anyway. She must have taken a path, he thought.

Keeping the clearing in sight, Nic circled it, forcing his way through the thick undergrowth while staying hidden behind the outer row of trees. Soon he came across a narrow path. Scratched and sweaty, he turned onto it and walked quickly away from the village. The steamy heat of the jungle rose all around him and sweat ran into his eyes. Ten minutes later, he came out into a small open space. He saw Ixchel across the short grass and started forward, then stopped. What if she wasn’t alone? He stepped back into the cover of the jungle. She was kneeling at the edge of the cenote, looking down. Nic scanned the rest of the clearing, but saw no one.

He walked toward her, calling her name in a low voice. She spun around, and Nic realized she might feel threatened seeing him in that isolated place. He lifted both hands and walked to a spot on the other side of the cenote, where he sat down, dangling his legs over the edge. Ixchel had been drawing water from the green pool, whose surface was a good ten feet below them, by means of a small hollowed-out gourd attached to a long cord. Beside her sat a much larger wooden container half-full of water. String in hand, she stared at him, paralyzed, the gourd floating on the surface of the water.

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Adjusting his mantle, the priest seated himself on the central bench. He motioned for the first child, a chubby toddler with a bowl-shaped mop of hair and eyes like black almonds, to come forward. The child’s father led him by the hand to the priest’s knee, where the holy man placed his hand on the shiny black hair and intoned a prayer, unintelligible to Nic. Then he took a small handful of the ground substance and placed it in the child’s hand, directing him to throw it into the brazier. As the child did so, a puff of smoke released a strong smell of incense and the child looked up at the priest and laughed. Nic saw a smile cross the priest’s face as he looked down at the little boy. So, the High Priest was human too.

This procedure was repeated with all the children, after which they went with their parents to stand in the audience. The priest went into the house, and the chacs removed the benches and the cords. One of them gave a vase to another man who had come forward from the crowd, and spoke to him in a low voice. The man took the vase and walked away from the gathering.

“What’s in the vase and where is that man going?” Nic asked Bacal. She smiled and said the vase contained wine.

“It is very important for him not to taste the wine or look behind him when he returns,” she said.

“Why?”

“It contains the evil spirit. He is taking it far away from the village.”

Two of the chacs were now sweeping up the leaves which had been scattered on the patio.

“Is it over?” Nic asked.

“No, the High Priest has purified the house. Now the baptism will begin.”

She turned away and began talking to a woman next to her. Nic surveyed the crowd behind him. Most people had relaxed with the disappearance of the priest and were now talking and laughing. Some of the older children to be baptized were playing tag, while the younger ones clung to their mothers’ skirts and the smallest of all suckled at their mothers’ breasts.

Nic caught sight of Ixchel talking to a couple of girls. Her long black hair was pulled back and held in place with a tortoise-shell comb, and she wore a simple white shift, decorated with white feathers. Watching her, Nic felt a stab of loneliness.

One of the other girls saw him looking at Ixchel and nudged her. Nic dropped his eyes, but not soon enough—Ixchel looked over her shoulder at him and blushed a deep red. Obviously he had given her and her friends the wrong impression. Nic scanned the crowd, but didn’t see Ixchel’s father, so he mustered his courage and walked over to the girls. They looked at him with a flurry of nervous giggles. He turned to Ixchel.

“Hi.” She blushed again. “I wanted to ask you yesterday about how you will be honored at the full moon. Did the High Priest choose you?” The other girls watched Ixchel.

“Yes,” she said, with pride. “Of all the girls my age, he chose to honor me and my family.”

“They must be very proud of you.” The girl nodded. Now her friends looked at Nic. “What will happen on the day of the full moon?”

“There will be a ceremony and the whole village will be watching me. The High Priest will bless me and my soul will fly to a special place in heaven.”

Nic saw fear in her eyes. He asked himself why he was tormenting her, but pressed on. “Are you afraid?”

Ixchel hesitated. Her friends watched her. She looked confused. “The High Priest told me I will not suffer.”

Nic asked, “Did he give you something to keep you from suffering?”

The buzz of conversation around them suddenly ceased and Ixchel turned away. He looked over the heads of the crowd, which was not difficult since almost all the Mayas were at least two inches shorter than he was, and saw that the High Priest had reappeared and the children had been led again into the open space, which was now scattered with fresh leaves. There they formed two lines, boys in one and girls in the other. The High Priest had changed and was now dressed in a resplendent tunic which reached to the middle of his thighs and was thickly embroidered with bright red feathers. Like a red Big Bird, thought Nic. Here and there feathers of other hues provided contrast to the red, and long, multi-colored plumes hung from the hem. On his head was a tall miter worked with the same red feathers and in his hand he carried a carved and decorated stick with a spray of what looked like rattlesnake tails attached to one end. He stood silent in the middle of the cleared space as the chacs went from child to child, unfolding and placing white cloths on their heads and hanging others, hammock-like, from their shoulders. Nic stood on tiptoe and saw the mini-hammocks contained vividly-colored feathers and a few grains of what looked like coffee.

At a signal from the priest, the children and the audience sat down. He walked down the two rows of children, stopping to say a lengthy prayer and wave his scepter over each one. Nic glanced at Ixchel. She watched, absorbed, following every movement the priest made. The audience was silent—even the babies had stopped crying—and Nic wondered what would happen to someone who dared to disobey the absolute authority of the High Priest.

A man from the audience made his way forward to the High Priest, who handed him a small bone. He went to the first child and waved the bone toward his forehead, stopping just short of hitting him. Nic noticed the boy did not flinch. This movement was repeated nine times with all the children. The man then dipped the bone into a gourd of clear liquid he carried in his other hand and returned to the first child, whom he anointed with the liquid on his forehead, his face, between his fingers and on his feet. This was carried out in silence with great solemnity. Nic touched Ixchel on the shoulder.

“What is that water?”

“It is virgin water,” she answered in a low voice. “From the jungle.”

“From a cenote?”

Ixchel looked exasperated. “No, from the rocks and trees. Where the rain god puts it.” She turned back to the ceremony.

So, Nic thought, the ancient Mayas also used water to baptize- before having been exposed to Christianity. That was interesting. He turned his attention to the ceremony again, where the priest was now making his way down the rows of children, removing the white cloths from their heads and shoulders and handing them to a chac who followed him. Then, with a stone knife, he cut away the white discs the boys wore tied into their hair.

The other chacs came out of the house, each carrying a bouquet of flowers and a lit pipe. Each child was given the bouquet to smell and the pipe to smoke. Nic wondered briefly if the Mayas ever got lung cancer.

Now the atmosphere changed. The crowd began to stir, and the children’s mothers went to their newly-baptized little ones, offering them food which they ate eagerly. Nic noticed a man at the edge of the cleared space drinking something from a beautifully carved vessel, while others stood around him.

“What’s that?” he asked Ixchel.

“It’s wine—a gift from the children to the gods.”

People were starting to drift away. The mothers of the baptized girls now cut the cords around their waists, as the priest had cut the cords attaching the white discs to the boys’ heads.

Nic turned to Ixchel to ask the reason for this, but she was no longer at his side. Instead, he saw Bacal coming toward him. He asked,

“Is it over now?”

She nodded and motioned for him to follow her. They joined the crowd, all of whom were in high spirits, laughing and talking. As they walked, Nic asked Bacal,

“Why did they cut the white cords from the girls’ waists?”

The look she gave him showed Nic what his future role in the community would be: village idiot. That’s okay, he told himself, that way I can find out more without people getting suspicious.