The young girl’s eyes were squeezed shut and her slight figure trembled as she knelt on the ledge overhanging the Sacred Cenote, the stone well of sacrifice whose opaque waters had filled her dreams since the High Priest had spoken to her father. A heartbeat away the ledge ended in a sheer sixty-foot drop to the dim green surface of the water.
She opened her eyes just enough to see the priest towering over her. His headdress of sweeping bright-blue quetzal feathers stood out against the pale brilliance of the full moon. Chanting, he extended his right arm heavenward. She squinted at the semicircle of figures in the darkness around her. Where was her mother?
The priest was so close she could smell him. A wave of dizziness rolled over her. She told herself it would all be over soon, this was the greatest honor any twelve-year old girl could hope for, her parents were proud, her soul would fly to heaven. She closed her eyes and tried to keep her face rigid, but the tears came anyway.
With a muttered incantation the priest crouched next to her. His feathered headdress swept her cheek as he brought his hand toward her. She gasped as a burning coldness invaded her chest. . .
**
A piercing shriek jolted Nic out of his reverie. Just below him, a tourist struggled to haul her child down the steep narrow steps of the Great Pyramid. He smiled at the toddler’s determination to go in the opposite direction.
He looked around. The oblique rays of the late afternoon sun shone across the Mayan Ceremonial Center of Chichen Itzá, gilding the gray stone of the pyramids. In the distance, just beyond a narrow swath of jungle, lay the Sacred Well of Sacrifice, the setting of the vivid scene that had just played itself out in his mind. Who had that girl been? Where had she come from? He’d always been a daydreamer, but this wasn’t just any daydream. He’d been inside her head, he’d heard her thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to summon her up again, but she was gone.
The distant rumble of a bus engine starting up reminded him his group would be leaving soon. Spring break had flown by and tomorrow was his last day. The other kids in his junior year abroad program had had enough of crumbling pyramids and were anxious to get back to the university in Mérida. They couldn’t understand Nic’s obsession with the Ceremonial Site—to them it was more fascinating to be waved into an antro, a Mexican club, without having to show ID.
Nic didn’t understand it either. Maybe it was because he was half Maya and could almost pass for native, with his dark skin, black hair and aquiline nose. Only his green eyes and gringo accent gave him away—and his gangly 6’ 2” frame. He’d been interested in pre-Columbian history ever since reading about the Aztecs and the Mayas in seventh grade. But it was more than that. Chichen Itzá was mystical. When it was quiet, like now, he could almost hear the voices of his ancestors floating across the grassy expanses between the ancient stone structures. This was where he wanted to be, not in an airless classroom listening to some stuffy professor drone on. He wanted to be where it had all happened.
He made his way down the steps of the pyramid, feeling for his footing in the failing light. He was almost to the bottom when he saw a small dark man looking up at him.
“Perdón—”
“Sorry, is the site closing?” Nic said in Spanish. “I’m on my way out.”
“No, no.” The man shook his head. “I wanted to ask—I mean, I’ve noticed you this week. I can tell you’re interested in our history.” His dark face was an intersection of flat planes, as if hewn from a block of mahogany with a few economical strokes of the axe.
Nic took a furtive look around, but no one else was in sight. “I am. My major’s Mayan history.”
The man stuck out his hand. “José Moreno. I take care of the grounds here.” Nic’s large hand enveloped José’s small, callused one.
“Nic Porter. Mucho gusto.” He pointed to the bus idling at the edge of the site. “I’d better be going. I think my group—”
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s my last day.”
José took a deep breath. “Could you—would you like to come to my house for comida?”
Nic looked toward the parking lot. “Uh. . .”
“We could talk about history. Or—do you have to stay with your group?” Was it Nic’s imagination or did his tone sound pleading? Maybe he was selling something. He yielded to his curiosity.
“Okay, I guess I could come. Thanks.”
José’s dark face broke into a smile, exposing kernel-like white teeth. “Muy bien. I’ll look for you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Adios! ” Freed, Nic sprinted for his bus.
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