Congratulations!! You made it to the very end! I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I did writing it. If you’ve become addicted to reading serialized books, never fear: my next YA novel, The Ring of Leilani, starts next week. Thanks for reading!

If you missed any of the previous installments, you can find them on the “My Writing” page. Start at the bottom and scroll up! I’d love to hear your feedback.

Chapter Twenty-two

Nic stood in line at the UCLA bookstore, leafing through the top book on the stack he carried. Outside, the grassy quad was thronged with students, the sun shone, and there was just a hint of crispness in the air. It was a perfect fall day in Los Angeles.

Three months had passed since his return from the past. Upon his arrival at the university in Mérida, he had written down everything that had happened, more to distract himself than for academic reasons. In fact, his dreams of academic success had backfired. He had soon realized that all his first-hand knowledge of early Mayan society and culture was worthless since he had no archaeological evidence to back it up. Sometimes it seemed it couldn’t have happened. As a result, he had been forced to cram two months of research into less than a week, coming up with a paper that was a disappointment to his professor, and worse, to the director of the program. Nic remembered standing before his desk as the director paged through it.

“It’s passing work, no worse than I’ve gotten from some of the other students.” He shook his head. “But I’d expected more from you.” He’d paused, waiting for an explanation. Nic felt heat suffusing his face. “Was there a girl involved, by any chance?” the director had asked with a smile. Nic had stammered an excuse and left the office as soon as he could. Fortunately, his GPA was high enough that the C he’d received hadn’t affected him too much. Then there’d been the unpleasant scene at the library when he’d had to explain that he had lost all the books he’d been allowed to take to Chichen Itzá. That required an emergency call to his parents and more lies to get them to wire enough money to cover the cost of the books.

At least he had managed to avoid having to explain the reason he had arrived at the University after a two-month absence dressed in a threadbare shirt of antique vintage and worn polyester bellbottoms, both several sizes too small. He’d waited until it was dark enough to sneak into his room using the key that was still hidden under the rock near the door. Inside, he’d changed into his own clothes, taken the small amount of cash he kept stashed for midnight vending machine raids, and gone out again to a nearby barbershop.

Looking back, Nic didn’t know how he’d made it through the last couple of weeks of the semester. No doubt his sudden taciturnity had caused speculation among his professors and the other students, but they had kept their distance. Nic had shown no interest in going out with his companions for one last underage fling at the antros. All his attention was focused on getting through the remaining time and leaving for Los Angeles. Not because he was dying to see his parents or his friends at home, but because he wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and everything that reminded him of Itzel.

And now he was starting his senior year and it was a time for new beginnings. Looking through his books as he waited in line, bringing his nose close to inhale the pleasant acrid smell of crisp paper and ink, Nic almost believed it. He felt more hopeful than he had for a long time. Just take one day at a time, that was all he had to do. He would make it.

Twenty minutes later he was crossing the quad, his backpack heavy with new books, on his way to his first class: Musical Expression among the Classic Maya. Nic smiled, wondering if the teacher would mention a puzzling artifact that had been found in the ruins at Chichen Itzá: a small white rectangular object that looked very much like a modern-day iPod, yet had been carbon-dated and definitively proved to be of the Classic era. It was frustrating not to be able to publish a paper on all his experiences, but at least he had the memories. If he remained in this field, what he had learned had to be of some use to him professionally. Much as he loved history, Nic wasn’t sure he wanted to continue immersing himself in a subject that reminded him of Itzel. It was too late to change his major now, but perhaps when he graduated he would become an insurance salesman or a lawyer. Something safe, with no memories attached.

He pulled open the heavy door to the lecture room and entered on tiptoe. The room was an amphitheater, with semicircular tiers of seats rising around a central space where the professor was standing with his back to the class, outlining on the blackboard the various eras of Mayan civilization. Nic slipped into a seat at the end of the top row. A gangly, red-headed boy two seats down gave him a brief smile and turned back to his notes. Nic opened his notebook, took out a pen and looked around. The auditorium was quiet save for the scraping of the chalk on the blackboard. Students bent over their desks, copying the professor’s chart. Nic took a deep breath. It was good to be back in school. This was where he belonged. He could never be an insurance salesman.

The professor turned toward them and pointed to the blackboard. “Can anyone tell me whether string, wind or percussion instruments were used during the Classic period?”

Nic didn’t remember hearing any music during the two months he’d been at Nachancán’s house—other than that produced by his own iPod, of course.

Several students raised their hands.

“The young lady in the third row, please.” The professor pointed to a girl sitting about ten rows down from Nic.

“Flutes of various kinds have been depicted in many paintings.”

The girl’s voice sounded like Itzel’s—without the quaintly-accented English, of course. Was there nowhere he could go to be free of his tormenting memories?

The professor nodded his approval. “Yes, as you say, Miss. . .”

“Moreno,” the girl supplied.

“Thank you, Miss Moreno. Recorder-style flutes were used in almost all important ceremonies, for religious purposes. Can anyone tell me if music was used on social occasions as well?”

Moreno? That was a coincidence. Of course, it was a common Spanish surname. Nic sat up straighter in his chair to get a better look, but all he could see was the girl’s back. He craned his head to the side, but she was bent over her desk writing, her face hidden by the sweep of her long black hair. A sudden wild hope surged in him.

Nic was unable to concentrate for the rest of the class. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling with excitement. When the redheaded boy down the row frowned at this unwarranted enthusiasm, Nic took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. Zafrina had said Malinali and her family had moved either to Chicago or Los Angeles.

When class was over, Nic positioned himself under a tree about fifty feet away so he could see the students as they exited the lecture hall. His heart hammered every time a girl walked out the door. At last she came out, deep in conversation with another girl, her books cradled in one arm and her cell phone in the other hand.

It was Itzel. Now that he could see her face, there could be no mistake: the same delicate aquiline nose, the same black, almond-shaped eyes, the same white teeth. Something was different, though. He studied her face, trying to figure out what it was, then realized: no dark circles under her eyes.

The other girl noticed him staring and nudged her companion, who turned to look at him. He began to move toward her, talking as he walked.

“Excuse me for staring at you, but you look a lot like someone I used to know.” The girlfriend rolled her eyes, but Itzel—if it was Itzel—looked at him, a puzzled look on her face.

“You seem familiar to me too,” she said, in her lovely Itzel voice, “though I don’t think I’ve ever met you before. Maybe I’ve seen you around campus?”

He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, never let her go. Don’t scare her away, he cautioned himself. She held his gaze, the same doubtful look on her face.

“Hey. Itzel. Let’s go,” said the girlfriend. “Class starts in five minutes.”

Itzel. It was Itzel. Tears started to Nic’s eyes and he hastily blinked them away. Itzel’s expression became guarded.

“Come on. This guy’s a weirdo,” her friend said, pulling at Itzel’s arm.

“No, please,” Nic said, holding out a hand and taking a step toward her. “I’m sorry, it’s just that the girl I knew. . . ” She took a step back and, with a brief smile, turned to walk away with her friend. He’d blown it.

“Is your mother’s name Malinali?” he called after her.

She stopped and turned back. “How did you know that? Do you know her?”

“Yes.” Her curiosity had given him the advantage now. “And your father’s José, right?” She nodded. Her friend said,

“Hey—lovebirds—I don’t want to be late on the first day of class.” She hesitated, but Itzel ignored her. “Okay, just for the record I warned you not to talk to this weirdo. I’m leaving.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Save me a seat.” Itzel turned back to Nic. He felt his tense muscles relax.

“I don’t want to make you late for class,” he said. He tried to keep the goofy smile off his face as he consulted his watch. “I’ve got to go too. But could we maybe get some coffee after class? In a public place, of course.”

She gave him the smile that had made him fall in love with her. “Sounds good. I’ll bring my bodyguards.” She glanced at the retreating figure of her friend. “At eleven? Right here?” Nic nodded. Itzel slipped her cell phone into her pocket, gave him a brief wave, and began to walk away, then turned back.

“It’s the weirdest thing. I feel as if I know you already. Am I crazy?”

Love threatened to lift Nic off the ground. He shook his head. “Not unless I am too. See you at eleven!” He waved and sprinted away in the opposite direction.

 

THE END

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With no idea what to do next, Nic continued to walk aimlessly, feeling hungrier by the minute. He reached the other end of the village, an area he had never visited while living with José and Malinali, and nodded to a tiny, ancient woman sitting on her doorstep enjoying the afternoon sun as he passed. Her face looked familiar. Wasn’t she Malinali’s great-aunt Zafrina? He walked back and squatted in the dust next to her, hoping against hope.

“Buenas tardes.”

“Buenas tardes. ¿Cómo está usted?” she responded. Unlike the others, she didn’t seem put off by his strange costume. Perhaps that was because she looked old enough to have been around when her countrymen still dressed like this, Nic thought.

“Bien, gracias. Excuse me—do you know Malinali?” he asked.

“Malinali?” She screwed up her withered-apple face to think as Nic held his breath.

“Malinali. Your great-niece?” he prompted. Her face cleared and she nodded.

“Oh, sí, Malinali. No, I don’t know her.”

Confused, Nic said, “You don’t? But you just said—”

She nodded. “She’s my great-niece.”

Thank goodness. Perhaps it was just that her memory was spotty. He continued, “And you know José too, right?”

A frown added a new wrinkle to her nut-brown brow. “Which José?”

“Malinali’s husband.”

“I didn’t know she was married.”

“You don’t know José?” Nic asked again. This was getting more confusing by the minute. “Do you know Itzel?”

“Itzel? No.”

“Itzel! Malinali’s daughter. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

Looking at him with new interest, Zafrina demanded, “Why are you dressed like that?”

Nic lifted his arms and let them fall. “Because I don’t have any other clothes. I have no clothes, no money, and no food.”

Zafrina didn’t ask why he was in this predicament, but rather, got to her feet, using the gnarled wooden cane lying by her side, and turned to go inside.

“Come on. I have some clothes from when my husband was alive. They’ll be too small for you, but at least they’ll cover you. I can give you a meal too.”

Nic followed her inside. The hut, with its neatly-swept floor of packed earth, was spotless. Much smaller than José’s and Malinali’s, it appeared to consist of one room only. A narrow single bed with a woven blanket in reds and greens was pushed against one wall. Leaning against the opposite wall was a rickety wooden table with two sturdy wooden chairs pulled up to it, and in the kitchen area, where the old woman was now busying herself, clay pots of various sizes hung from nails driven into the mud walls. In one corner stood a large square object—a table, perhaps?—covered with an embroidered piece of muslin, atop which three gaudily-painted china shepherdesses had been carefully arranged.

Nic sat down on one of the wooden chairs, reminded once more how tired he was. The smell of freshly-cooked beans overwhelmed everything else. Zafrina heated tortillas on a large, free-standing comal. When she had a sizable pile, she wrapped them in a white cloth napkin and served them to Nic with a large bowl of beans and some salsa. He began to wolf it down.

“You are hungry,” Zafrina observed.

“Yes. Thank you very much for feeding me,” Nic said, through a mouthful of beans.

She shuffled to a small chest of drawers next to the bed and took out a set of eighties-vintage men’s clothing that she brought to the table.

“These were my husband’s. You may have them.”

He thanked her again. She sat down on the other chair and watched him eat. “Where do you come from?”

“The United States,” Nic said. “I’m studying at the University in Mérida. I came to Chichen Itzá to do an independent study. That’s how I met the Morenos.”

Her expression showed polite interest. “Do they live around here?”

Nic stopped eating and said, “Wait a minute. You’re Zafrina, right?”

Her wizened face puckered into a delighted smile. “How did you know my name?”

He wanted to reach out and shake her tiny frame. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Nic. We met at the Morenos’.”

She covered her mouth with a gnarled hand and shook with laughter. Pointing an arthritic finger at him, she said, “Nic. Do you know—”

“Yes, I know. It means little flower,” Nic said with irritation. Zafrina stopped laughing. Had he offended her? Leaning forward, he laid a hand on her bony arm. “I’m sorry, this is really important. Do you remember the day we met at the Morenos’?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. And I don’t know the Morenos.” She tapped her temple. “I think you’re a little bit loco.” Seemingly unfazed by the prospect of having a crazy gringo in her home, she pointed to his empty bowl and asked, “Do you want some more?”

“Yes, please.” Nic thought. He didn’t understand what was going on, but at least Zafrina did know Malinali.

“Where is Malinali?” he asked.

Zafrina looked wistful. “I haven’t seen her since she was four years old. They wanted me to go, but I didn’t want to, because Rafael, my husband, had a good job here at the Center, and my son did also. Later he left too.”

“Where did they go?” Nic asked.

“Al norte,” Zafrina said, waving her stick-like arm in the general direction of the back window.

Al norte. To the north. Nic had heard that expression used before among rural Mexicans. It meant to the United States.

Unbelieving, he asked, “Her family went to the United States? When?”

“I told you, when she was four years old. My brother’s son had the opportunity to go as a bracero and he thought it would be best for his family. It must have worked out well for them because he never came back. And then my son went too. My only son left his mother.”

Nic did a rapid calculation. Malinali had to be in her late fifties- that would mean they had gone to the U.S. in the nineteen-fifties, during the time of the bracero program. How could that be, if he had met them and stayed with them right here at the Ceremonial Center?

“Have they not come back to visit?”

“My son, yes. He comes every year or two.” Her expression brightened. “He bought me this.” She got up and hobbled to the large square object in the corner of the room. Transferring the china shepherdesses to the dresser with care, Zafrina pulled off the embroidered cloth with a flourish, revealing an antique avocado-green Kenmore washing machine.

“That’s a wonderful present. . .but you don’t have electricity or running water,” Nic said.

“No, but maybe someday I will. My son is very generous with me,” she said with pride.

“But the Morenos—I mean Malinali—you’ve lost contact with them?”

“Yes. They don’t write or call any more.” She resumed her seat at the table and leaned her withered cheek against her hand. “They did for a while, but they must have gotten busy. Así es la vida.”

“Do you know where they went in the United States?”

“I think Chicago. Or was it Los Angeles?”

“Where is your son?”

“Chicago. He says there is snow there in the winter. That it gets this high.” She raised her arm as high above her head as she could. “He wants to take me there to live with him, but I don’t think I would like snow. Besides, his wife doesn’t like me. Better to be alone and in peace.”

Zafrina got up again and shuffled to the bed. Groping under the pillow, she brought out a few coins, which she handed to Nic.

“Why don’t you go to the store and get us a couple of cervezas?”

Nic agreed and stepped outside, squinting in the late-afternoon sunlight. He walked in the direction of the corner grocery, so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost collided with a plump housewife carrying a large watermelon on her head. She gave him an outraged look, and he realized he had forgotten to change into the clothes Zafrina had given him. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered. Itzel had been taken from him by some cruel twist of fate. How could this have happened? He had journeyed back in time and appeased the gods, or at least enabled the amulet to complete its cycle, only to get back to his own time and discover that Itzel wasn’t here—and perhaps didn’t even exist.

The answer, when it came, was like a bleak winter sun dawning over the dark landscape of his confusion. Of course nothing was the same. By returning the amulet to the cenote, he had altered the course of events for all future generations of Itzel’s family. It was inevitable that their lives would take different paths now that they hadn’t had to deal with illness and premature death on the female side of the family. Itzel’s grandparents had decided to try their luck in the United States because Malinali and her mother were healthy—there was nothing to stop them. This was why no one recognized him—he had never been here before. By fulfilling the amulet’s destiny, Nic had rewritten history.

He reached the store. Stunned by the enormity of his realization, he let himself fall onto a crude wooden bench occupied by a couple of young men in dusty cargo shorts and tee shirts having a beer. One of them nudged the other and pointed to Nic’s loincloth with his beer bottle. Both snickered, and the first one said,

“Hey, bro, love your loincloth. Where can I get one?”

Nic lifted a hand and got up. His creative powers weren’t up to inventing an entertaining story to explain his clothing. He started to walk away, then forced himself to go into the store and buy the beers. The two young men saluted him in affected falsettos as he passed them on his way out.

Back at Zafrina’s, he sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. He supposed he should leave, but there was nowhere to go. It was too late to get a bus to Mérida. Zafrina offered him a beer and he shook his head.

“You are tired,” she said. She opened her own beer and took a long swig. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

He raised his head and looked at her with gratitude.

“Gracias.”

She rose, pulled a blanket from under the bed and carried it to the other side of the room, where she unfolded it onto the dirt floor.

“Here you are. Do you want to sleep now?”

“Is there a bathroom?” he asked.

She led him to the back door and pointed to a small outhouse at the back of the patch of rough grass which served as her garden. As he headed toward it, she went inside and came back with his new clothes.

“Don’t forget these.”

In the outhouse, Nic dressed and returned to the house. The pants reached only to mid-calf and barely closed around his waist. He thanked Zafrina again and lay down on the blanket. He wondered how Nachancán and Bacal were and what had happened after his leap into the cenote. Then sleep arrived like a longed-for companion to relieve him of his loneliness.

If you missed any of the previous installments, you can find them on the “My Writing” page. Start at the bottom and scroll up! I’d love to hear your feedback.

The first thing Nic felt was a tickle against his cheek and a sweet smell which he knew could only be new-mown grass. He rolled over and opened one eye, closing it again against the brightness, then pulled himself to a sitting position, shaded his eyes and looked around.

The ruins of the Ceremonial Center surrounded him. The brightness was the mid-day sun. Nic let out a whoop of victory. A middle-aged tourist in bermuda shorts, sandals and socks walked by and gave him an offended look. He looked down and realized he was wearing only a loincloth.

Nic stood up carefully and adjusted the narrow strips of embroidered cloth that barely covered the most sensitive parts of his anatomy. Several more tourists gawked at him as he began to walk toward the stands that he knew sold native clothing. He put a hand to his head and realized his hair was long and unkempt. When was the last time he had combed it or looked in a mirror? A young woman with blonde curls and a sunburned nose approached him.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” she asked him in English.

“No, but maybe I can help you find something?” he answered, the English syllables strange in his mouth after so long.

The young tourist asked him where the Plaza of a Thousand Columns was. Nic pointed toward an area on the other side of the Ceremonial Center that contained dozens of columns made of large cylindrical stone segments piled atop each another as if a game of blocks among young giants had been interrupted. As he looked toward it, the original structure superimposed itself on the ruins in his mind’s eye, the now-destroyed colonnade supporting an imposing frieze and roof, richly-garbed Mayan scribes and government officials walking among the columns, welcoming the dim coolness of the interior as a respite from the hot sun outside. He felt an urgent need to write down everything he remembered before his memories faded.

Nic hesitated, torn between the need to clothe himself appropriately so as not to attract more stares from the tourists and the urge to sit down right where he was and start writing. He laughed and shook his head as he realized he had neither paper, pencil nor money to buy clothes. But he was back in his own time! He had completed the cycle of the amulet. Gratitude overwhelmed him.

His next thought was of Itzel, and the desire to see her eclipsed everything else. Turning his steps in the opposite direction, heedless of the avid stares of the tourists, Nic began to run toward the strip of jungle that separated the Ceremonial Center from the small group of huts where José and Malinali had their home.

As he emerged from the jungle—which now seemed devoid of life—new  worries, both important and inconsequential, began to nag at him. Would they still be angry with him for taking the amulet? Would they speak to him? Would Itzel be there? Perhaps she was back at the university now that she was feeling better. The knowledge of how he had helped Itzel and Malinali by returning the amulet to the cenote made him feel awed and proud of himself all at the same time.

Nic halted before the hut. It looked different, with dusty geraniums in window boxes that had not been there before and new curtains. In one of the adjoining houses, a radio played tinnily. An emaciated yellow dog that lay in the dust at the base of one of the walls raised its head, then dropped it onto its paws again. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

After a long pause, he heard footsteps and the door opened a crack. Solemn black eyes surveyed him. From the narrow slice he could see of her, Nic judged her to be a girl of around twelve. Perhaps a cousin?

“Sí?” the girl inquired, looking at his loincloth.

“Disculpe,” Nic said, “is Itzel at home?”

“Itzel?” the girl asked. “No one named Itzel lives here.” She stepped back and began to close the door. Irritated, Nic put out his hand and stayed it.

“Then could I see Malinali please?”

The girl shook her head and closed the door. Nic knocked again. This time the door was opened by a woman around Malinali’s age, the girl at her side.

“Excuse me,” Nic said, “do José and Malinali Moreno live here? With their daughter Itzel?”

The woman frowned, taking in his strange clothing. She whispered to the little girl, who, after one more look, turned and disappeared into the house.

“They don’t live here. You’ve made a mistake.”

“Perhaps I have the wrong house,” Nic said, desperation in his voice. “Do they live somewhere nearby?”

“I don’t know anyone in our village named Moreno. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my chores.” The smell of beans bubbling on the stove reminded Nic that he hadn’t eaten in centuries.

The woman stepped back and closed the door, leaving Nic on the doorstep. He stood for a moment, then walked back to the jungle, where he sat down under a tree. The joy and excitement he had felt a few minutes ago had been replaced by a panic that numbed his limbs and made him dizzy. Could the amulet have sent him back to a different age? Was he stranded in an earlier time—or a later one—where none of the people he knew existed? He jumped to his feet and ran blindly back through the jungle, stumbling over roots, the lump in his throat threatening to cut off his air supply. He stopped, panting, as a vicious charley horse doubled him over. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself. There had to be a rational explanation. Perhaps the Morenos had moved in his absence, and the woman and her family had bought or rented their house. It would be easy to determine the date—all he had to do was ask someone. Calmer now, he walked out of the jungle into the Ceremonial Center and hailed a paunchy, middle-aged man wearing khaki cargo shorts and a camera around his neck. The man shook his head and said in tortured Spanish with a heavy New York accent, “No, gracias.”

“I’m not trying to sell you anything,” Nic said. “I just want to ask you a question.” The man stared at him.

“You speak English pretty good for a native,” he said.

“Thanks,” Nic said. “Could you please tell me the date?”

“Uh. . .” The man consulted his watch. “The nineteenth.”

“The month and year too?” Nic prompted. The tourist looked at him and guffawed.

“This some kinda practical joke?”

“No, I have amnesia,” Nic said. “The nineteenth of. . .?”

“June 19^th, 2008,” said the man. “Now what’s the punchline? And what’s with that get-up? You some kinda performer or tourist guide?”

“Something like that,” Nic answered. “Thanks.” He walked away, back toward the jungle. Once safely hidden from the tourists’ stares, he sat down. The date was right. Two months had passed since the amulet had taken him back in time. The Morenos must have moved. Perhaps they had gone to Mérida so Itzel could go back to the University. If so, someone had to know where they had gone. Itzel had told him her family had lived in that village forever.

He got up, went back through the jungle to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. This time it was opened by someone he recognized. Relieved, he said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for José Moreno. I went next door—” he turned and motioned toward the adjoining house, “—but I guess they must have moved. Do you know where they went?”

The neighbor, a young man Nic had seen working at the Ceremonial Center, eyed his loincloth, then lowered his eyes, shaking his head and beginning to retreat into the darkness of the entryway.

“Wait!” cried Nic. “Please—don’t you recognize me?” The man looked at him warily.

“No.”

“Maybe you don’t remember me, but you must know the Morenos. They were your neighbors until at least two months ago.”

The man said, “I’ve had the same neighbors since I was a boy, and I grew up in this house.” He took a step backward.

“José? Malinali? Itzel, their daughter? Pretty? Long black hair, she’s a student at the University in Mérida?” Tears came to his eyes and he brushed them away with the back of his hand.

The man shook his head. “I told you I don’t know them.” A woman’s voice called from the interior of the house, and the neighbor, with a brief adiós, turned away and closed the door in Nic’s face.

Nic left the house and wandered around the village. Now what? He felt a sudden jolt of panic. Had the amulet sent him back as someone else and that was why the neighbor hadn’t recognized him? He held out his arms and examined them. They looked normal and familiar, as did his hands. There was the fingernail with the little dent in it  from that time he had caught it in the car door. The memory of the searing pain caused by that incident reassured him. He was Nic. He hadn’t changed. Besides, the neighbor hadn’t known who the Morenos were either.

Okay, so he was himself. That didn’t change the fact that he was tired, hungry, had no clothes and no money, and worst of all, had lost the girl he loved. He continued to wander through the village. How could it look so familiar and yet be so changed? It was like that story in The Martian Chronicles where the astronauts landed on Mars and found what each of them thought was their home town. Only of course in the end it had all turned out to be an evil illusion. . . Stop it, he told himself. There has to be a reasonable explanation.

If you missed any of the previous installments, you can find them on the “My Writing” page. Start at the bottom and scroll up! I’d love to hear your feedback.

But the two men led him back into the jungle, this time on the well-worn path to the Well of Sacrifice. It was mostly deserted except for a few stragglers.

After what seemed like a very short trip to the Sacred Cenote, Nic was shoved through the undergrowth into the clearing. The onlookers parted ranks to let them through, staring at Nic with undisguised curiosity. He saw the men he worked with in the fields every day with their wives and children. Hostile or indifferent eyes followed him as he was muscled forward, his hands behind his back, and a low buzz of conversation sprang up as he went by. Toward the front of the crowd, he passed Nachancán and Bacal. Nachancán looked away, but Bacal, her eyes full of compassion, reached out and touched his arm as he was herded past her. Nic’s earlier detachment had evaporated and he was shaking with terror. His stomach roiled and he was glad he hadn’t eaten.

Ixchel’s parents and siblings were standing among the inner circle of onlookers. Her mother was weeping. Beyond them, Nic could see the High Priest, dressed in the same clothing as on the last full moon and wearing the same elaborate headdress, resplendent with the iridescent blue-green tailfeathers of the sacred quetzal. At his feet knelt Ixchel, dressed in a simple white huipil, her face hidden by her long black hair. It was déjà vu. The only thing missing was the lip of stone that had previously extended out over the cenote.

Still holding him firmly by the arms, Nic’s captors pushed through the last row of people and halted. One of the two men said something in a low voice, and the High Priest turned. The man stepped forward and handed him the amulet. After a collective gasp by those near enough to see, the crowd stilled and waited, breathless. The priest’s unfathomable black eyes held Nic’s for a long moment. Nic’s mouth went dry and he felt his knees turning to water under the intensity of that gaze. He looked down. Please don’t lock me up, he silently willed. I’d rather die. He had seen, on one of his walks, the small windowless hut set back in the jungle, the interior black as night and with barely enough room to stretch out in. Though it had been vacant at the time, Nachancán had later told him what it was used for.

The silence stretched on. The High Priest appeared to be considering what to do. Without turning his head, Nic sneaked a look at Ixchel and saw that she was still kneeling and looking in his direction. Her eyes met his but registered no emotion. She seemed to be in a trance.

The High Priest called his elders to him. The two holding Nic’s arms handed him over to two other men, one of whom Nic had worked with in the fields, but who showed no sign of recognition as he took hold of Nic’s arm. The men conferred for a long time, during which no one moved, Ixchel, the onlookers or Nic. There was no use struggling, because even if he managed to get free, there was no place to escape to. As each minute dragged by, he became more aware of the gravity of his offense. How could he have thought they would take his having the amulet lightly? Nic was grateful the two men were holding him up, because he was dizzy, his body limp like an understuffed rag doll, all strength sapped from his muscles by the intensity of his fear.

Finally the elders returned to their places and the High Priest barked a command that Nic did not understand. The crowd, however, did, and there was an excited rustling and a buzz of urgent talk. Those nearest to the front parted to let Ixchel’s mother and father through. They went to their daughter and lifted her gently from the stone where she was kneeling. Now Nic understood what was to happen to him. At another command from the High Priest, he was dragged forward and deposited in the place Ixchel had occupied seconds before.

Kneeling on the cold stone, Nic awaited the burning touch of the jade on his chest. Now that his fate had been determined, his mind was clear, detached from the lump of inert flesh his body had become. The amulet, which he could see lying near him atop a small platform decorated with flowers and feathers, would be returned to the Sacred Cenote. The cycle would be complete.

All he wished was for it to be over. Why was it taking so long? The seconds dragged by as the High Priest continued his monotonous chant. Then there was a silence. Now Nic knew what death row prisoners felt like. Those last few seconds on the table waiting for the lethal injection to be applied. . . He stole a look at the High Priest, and his heart stood still. The priest was not looking at him. He stood with his hand extended, receiving a long obsidian dagger from an elder. The crowd watched, mesmerized. Even Bacal’s quiet weeping had stopped.

Of course. He should have guessed. Unlike Ixchel, he was not an Honored One. He had forgotten that the Mayan high priests also practiced blood sacrifice, tearing out the hearts of their victims as offerings before throwing their bodies into the Sacred Well.

Chapter Twenty-one

Even before he could form the thought, Nic was on his feet, mind and body fully reunited. In one swift movement, taking advantage of the fact that he was momentarily unrestrained, he snatched up the amulet and leaped into the cenote. He heard the High Priest’s bellow of anger as he fell.

Nic hit the surface of the cenote feet first. A split second later, the amulet, jarred from his grasp by the impact, entered the water. A flash of light blinded him and a roaring filled his ears. The cold water of the cenote spun around him in a giant vortex that drew him deeper and deeper into its inky depths. His lungs were bursting as he fought to regain the surface. Finally, unable to hold his breath another second, he opened his mouth and gasped. The deafening roar all around him faded to silence and oblivion.

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Chapter Twenty

The next few days passed in a daze for Nic. He had decided he would perform the ritual once more on the night of the full moon and, if nothing happened, he would take the amulet to the Sacred Cenote and drop it in. He had gradually become more resigned to his fate. With time he would be accepted into the community, the High Priest would forgive him, he would make friends. Eventually, his former life would recede in importance. All he had to do was to give up his dreams. He could do that, couldn’t he? The big ones, of becoming a world-renowned historian, of marrying Itzel one day and having a family—and the small ones, of reading a book or taking Itzel to Disneyland, of hugging his mother or taking his dog for a walk. Things he hadn’t thought of as dreams—until now.

He could have dreams here too, he told himself. Maybe he would fall in love one day and marry and have a family, maybe even with Ixchel. These brief moments of optimism were followed by desperation as unwelcome thoughts rushed in, of a life spent slaving in the fields, brute labor relieved only by occasional swims in the cenote, hunts, feast days and, heaven forbid, wars. Nic pushed them away and held on like a lifeline to the positive consequences of giving up the amulet: generations of people spared lingering illness and early death, all the way down through history to Itzel and Malinali. The thought of Itzel and the long, healthy life she would live made him smile. Dropping the jade into the cenote would be a noble act. The thought provided a small measure of comfort.

On the morning of the full moon Nic opened his eyes and realized something was different. From his mat he surveyed the room around him. The embers of the previous night’s fire glowed softly under their blanket of gray ashes, giving off a cozy warmth against the morning chill. On the other side of the fire a bulky shape under a blanket and the sound of regular breathing told him Nachancán hadn’t yet awakened, which was unusual. Nic looked up at the small window-hole cut in the thick mud wall and realized that what was different was the light. It was more tenuous than usual. He got up and went outside. Rolling gray clouds covered the sky and the air was electric with the smell of approaching rain. A soft breeze, laden with moisture, lifted the edges of his hair.

Without knowing why, Nic walked to the edge of the jungle and took the path that led to the fields. The corn stood tall and straight, green leaves intense against the pearly morning light, silky ears growing larger with each passing day. He glanced at the sky, feeling a farmer’s satisfaction, anticipating the rain on his face and the delicious smell of wet earth. It was fitting that rain should come on this day, the day the amulet would complete its cycle. Obviously the gods were happy with his decision.

He walked back to the house. His hosts were outside, looking for him, Nic supposed. Bacal looked worried, while Nachancán’s brows were drawn together in the glowering frown Nic knew so well.

“I just went to look at the field,” he explained.

Nachancán said, “There will be no work today.”

“Why?”

“We will assemble at the Sacred Cenote when the moon has risen tonight. The High Priest has called us.”

“Will there be an offering to the gods?” Nic asked. Maybe it would be business as usual tonight, since it was full moon. He didn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to him. He had seen Nachancán carving a new amulet, after all.

“The High Priest will tell us the gods’ will tonight.” Nachancán turned and walked away.

“Look, Bacal!” Nic said, pointing at the sky. “Rain!” She gave him a sweet smile.

“It is good,” she said. “The gods are no longer angry. We must give thanks. Are you hungry?”

After breakfast, Nachancán strung his bow and announced that he was going hunting.

“You will stay here and help Bacal.” Nic assented, relieved he wasn’t being pressured into hunting.

The morning air was cool and fresh as he walked the jungle path to the closest cenote, a couple of wooden buckets slung over his shoulder. Every so often he could hear a faint rumble of thunder in the distance. By the time he had emerged from the jungle after his first trip, a heavy bucket in each hand, the rain had begun to fall. He stood in the clearing between the outer line of trees and the hut and felt the first drops on his face.

Bacal was kneeling behind the house under the thatched roof that extended over the small patio, scrubbing clothes against the wooden washboard Nachancán had carved for her. Nic tipped the buckets against the lip of the small cistern and poured the water in. Another couple of trips, he calculated, to fill it. The prospect of walking through the rain to the cenote was a welcome one.

Bacal looked up at him. “You are wet,” she said.

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Nic took a deep breath, as the sweet smell of wet earth rose all around him.

She frowned. “Our clothes will not dry in time for the ceremony tonight.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will stop soon,” Nic said. Rainfall in the Yucatán, he had found during his 21^st-century stay, was like rain in the desert: a short cloudburst celebrated by thunder and lightening, followed by the re-emergence of the sun.

The rain on this day, however, perhaps because it had been so long in coming, did not follow the desert pattern, but fell gently all morning and most of the afternoon. Evening found Nic changing into a damp mantle for the evening’s activities. Bacal had attempted to dry the clothes over the indoor fire with the result that they smelled strongly of woodsmoke. Where were dryers when you needed them, thought Nic.

When Bacal served Nachancán his dinner, Nic thanked her and said he wasn’t hungry.

“I’m just going to go outside for a while,” he said. His hosts consented. Since Bacal’s announcement of her pregnancy, Nachancán had been more attentive to her, and consequently, less mindful of Nic’s every move.

Once outside, Nic glanced back at the house, then quickly walked to the edge of the jungle and dug up the amulet. It throbbed in his hand as he brushed away the damp earth clinging to it, as if sensing that its cycle would soon be complete.

Using the fading light to guide him, Nic set off into the jungle, taking an overgrown path he had discovered which led to an isolated clearing. There he would perform the ritual once more, just in case. By the time he arrived, the jungle around him was in darkness, but in the clearing he could see the full moon, huge and white, rising through the tops of the low scrub trees that formed the Yucatecan jungle.

He knew he had little time. The ceremony, whatever it was, would start soon, and his absence would be noted. Kneeling in the center of the clearing, Nic took a deep breath and raised the amulet to the moon. Then he pressed it firmly against his chest. It throbbed, sending a wave of nausea through him.

A twig snapped behind him. A strong arm went around his neck, choking him. Another hand snatched the jade from his grasp. He was hauled roughly to his feet, the arm around his neck like a vise. Spots danced before his eyes and he felt himself sliding into darkness. Just before he lost consciousness, the hold on his neck was released and he was spun around. Before him stood two of the High Priest’s henchmen, dressed in their ceremonial raiment. One held the amulet gingerly between two fingers while the other glared at him.

“What were you doing?”

“Where did you get this sacred amulet?”

Both men spoke at once. Nic cast a quick glance around, looking for a possible escape route. The men took a step toward him. He realized there was no possibility of running, and nowhere to run.

He responded with a question of his own.

“How did you find me?”

“Nachancán showed us the path you had taken.”

Nic nodded. He had underestimated the watchfulness of his host and his allegiance to the High Priest.

The man holding the amulet asked again how Nic had gotten it.

“I found it,” he said. “On the ground, at the last full moon.”

“Why did you not return it to the High Priest?”

Nic shrugged. Nothing he said or did would help him now. “I didn’t know I needed to return it. I liked it. It was pretty.”

The men were not fooled. “What were you doing with it just now?”

“I saw the High Priest do that and thought I would try it.”

“You are like a child,” said the taller of the two, shaking his head in disgust.

“Are you a High Priest?” asked the other one.

Nic shook his head.

“Then you are not permitted to touch the holy jade.” He motioned to his companion with his head. “We must go. The ceremony is about to begin.” It was true. The full moon had cleared the treetops, its blinding whiteness partially veiled by a shred of cloud left over from the rain.

The two men stepped forward, seized Nic’s arms, and pulled him along to the edge of the clearing. There they released him so they could walk single-file along the path. Nic walked between the two, his mind curiously calm. He had no idea what his punishment might be, and preferred not to speculate. His senses seemed to be sharpened: the sweet, pungent smell of the wet earth filled his nostrils and he could hear the soft rustling of the jungle animals as they turned in their sleep. The night breeze caressed his hair with cool, loving fingers.

They reached the clearing where Nachancán’s house stood silent and dark. His hosts must have left for the cenote already. Nic experienced a fleeting hope that his punishment would be to stay home from the party. He was regarded as a fool, after all, an overgrown child. But the two men led him back into the jungle, this time on the well-worn path to the Well of Sacrifice.

 

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Chapter Nineteen

            Nic stood stock still as the truth of what he had just learned slammed into him like a train. He had been a fool. Why had he assumed that Ixchel was the only female child in her family? That she had to be Itzel’s ancestor? His knees felt weak and he sat down on the ground.

With each new piece of the puzzle that fell relentlessly into place Nic felt worse. He relived the night of the full moon. Why had he never stopped to wonder why no one else had rushed to rescue Ixchel? Why no one, save her mother, had appeared to be relieved that she had been spared? Why, on the contrary, everyone except Bacal—and Nachancán, as his unwilling jailer—had shunned him from that night forward? Why Ixchel had never reappeared in public since that night?

It was so obvious now. No one had saved Ixchel when this happened originally. It would have gone against the natural order of things. She had been allowed to fall to her death. Her mother had wept for her, then turned her attention to the rest of her children, her grief assuaged by the prosperous status her family had attained through the sacrifice of their child. Ixchel’s younger sister, or perhaps another sister, had grown up, married, and continued the chain of female descendants that would lead eventually to Itzel.

It all made sense—except for the presence of the amulet. How had it come into the family’s possession? If Ixchel had been sacrificed after all, wouldn’t it have ended up in the cenote just like all the others? The only explanation Nic could think of was that in the upheaval of the earthquake it had been thrown clear of the Sacred Well and someone from Ixchel’s family had picked it up. That led to another question: now that José’s theory had been proven wrong, what was the explanation for the baffling illness that had plagued so many generations of Ixchel’s female descendants? Maybe it was just a mysterious hereditary condition, as Nic had thought from the beginning, completely unrelated to the amulet or the gods.

He shook his head wearily in an attempt to drive away the incessant questions that buzzed around him like vicious gnats. None of it mattered, next to the knowledge that he had ruined a young girl’s life. You had to come along and screw everything up, he told himself savagely. With your imperialistic 21^st –century notions about what people’s feelings and reactions should be. You had to play the savior.

And now, thanks to his ignorant arrogance, Ixchel had been condemned to a fate worse than death. He had brought eternal dishonor on her and her family. Why couldn’t he have seen the truth? She had been prepared to die. She had considered it an honor, and had gone forth to meet her death unafraid, secure in the knowledge that her soul would be in paradise that night. How she must hate him now for “saving” her.

Nic dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter now whether he got back to his own time. Nothing mattered. On top of ruining Ixchel’s life, it had just been amply demonstrated to him that he didn’t have the cultural sensitivity it took to be a historian. His life was worthless. He ripped the amulet from his neck and flung it away from him, not caring where it landed. Let them find it. He crept away to his mat, his plan for talking to the inebriated elders forgotten in his shame and misery.

**

It was not yet light out when Nic sat bolt upright on his mat. Something was different. His hand went to his bare chest, encountering nothing but a circle of bruised flesh. Wincing, he remembered. Of course. The amulet. He’d thrown it away last night. Cursing himself for his stupidity, he stood up, tiptoed past the snoring Nachancán and let himself out of the house.

A cool fresh breeze was blowing, and the last stars were still in the indigo sky. Nic took a deep breath and stretched his muscles, surprised and pleased to find his aches gone. His throat felt better too. Now, if he could just find where he had thrown the jade last night, he could think about what to do next. There had to be some way he could help Ixchel.

He walked around the side of the hut where he had been the night before and stopped short. Two men were sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall of the house and passing a gourd between them. One of them looked up at him blearily and said something, while the other stared fixedly at the ground in front of him. A thread of drool extended from his lower lip to his mantle, which was smudged with grease, probably from the wild boar.

“Excuse me?” he said, at the same time glancing at the packed earth around them. Had one of them picked up the amulet? That would take some explaining on Nic’s part if it came out that the missing amulet had been found here.

The man, whom he now recognized as one of the elders, held up the gourd in his general direction, his arm swaying. He must be far gone indeed, Nic thought, to be inviting me, the community pariah, to drink with him. It was an opportunity he shouldn’t pass up, he told himself, especially since he hadn’t followed through with his plan the night before. Besides, in his advanced state of drunkenness, the elder would be unlikely to remember anything Nic said.

Nic thanked him and took the gourd, tilting it back and pretending to drink. The elder shifted his weight and patted the ground next to him, indicating that he should sit down. As Nic sat, he noticed a loop of deerhide protruding from beneath the man’s naked brown thigh. He recognized it as the thong he had tied around the amulet.

He almost laughed. The elder was sitting right on top of the amulet, which was no doubt vibrating away, and he hadn’t even noticed it. Nic raised the gourd in silent thanks to the god of mead.

“Don’t you work with the High Priest?” he asked the man as he passed the gourd back to him. The other man still hadn’t moved. Probably passed out, Nic thought.

The elder nodded, lifting the gourd in salute to Nic and smiling broadly, revealing his filed, jade-encrusted teeth. “Ahmakiq,” he slurred. His elaborately styled hair-do had come askew, and even at this distance he reeked of alcohol and sweat.

“Nic.”

As expected, the man laughed. “Nic. Is girl’s name.”

Nic shrugged and spread his hands. “Maybe my mother wanted a girl.” He took the gourd from Ahmakiq and pretended to drink again, then decided to take the bull by the horns, before Ahmakiq joined his companion in oblivion. “Do you know Ixchel?” he asked him.

The other man wrinkled his brow and peered at Nic. It was clear that he knew there was a connection between this strange foreigner and Ixchel, but couldn’t remember what it was. He opened his mouth, then appeared to change his mind and lurched to his feet, slopping mead onto Nic, who jumped out of the way. Saying something over his shoulder, he tottered off to the nearest tree, where he began to fumble with his loincloth. Nic took advantage of his momentary absence to grab the amulet and hang it around his neck. He experienced a wave of nausea as the jade settled against his chest and the vibration invaded his body. Something clicked in his mind, but he didn’t have time to think about it because his companion returned and sat down heavily, still clutching the gourd.

“What will happen to Ixchel?” Nic prodded.

“Ixchel,” Ahmakiq repeated, nodding solemnly. “Honored one.”

“Yes. What will happen to her?”

In response, Ahmakiq raised the gourd again and drank, then regarded Nic with heavy-lidded eyes. Nic decided to try another tack.

“Do you remember the amulet?”

Ahmakiq looked confused. “Amlet,” he said, handing the gourd to Nic with an unsteady hand. Nic sighed. This was going nowhere. He shook his head at Ahmakiq and got to his feet, just in time. His companion pitched forward, retched, and passed out, his head resting in the pool of vomit.

Feeling sick himself, Nic backed away, then wandered to the edge of the jungle. The jade throbbed against his chest and his legs felt weak and wobbly. He sat down against his favorite tree, removed the amulet from around his neck and held it by its thong. What was it that had clicked in his brain a couple of minutes ago? As he stared at the jade, the answer came to him. He knew why the amulet had brought him back through time. His mission had never been to insure that the sacrifice took place. José had it wrong. The existence of Akhushtal had proven that to him. Ixchel’s sacrifice had taken place. Ixchel had died, just as planned, despite the intervention of an earthquake. It was not a matter of the gods being angry. They had not taken their revenge on Itzel’s ancestors, generation after generation, as José believed.

No, the answer to the mystery was here. Nic took a deep breath. Already he felt better, just by removing the amulet from direct physical contact with his body. Why hadn’t he understood earlier? He hadn’t had the flu. It had been the amulet, the powerful unspent magic in that small circle of jade, that had been making him sick. Just as it had gradually sickened Itzel’s and Malinali’s female ancestors as they had handled it in prayer down through the many generations separating his own from this one. Just as it had been doing its insidious work on Malinali when Nic came on the scene—and on Itzel, his beautiful Itzel, slowly sapping her youth and vitality. He shuddered.

The words of the archaeologist whose presentation he and Itzel had attended came back to him. The jades had only been found in the Sacred Cenote—nowhere else. Except for this one. The amulet had brought him back in time so Nic could complete the cycle it had been designed for. Only in the Sacred Cenote would its powerful magic be released. Why had he been chosen? The only reason Nic could think of was the psychic sensitivity he’d had since childhood. He supposed he would never know the true answer.

His course of action, though, was clear: all he had to do to alter the course of history and save Itzel and Malinali—not to mention untold numbers of their female ancestors—was to get up right now, walk the jungle path to the cenote, stand at the edge and drop the jade into the sullen green water. He tried to stand up, but his heart quailed at the idea and his legs refused to support him. Not so fast, his instinct for self-preservation told him. Once the amulet was gone, there would be no possibility of returning to the 21^st century. He would be forced to live out his life here.

But how likely was it that he could get back even if he kept the amulet?  He had already tried once, without success, to repeat the steps that had originally carried him through time. There was no logical reason the jade’s magic would transport him back to his own life. It had nothing to do with the 21^st century. Its place and time were here. The amulet was a one-way ticket.

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“Where’d this come from?” he said to Nachancán, indicating the boar.

“I killed it last night.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I found its den the other day in the jungle, and I knew it would return there to sleep. So I went there and speared it in its sleep. They are very fierce when they are awake.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a smear of blood, and picked up a sharpened branch that lay on the ground. This he inserted in the boar’s mouth.

“There,” he motioned to Nic. “Hold the other end steady so I can push this through.”

Nic held the boar’s haunches gingerly, conscious of the blood that was now running down one arm. He should have been a vegetarian. If he ever got back to a place where he had a choice, he would. The sharp point emerged suddenly and he jumped back to avoid being spitted himself.

“That’s done,” Nachancán said in satisfaction, pouring water from the cistern over his bloodied arms and hands.

“Who’s coming to the party?” Nic asked in an attempt to make conversation, though he already knew the answer. “Will the High Priest be here?”

“Of course,” Nachancán said. “He will bless my son.”

“What if it’s a daughter?”

His host laughed, as though Nic had suggested something nonsensical. “It will be a son. I will teach him our ways.”

Nic was obstinate, irritated by Nachancán’s easy dismissal of biological fact. “But it may be a girl. What will you do if it’s a girl? Leave her in the jungle?”

Nachancán frowned at him as he lifted the spitted boar and carried it to a large firepit. There he set each end of the spit on a forked branch he had driven into the earth. Wiping his hands on his mantle, he straightened up and looked at Nic.

“If it is a girl, Bacal will teach her. Now we must collect firewood.”

“Can I get something to eat first?”

Nachancán sighed and waved his hand toward the kitchen.

Nic opened the door into a blizzard of feathers drifting in the damp smoky air. A small fire burned in the center of the kitchen, with a large clay pot full of bubbling liquid on it. Bacal, her friend Tzytzyan and a couple of other women Nic had seen in the marketplace were all squatting around the fire plucking small turkeys as fast as their fingers could fly and chattering to each other even faster. Balam and another toddler were sitting behind their mothers drawing on the dirt floor with turkey bones. Bacal looked up at him as he entered, while the other women looked down and fell silent.

“Could I have something to eat?” he asked.

Bacal jumped to her feet instantly and filled a small clay bowl with beans. Smiling, she handed this to him with a couple of tortillas. Nic thanked her and left the kitchen.

Outside, he tore off a piece of tortilla and brought a scoop of beans to his mouth, then grimaced when he realized the beans were lukewarm and the tortillas cold and stiff. Where were microwave ovens when you needed them? Well, he couldn’t expect anything else. Bacal was busy preparing for the feast, and the fire was being used for other purposes. He tried to make himself eat, but realized he had little appetite. What was wrong with him? Maybe he had some sort of terminal illness that came and went, like malaria. This must be what Itzel and Malinali felt like, getting sick over and over and not having any idea why. He reached under his shirt and took hold of the amulet, hoping to gain comfort and strength from it as he knew they did. It buzzed gently in his hand, but he didn’t feel any better. What was more, the skin it touched was beginning to feel bruised again.

Nic fought down the urge to throw himself to the ground and kick and scream out of sheer hopelessness and frustration. One foot in front of the other, he admonished himself. There was no other option. He had to have faith that something would happen eventually. He took a deep breath and went to help Nachancán, who was bringing armfuls of dead branches from the jungle and piling them up next to the firepit.

By mid-afternoon, all was in readiness for the guests. The roasted boar smelled heavenly, buckets of mead had been set out on trestle tables, there were huge round clay cazuelas filled with savory mole and roast turkey, teetering piles of tortillas wrapped in snowy cloths, large clay pots of bubbling black beans flavored with avocado leaves. Bacal and her friends had made a delicious dish with squash from her garden cubed and fried with wild onion and corn kernels from the first small tender ears their corn plants had produced. The mood was festive as the guests began to arrive.

Nic was in no mood for a party. His head was splitting and he would have loved nothing more than to have slunk away into the house and curled up on his mat. People shunned him anyway—he wouldn’t be missed. He stayed though, pretending to drink mead, nibbling at his food, keeping a watchful eye on the general state of male inebriation and how it was progressing. He had to be careful not to wait until the men were so drunk they wouldn’t be able to give him coherent answers. He just wanted them to reach the affable stage where they would be willing to talk to him.

In the meantime, Nic watched for Ixchel. An hour or so into the party, his heart skipped a beat when he saw her mother and father in the distance, accompanied by her older brothers and a young girl in white he first took for Ixchel, but then realized was too young to be her. Who was she? He had never seen her before. Maybe a neighbor’s child.

Bacal took pity on his solitary state and came to join him. “Why is Ixchel not here?” he asked her.

She lowered her voice. “Ixchel is in disgrace. She will remain in her house from now on. You will not see her.”

Nic was indignant. “Why is she in disgrace? What did she do?”

Bacal looked around. There was no one close by, as his hostess was the only person who deigned to speak to him. She drew near and said in the same low voice, “I do not believe, as everyone else does, that you are simple in the head, because I know you. I know you are not a bad person, it is just that you do not know our ways. But you must understand, she was meant to be the Honored One. Something like this has never happened before.”

“But the gods did not want her to be sacrificed,” Nic protested.

“Yes. So the High Priest will not offer her again.”

“What will happen to her?”

“Perhaps she will be taken far into the jungle and left there. That is what we do with the evil spirit when we baptize our children. Or perhaps she will be given to our enemies in battle, that they may offer her to their gods.”

Nic was horrified. He had assumed Ixchel would be revered by her people as one favored by the gods. Maybe it would have been better to let her drown. Still, he persisted. What Bacal said couldn’t be true. He had proof, after all, in the existence of Itzel, that Ixchel had survived and had children.

“Can’t she go back to her normal life? Marry, have children?”

Bacal looked solemn. “I do not think anyone will want to marry her.” Seeing Nic’s distress, she laid a hand on his arm, in an attempt to soothe him. “You care for her very much. She is your friend.” At these words, tears came to Nic’s eyes. He brushed them away. Bacal stroked his arm, comforting him as if he were a small boy. “Maybe if her mother keeps her out of sight the High Priest will forget about her. If he sees that the gods do not send more troubles on our people, maybe he will let her live. But she will never marry or have children.” She shook her head decisively, touching her own belly in a protective gesture.

Dusk was falling. Nic stared through his tears at the throng of people milling around the trestle table. Nachancán was cutting slices of meat off the roasted boar and heaping people’s tortillas with them. Men were beginning to raise their gourds and clap each other on the back. Many of the women had gourds in their hands as well, and the noise level was rising. It would soon be time for him to infiltrate the crowd and try to find someone to talk to about the amulet.

Through the press of people, he glimpsed Ixchel’s parents again. They seemed to be having a fine time, he thought bitterly. With their only daughter hidden away at home, a pariah for life. If she was lucky. The young girl in white he had seen arrive with the rest of Ixchel’s family was still with them.

As he watched the girl, a sudden chill ran through Nic’s body. A cold bud of understanding began to unfurl in his belly. At his side, Bacal murmured something about getting back to the guests. Without removing his eyes from the girl in white, he gripped her arm.

“Wait a moment. Who is that girl?”

“Which one?” She craned to see.

“That one, with Ixchel’s mother.”

“Oh, that is Akhushtal. Ixchel’s younger sister.” Bacal left him and went to resume her duties.

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They were interrupted by a loud snore from Nachancán. Nic cursed himself for not having taken advantage of his host’s inebriation to ask him more questions about the amulet. He might have another chance, though—he had heard his hosts talking earlier about a big party they would have soon to celebrate Bacal’s pregnancy.

He helped Bacal unroll Nachancán’s mat and heave his inert body onto it. Bacal retired to the kitchen and Nic lay down on his own mat, but couldn’t find a comfortable position, due not only to his achiness and worsening cough, but also to the fact that the amulet had now seared the skin on both his chest and his back. He tossed and turned for a while, then, in a fit of irritation, got up and went outside, where he tore the amulet roughly from around his neck. It was bad enough having the flu without having to deal with the results of having the amulet next to his skin as well. He would find a hiding place for it.

Nic scanned the area—there was no place around the cistern he could hide the jade and not risk having Bacal find it. What about the roof of the hut? He stood on an overturned bucket and perused it. Palm fronds, woven tightly together. A masterpiece of artisanry, so well made there was no place to tuck an extraneous object. That left the jungle. He began walking toward the trees, all the while ignoring the little voice in his head that nagged at him: you’re being a fool, what if the amulet comes to life and decides to transport you back to the future? It’s worth a little bit of sore skin not to miss that opportunity.

He shook his head impatiently and continued walking. At the edge of the jungle, he found a large rock at the base of a tree. Squatting, he heaved it to one side, dug a small cavity beneath it, deposited the jade and replaced the rock.

Exhausted by his illness and the unaccustomed effort, he sat down and leaned back against the tree. Looking around him, he wondered why everything was so unnaturally silent, then realized it was because he was no longer feeling the vibration that had been his constant companion for the past two weeks. He fingered the welt on his chest under his mantle. It was healing, slowly, but now he had one to match on his back.

To hell with the damned amulet, Nic thought. He could wear that thing till doomsday and it wasn’t going to take him anywhere. The words José had spoken to him that evening so long ago came back to him: “One of Itzel’s ancestors was supposed to be sacrificed and it didn’t happen.” Could José’s theory possibly be true? Maybe the gods really existed and they were angry. Who was he to deny the truth of what so many other people believed in heart and soul?

And if, beyond all reason, it were true, Nic had blown it, fudged his cosmic assignment, botched it completely. The amulet—which represented the will of the gods—had used its powerful magic to draw him back here, obviously for a purpose. José and Malinali’s family had been given a second chance, through him, Nic, to make things right with the gods, and what had he done? Not only had he not done his part to make sure the sacrifice would go through, he had thwarted the plan by saving Ixchel. And what he had done could not be undone. No wonder he hadn’t been able to shake this flu. It was probably a curse the gods had put on him. No doubt he would get sicker by the day and finally die a lingering death. . . Nic realized he was cringing against the tree, hiding his head in his hands.

This was madness. It couldn’t be true. He forced himself to sit up straight and look around him. A scene of utter serenity met his eyes. Above him the new moon, a tiny white canoe, sailed across a black velvet sea inlaid with a million twinkling stars. The air was cool and pleasant and a light breeze caressed his hair as it ruffled the leaves of the trees behind him. All around him, the creatures of nature slumbered in peace and safety, animals in their dens, birds in their nests, humans on their reed mats. Babies snuggled into their mothers’ warmth and sleepily suckled. Children slept and dreamed of the games they would play with their friends the next day. Men dreamed of the excitement of the hunt they had just been on. All was right with the world. Even in his own house joy reigned, as Bacal and Nachancán dreamed of the fine strong son they would have. Where did vengeful gods fit into this picture?

Chapter Eighteen

Contrary to Nic’s dire prediction of the night before, he awoke feeling much better. The flu seemed to have spent itself, and as the day progressed he felt his strength returning. Simple joy at having his health and vigor back carried him through the next few days of watering the fields and helping Nachancán slice and salt the deer meat that was his portion of the spoils of the hunt.

On the fourth day, Nic judged his welts sufficiently healed to be able to wear the amulet again. Though the continual vibration against his skin was annoying, he didn’t want to be without the jade any longer than necessary. While he couldn’t bring himself to believe the vengeful gods theory, the jade did have the power to carry him through time. It was just a matter of knowing the right ritual or incantation. Nic had decided to risk everything in an attempt to get that information out of the elders or even the High Priest himself at the upcoming party in honor of Bacal’s pregnancy. He had seen how drunk Nachancán had gotten the other night, and he had reason to believe, on the basis of his studies and his own 21^st-century observations, that all the men of the community, normally abstemious, would drink to excess at the party. It was a religious ritual.

After Nachancán and Bacal had retired for the night he went to the rock at the edge of the jungle, retrieved the amulet, which was still vibrating, dusted it off and hung it around his neck again. He crept back into the house again and lay down on his mat, feeling safer.

The following day was the day of the party, and as it would take all day to prepare, there would be no work in the fields, for which Nic was glad since he had awoken with a slight headache. Bacal roused him early and told him to go help Nachancán. Nic had assumed they would be eating salted deer meat that evening, but as he emerged from the hut into the early-morning light, he saw his host gutting a small wild boar. Where had that come from? His stomach heaved and he wished he had a tortilla to steady it, but contrary to her usual practice, Bacal hadn’t offered him any breakfast. Nachancán looked up.

“There you are. Get me a bucket of water to rinse this out.”

The affability Nachancán had shown toward Nic on the night of Bacal’s announcement had reverted to his usual businesslike taciturnity. Still, Nic could see suppressed excitement in the precise energy of his host’s strokes with the stone knife. This was a big day for him. As far as Nic knew, no one else had been told the reason for the party, though people must suspect. In this culture people didn’t give parties just to be sociable.

He brought the water and stood there, his headache growing worse. His throat was beginning to feel swollen too. Dammit, was he coming down with the flu again? After he had just gotten over it? Just forget about it, he told himself. There was a lot to be done. The entire village was coming to the bash, which was due to start sometime in the afternoon. Maybe he would see Ixchel? The thought buoyed his spirits. She had been absent from the cornfield since the night he had saved her.

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Bacal blushed again. “Of course he will be happy. I just want to surprise him. Tonight, after the hunt.”

So, a big party was in the offing. Nic wished he felt more like celebrating. You probably will in a day or two, he told himself, but the ache seemed to have settled into his bones, and he felt like an old man. Bacal got up.

“I have much to do. I will bring you your breakfast.” She padded off to the kitchen. Nic staggered to his feet and went outside, coughing with the exertion.

The morning was well underway, and the heat of the day was settling in. The trees were abuzz with insects and birds hurrying to complete their daily foraging before the dead time of the day when the sun was at its zenith and all creatures, big and small, were stilled, temporarily felled by the intense heat. Nic scanned the sky, as he did every day, searching for signs of precipitation. It was, as usual, bright blue and cloudless. Just like LA, he thought. Except that there, thanks to the miracle of modern engineering, it makes no difference to our food supply. He considered going to the fields to see how the corn was holding up, but decided he didn’t have the energy, and turned his steps to the cistern instead. He doused his head and experienced the momentary bliss of the cold, fresh water running through his hair and down his back, then pulled up his mantle to inspect the welt left by the amulet. It appeared to be healing satisfactorily. Another day or two and he would switch the jade back to the front. He bathed the wound tenderly with cold water, then worked his arm around to his back and felt the skin under the amulet. A painful puffiness met his touch. Blisters. He cursed under his breath, so Bacal wouldn’t hear him. This damned amulet. How long was he going to wear it? And why was he carrying it around with him, anyway? At the moment it seemed pointless. Maybe he should rethink things.

But not now. He felt too achy to deal with that now. He went back into the house, drank the gourdful of atole that Bacal handed him, refused the tortillas, unrolled his mat, stretched out on it and was asleep in a minute.

He was awakened by the unaccustomed sound of Nachancán’s voice outside the front door. Embarrassed to be caught by his host in such a slothful state, Nic jumped to his feet, wincing at the insult to his sore muscles, and quickly rolled and stowed his bedroll. He was walking toward the door when Nachancán came in with a huge smile on his face.

“How’d the hunt go?” Nic asked.

“Perfect.” His host was exultant. “We got two deer.” His voice displayed the level of enthusiasm that Nic, in his 21^st-century life, had heard occasionally in the voices of his male acquaintances when their team had won the World Series. He suppressed a smile. Maybe he really wasn’t a man, no matter what century he was living in.

“Now we will not go hungry, even if the gods are angry with us.” Nachancán glanced quickly toward the roof and lowered his voice as if he had said something sacrilegious.

“The corn is growing well too,” Nic reminded him.

“Yes. We will continue to use your invention and we will have a harvest.” He favored Nic with a big smile.

The last time Nic had seen his host this happy had been when he had given him his clothes. How much mead had he had already? But the best was yet to come. Blushing, Bacal stepped forward and touched her husband’s shoulder. He put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead in an unprecedented show of affection.

“What is it, my little dove?” he asked her.

Nic stepped back out of the firelight so as not to intrude on the intimate scene and watched with an anthropologist’s interest. How would Nachancán react? Bacal flashed a quick smile in his direction and then whispered in her husband’s ear.

Nachancán’s smile became exultant and he laughed out loud. Embracing his wife, he picked her up and tossed her lightly in the air, then hugged her tightly to him, kissing her all over her face and stroking her hair. Setting her down carefully, he turned to Nic and said, puffing out his chest,

“Did you know? I am going to be a father. We are going to have a son.”

Feigning surprise, Nic stepped forward, holding out his hand. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations!” Nachancán looked at his hand, and Nic, realizing the ancient Mayas didn’t shake hands, dropped it to his side. His host reached out and enfolded him in a bear hug. Nic hugged him back, wincing.

The mead flowed freely that night, though Bacal didn’t partake and Nic took only a few cautious sips, and Bacal had outdone herself in the kitchen. Dinner began with a delicious soup made with squash blossoms from her own vegetable garden, followed by a spicy, savory mole, an elaborate dish Nic had often eaten in 21^st-century Yucatán, consisting of a rich, dark brown sauce composed of many ingredients including ground cacao, various types of chiles and cumin, served over roasted turkey and eaten with freshly-made tortillas. A dish of delicious black beans finished the meal. Nachancán ate with gusto, while Nic picked at his food, wishing with all his heart he felt good enough to enjoy this feast. Bacal was in and out of the kitchen, serving more mole, bringing fresh, hot tortillas wrapped in a beautifully-embroidered napkin Nic supposed had been brought out specially for this occasion, removing their plates, refilling her husband’s gourd, always with the same satisfied smile curving her lips. Like the cat that ate the canary, thought Nic. He was glad his hostess was so happy.

With each swig of mead, Nachancán grew more garrulous. When he saw Nic wasn’t keeping pace with him in food consumption he clapped him on the shoulder, sending shock waves of pain through Nic’s aching body. “You don’t eat? You do not like Bacal’s cooking?” Nic tried to protest that he loved her food, but Nachancán waved his words aside.

“You are not a man,” he said, laughing genially. “You are like a little boy. You don’t like to hunt, you don’t like to drink mead. . .” Glancing slyly at Bacal, who stood in the doorway, he said, “Maybe you are like Ekahau.” Bacal clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Who’s Ekahau?” asked Nic.

Bacal’s giggles increased and she blushed. Nachancán said, “Ekahau lives on the other side of the village. He looks like a man, but he doesn’t like women.” Raising his eyebrows and leaning toward Nic, he finished in a theatrical whisper. “He likes other men.”

Prehispanic gay-bashing, thought Nic. His interest perked up. The few sips of mead he had drunk had lessened the ache in his muscles a little. He couldn’t recall reading anything in the literature about homosexuality among the classic Maya. As always, his mind spun off into an instant daydream. He would publish the first paper ever on Mayan sexual attitudes. . . but how would he document it? There was the rub. He turned his attention back to Nachancán, who was waiting expectantly.

“No, I like women,” he said, remembering his beautiful Itzel. What was she doing right now? Or maybe he shouldn’t say “right now.” Okay, what would she be doing at this exact moment a thousand years from now? The question was nonsensical, and the knowledge that Itzel wouldn’t even exist for another millennium sent a cold chill down his back. He took another sip of mead. “Does Ekahau live with another man?”

Both Bacal and Nachancán laughed uproariously at this. “Is that what men who like other men in your village do?” asked Nachancán.

“I don’t remember,” Nic said, falling back on his familiar excuse. “Does he?”

Showing off his wit for Bacal’s benefit, Nachancán said, “Why do you want to know? Do you want to meet him?” More laughter ensued. Then his host said, “He lives at the High Priest’s compound. He is the main cook.”

So gays were not ostracized, Nic thought, making mental notes, though they were not respected either, to judge from Nachancán’s jokes. “How do you know he likes other men?” he asked his host.

“He was caught one day, with Kukucan,” Bacal offered, looking solemn. “By his mother.”

“What happened?”

“His father did not want him anymore. Kukucan’s father either,” Bacal said. “They were shamed in front of the whole village.”

“Were they punished?”

Bacal hesitated and glanced at her husband, unsure whether she should be talking this much in his presence, but he seemed to be ruminating on the mead gourd he held propped on his belly, his chin on his chest and his eyes unfocused.

“They were not punished, but they made an offering to appease the gods.”

“What kind of offering?”

“They offered their blood.”

Nic had read about how the ancient Mayas would pierce their earlobes and elbows with cactus or stingray spines as part of a ritual cleansing or in penitence.

“Where is Kukucan now?”

“He works at the High Priest’s compound. He is also a cook there.”

“Did they choose to do that work or did the High Priest command it?” Nic asked.

“They had nowhere else to go. The other men did not want them to work in the fields any longer, and they were not artisans. So they went to the High Priest and he took pity on them and let them work for him.”

So, thought Nic, not for the first time, the High Priest actually has a heart.

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One morning when Nachancán had gone to the Ceremonial Center Nic asked her about the beautiful designs she wove into the textiles she created—did they mean anything? Or were they just an expression of her aesthetic sense? She smiled readily and pointed to the different motifs. The intricate diamonds in rich reds and greens that bordered the neckline of the mantle she had made for him for the sacrifice meant—she hesitated, searching for the word, then made a sweeping gesture with her arm, encompassing everything above and around them. The universe? Everything? Nic asked, and she nodded. She got up from the shady spot under a tree where they were sitting and went into the house, returning a few minutes later with a couple of huipiles she had recently finished weaving. Spreading them across her lap, she pointed out other motifs: this one, Nic finally figured out, after elaborate pantomiming on Bacal’s part that caused them both to collapse in laughter a couple of times, was the tail of the scorpion. Another was a depiction of the Earthlord who lived in a cave in the mountains. Yet another was a frog—or a toad?—Nic’s Mayan was insufficient to make the distinction—that apparently sat at the mouth of the Earthlord’s cave and sang. To demonstrate this last piece of information, Bacal sang a few notes in a lovely clear voice. Nic was fascinated, and mystified. He could see the significance of the diamonds representing the universe, but not the other motifs.

“What’s the relationship between the Earthlord and the toad?” he asked her. “Why does it sing before his cave? And how does the scorpion’s tail fit in?”

Bacal was silent for a moment, looking up at the ferny green leaves that sheltered them from the harsh late-morning sun. Her hands absently smoothed the rich weave of the garments in her lap as she pondered. Then, turning to him, she said, “The toad sings at the mouth of the Earthlord’s mountain cave.”

“Why?” Nic wanted to know. Giving him a mildly reproving glance, she continued.

“The Earthlord has daughters. They pull the cotton—“ she demonstrated, her hands pulling in all directions at an imaginary boll of cotton. “The cotton will be transformed into raIn clouds by a bolt of lightning.” At Nic’s confused look, she traced a lightning bolt in the dirt. “The scorpion’s tail stings the lightning that attracts the rain and produces the corn in the fields.”

“How did you learn all this?” Nic asked.

Bacal blushed and looked down, embarrassed by her long speech. “My mother taught me, and I prayed to the gods for the skill and grace to be able to weave.”

“The gods have favored you. Your weavings are exquisite.” Nic said. “Thank you for explaining to me what they mean.” He felt awed by the wisdom and skill of this simple, ordinary woman, his ancestor.

A twig snapped and they both looked up to see Nachancán coming down the path with his usual dour expression. Nic looked up at the sky and sighed. The sun was not yet at its zenith, which meant they would be going back to the fields in the afternoon. He had been hoping his host would stay away longer. For some reason, he was feeling a little under the weather, and the prospect of hauling water for hours was not a welcome one.

The following morning Nic awoke while Nachancán was still asleep. He sat up and realized he still felt unwell. He got up, rolled up his bedroll, and went outside to the cistern. Perhaps if he poured some cold water on himself he would feel more alert. He took off his mantle and carefully removed the amulet. The skin of his chest stung when his fingers grazed it. He looked down and was shocked to see a round red welt on his chest where the amulet had rested. The skin was tender to the touch, almost blistered. No doubt from the constant vibration, Nic thought. I’ll have to vary the position I wear it in. He ladled water from the cistern and poured it over himself. The water, though cool and fresh, did not clear the grogginess from his mind or the slight ache from his muscles. His heart sank at the prospect of a long day in the hot sun. What did people do here when they got the flu? So far, he hadn’t seen anyone sick. That was to be expected, though, he reminded himself. It was the Europeans who had brought disease to the new world, with their unhygienic practices of bathing once a month, or was it a year?

He placed the amulet around his neck again, this time letting it hang down his back. He would have to alternate the positions more often. By the time he had finished dressing, Bacal had come outside to ladle water for whatever she was cooking. She smiled at him when he offered to carry it inside for her. He was caught by something new in her face. It looked somehow different than it had yesterday, fuller, her cheeks a little rosier. She looked the picture of robust health, unlike himself.

The breakfast of steaming, soupy black beans flavored with an avocado leaf and a small red chile fortified him somewhat, and there was savory turkey rolled into puffy, fresh tortillas for lunch, but Nic couldn’t seem to shake his malaise. Well, he reasoned as he hauled up bucketful after bucketful of water, his muscles aching resentfully, it was just a flu, after all. He’d feel better tomorrow, or if not tomorrow, the next day. Mindful of the innocence of the Mayan immune systems, he tried to keep his distance from the other men.

At lunchtime Nic got some news. With a rare smile, Nachancán squatted next to him and informed him that tomorrow would be a hunting day. The deer they had brought down weeks before was gone—and they had gotten little enough of it, thought Nic, his weakness making him irritable—and the men were ready to hunt again. He could feel his host’s excitement, and the dread mounted in him. He screwed up his courage and asked, “Do you need me to go?”

His host’s smile faded and his brow gathered into a frown. Nic plunged on, desperate to avoid a repeat of the bloody celebration he had been forced to witness the last time, especially the way he was feeling just now. “You know I’m not much good at hunting. Maybe I didn’t hunt in my tribe. I’ll just be in your way. I could stay home and help Bacal around the house. I could even water the fields.” He was babbling.

Nachancán’s lip curled. “By yourself?” He shook his head. “I do not understand you. Are you a man? One thing I know, you are simple in the head. But do what you want. Only one thing.” He lifted a warning finger. “You must stay with Bacal. You are not allowed to go off by yourself.” From his words, Nic understood that it hadn’t been his imagination—he had been under house arrest the past couple of weeks. He didn’t care—better that than have to go to the hunt.

Relief at being able to stay at home for the day buoyed his spirits for the rest of the afternoon. He would be able to talk to Bacal, ask more questions. If he ever got back to his own time, he’d be the greatest Mayan historian ever—he’d have it made. But most of all, his weary muscles reminded him, he’d be able to rest and kick this flu.

Chapter Seventeen

            The next day Nic awoke to see a square patch of sunlight on the dirt floor next to his head. He sat up hurriedly and looked around. What time was it? Nachancán’s bedroll was neatly stowed in its usual corner and Bacal was nowhere to be seen. He must have slept a good twelve hours, Nic thought. Good, that was just what he had needed to regain his health.

But when he got up and bent over to roll up his mat, his muscles still ached—and now he felt a tickle in his throat as well. He sighed and resolved to spend the day resting. Surely he’d be better tomorrow—these things never hung on more than a couple of days. He’d ask Bacal to make him a tea or a poultice or something.

She came in at that moment, smiling to herself about something. When she saw he was up she laughed and said, “So, you’re finally awake. I thought you would sleep all day!”

“I don’t feel good, and I didn’t want to go on the hunt.”

She came up to him, solicitous, looking into his face with concern. Nic covered his mouth and backed away. “No, please don’t come close to me, I don’t want you to catch it.”

“Catch it?” Bacal was confused. “Catch what?”

The thought of having to explain the workings of microorganisms was too much for Nic. He sat down again on his bedroll and said, “I’ll explain later. But could I ask you a favor? Could you make me some tea?”

Now her face registered understanding. She asked, “Does your stomach hurt? Like when you eat a bad piece of meat?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Nic answered. Of course the ancient Mayas would understand sickness in the sense of food poisoning, even if they had no knowledge of the European diseases yet.

She bustled away and was back soon with a steaming gourd of some sort of vile-smelling infusion. He grimaced when he tasted the bitter stuff, but forced it down- it just might make him feel better. She sat cross-legged on Nachancán’s bedroll and watched him.

Nic asked, “Are there other times your people feel sick even if they haven’t eaten bad food?”

She thought, wrinkling her brow and gazing into space, then said, “When one of our people is tired and ready to go join the spirits in heaven, they sometimes feel sick. . .”

“Okay.”

“. . .and when a woman is giving birth, she feels pain.” As she said this, she smiled and touched her belly. Oh, thought Nic. So that’s the reason for the change in her, for those secret smiles. She’s pregnant.

“Are you going to have a baby?” he asked.

Bacal flushed a deep red under the smooth coppery brown of her skin. She looked as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Wrapping her arms around her abdomen protectively, she said, “Yes, I just found out. But Nachancán doesn’t know. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Of course I won’t tell him. But why don’t you want him to know? Won’t he be happy?” Mentally, Nic did the math. When could this have happened? He had been there for a month and a half already, every night, he and Nachancán slept in the main room, Bacal slept in the kitchen, he was almost always up till after Nachancán had gone to sleep. . . maybe it had happened before he arrived. He shook his head and laughed. It was idle speculation and none of his business anyway.

Bacal blushed again. “Of course he will be happy. I just want to surprise him. Tonight, after the hunt.”