Chapter 39. Xibalba
The members of the expedition crowded around the table to get a good look at the Veraguan map. “This appears to be a map to the Mayan mythological realm underneath the Earth called 'Xibalba,'” said Morse. “It looks as though we have to pass through the ancient Trials of Xibalba in order to find the 'Xaxtzintzoj Saqloloj,' or ‘pool of clear water.’"
Ka'-an was suddenly interested again. "Ahhh," he said, looking intently at the hand-drawn map.
"What are the Trials of Xibalba?" asked Zach.
"Ka'-an, you are probably more familiar with this than I. Would you like to explain?"
"Yes, of course," said Ka'-an. "This is one of the oldest myths from the Mayan K'iche' people, found in the Popol Vuh, which is similar to our Creation Story, much like your Genesis from the Bible. The story concerns two Mayan hero twins, called Hunahpu and Xbalanque, who were athletes like their father Hun Hunahpu and their uncle Vucub Hunahpu. The story concerns the fight between the hero twins and the Xibalba. The Xibalba were the Lords of the Underworld, and lived in a land just underneath the Earth. Many years earlier, the Xibalba had summoned the twins' father and uncle to the Underworld to play a sport against the Xibalba."
"What was the sport?" Bolinda asked, suddenly more interested. Bolinda Jeffries, before going into modeling, had been the star center of the women’s basketball team at NC State, and had even played in the Finals of the NCAA Tournament in her senior year in college.
"It was kind of like a combination of racquetball and basketball,” said Ka’-an. “It was played with a rubber ball. Scores could be made either by hitting the ball against the front wall and out of reach of the opponent, or by throwing the ball through a tall stone loop much like a basketball hoop turned on its side. Anyway, the father and uncle lost the match, and the Xibalba killed them. One day many years later, the two Mayan hero twins found their father’s sports equipment, and began playing in the ball court. Their noise awakened the Lords of Xibalba, who summoned them to the Underworld. The twins accepted the challenge, because they badly wanted to avenge their father's and uncle's death. Their mother begged them not to go, but they went anyway."
"So what does that have to do with the map?" asked Zach, not following.
Ka'-an continued. "The map appears to depict the traditional challenges of the twins when they reached Xibalba. The road to Xibalba was very hard. The twins had to cross many challenges, including a a river of blood, a river of pus, and a river of scorpions."
"Pus?" winced Brenda, making a sour face. "That's disgusting."
"You can see on this map there is a drawing of zinaam," said Ka'-an, although on this map, the older, alternative spelling ‘xinaam’ is used.
"What is zinaam?" asked Zach.
"It is the Mayan K'iche' word for scorpion."
"So it appears," said Charlie Winston, "that our first challenge to the Fountain will be a river of scorpions."
Brenda looked at Bolinda. "I think I am going to wait on the boat when we get to the island," said Brenda. “You guys can handle the pus and the scorpions all on your own.”
Bolinda disagreed. “I think it sounds fun. You guys mind if I go, too?”
“The more the merrier,” said Ka’-an.
Ka'-an was animated as he studied the Mayan map. "The next challenge to Hunahpu and Xbalanque was the 'cahib xalcat be,' or four bridges. These bridges were able to talk. The bridges were supposed to trick people into taking the wrong path.
"After that, there is the 'sia kanche k'ak,' the hot stone chair. The Xibalba invited the twins to sit down on a chair which was really a hot cooking stone. But the twins were clever and realized the trick, and refused to sit down on the hot chair, disappointing the Lords of Xibalba. During the meeting, the Xibalba demons were seated on their own chairs, but they brought in wax mannequins who looked just like them. If the visitors could not tell which Xibalba demon was real and which was a fake, they would be put to death. The twins avoided this trick by sending ahead magic mosquitoes, who figured out which were real Xibalba demons and which were the mannequins."
“Ahh, I see,” said Zach, laughing. “So when we get to that one, all we will need is some magic talking mosquitoes.”
“On the map you can see there is a picture of a stick figure carrying a spear,” said Ka’-an. “Next to the picture it says ‘xepo’ t’ oit ik jolom,’ which means ‘wax soldier.’ Those must be the wax mannequins from the story.”
"The next trial of the Xibalba,” continued their Mayan guide, “was the Six Houses: the Ak'ab Na (Dark House), the Sis Na (Cold House), Balam Na (Jaguar House), Sontz' Na (Bat House), Ch'am Na (Razor House) and K'ak Na (Fire House). The twins had to use their wits to enter and exit each house without getting killed.”
Drame walked back in, carrying a small nylon bag, which presumably contained his marijuana bong. “Wait a minute. I missed it. Where are we now?”
"I was just explaining the Trials of Xibalba and we are nearing the end here on the map. The final trial was the Tuj, or the Oven. The twins had to enter a fiery oven. When they entered, they were immediately burned into ash. The Lords of Xibalba, who were happy that the twins had been killed, then spread their ashes in a river. However, the twins used magic to transform themselves from ashes into catfish, and then finally back into humans. Then, in disguise, they returned to the Xibalba and killed the demons, finally getting their vengeance."
"What is this thing on the map that says 'Perik' Ok?'" asked Zach.
"That means 'ball court' in K'iche'," said Ka’-an.
"Judging from this map," laughed Winston, "it appears that after we fight our way through the trials of Xibalba, we are going to have to beat the natives in a little Hoop."
"I'm down with that," said Zach, excited.
“Well, now we have to bring Bolinda,” said Drame. “She was the star of her basketball team at NC State. I think she could come in handy.”
"But how are we going to get through the oven?” asked Zach Morse. “Last I checked, I do not have the power to turn myself from ash into a catfish."
Zach’s father laughed. "I don't know, Zach. That remains to be seen."
Skip Drame opened his bag, and took out his green plastic marijuana bong. "Hey, we got about twenty minutes before Robert's steaks are ready. Anybody want to share? This shit is really good."
"That stuff will kill ya," said Mountain Man, grousing in the corner.
John Morse and Charlie Winston were irritated. They were not about to get arrested for being around someone using illegal drugs. And young Zach was here.
“No thank you,” said Morse. “You really should stop that,” said Morse. “It is not going to do you any favors.”
“Spoken like someone who has never done it,” said Drame. “But I know what you mean. I am going to quit one of these days, as soon as I quit alcohol and cigarettes and women.” Drame laughed. Zach said nothing. Even if his father was not standing five feet away, there was no way Zach was going to do marijuana. As a gifted runner on the Emory University cross-country team, inhaling marijuana smoke was the last thing Zach was going to do.
The blonde woman, Brenda, took Drame up on his offer, while Bolinda retired to her own room. Bolinda Jeffries wondered why she put up with Drame. She could do so much better. But he was definitely helping her with her modeling career, and that is what paid the bills. As Brenda and Drame went to a lower deck to get stoned, Winston, John Morse, his son Zach, and Mountain Man Pete went upstairs to the upper deck to get some fresh air before dinner. Ka'-an remained in the lounge, studying the Mayan map.
Winston, Morse, Zach, and the Mountain Man stood by the railing and looked out over the choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
"Pete, tell me about you," said Charlie Winston.
Pete grabbed the deck railing, anxious to get on dry land. "Grew up in Colorado, been there most of my life. My dad got me in to mountain climbing. I have climbed the Rockies, of course, but I have been all over the world--Kilimanjaro, Fuji, you name it."
"Ever climb Everest?" asked Winston.
"Na, too damn cold. I mean, I am okay with snow and ice, but 50 degrees below, that ain't for me. You guys ever been rappelling?"
"No," said Zach.
"No," said Winston. "Is it fun?"
"Oh, it's a blast. I hope this island has some places to rappel. I would love to show you guys."
The wind whipped Pete's beard to one side. He shivered and zipped up his windbreaker.
"I will be happy when we hit the island."
"How do you guys know each other?" asked Pete, pointing to Charlie Winston, John Morse and his son.
"Zach's father is a professor and a colleague of mine. I teach at the Emory University, where Zach is my student."
"Oh, a little extra credit, I get it," smiled Pete.
"He only gets extra credit if he finds the Fountain," laughed Winston.
"You think it's really out there?" asked Pete.
"No,” conceded Winston. "But I guess that's one reason I am really happy someone else is paying for this trip. My wife is not too crazy about me going on this boondoggle."
"Be happy you have a wife," said Pete. "I treated my Christine badly and I never even got the chance to say I was sorry before she was killed. I have regretted it every day of my life. Sometimes, when I get to the top of a mountain, and I stare out over the Earth below, I feel a little closer to her."
"You're right," said Winston. "There is nothing better than a good woman."
Zach was suddenly quiet. The talk of Pete's wife made him think of his mother, who had been killed in the 9-11 disaster. He missed her terribly. Zach took out his iPod and ear pods and plugged in some music. "I will see you guys at dinner. I am going to walk around the deck and chill for a bit."
"OK," said Winston, wondering what was wrong with his young student. Teenagers were always moody like that, he thought. Ten minutes later, the entire group gathered for dinner, and Charlie Winston had one of the best steaks of his life. He wished his wife and son were here to enjoy it. During dinner, Charlie Winston told the story of how Zach had livened up his classroom with his on-the-spot rap music. Zach finished the story, telling everyone how Winston had put Zach in his place with his own rap.
“Of course, we all know,” bragged Zach, “that I could have come back with another rap, but I didn’t want to embarrass Professor Winston in front of the whole class.”
“Ohhhh,” laughed Winston. “So we’re throwin’ down the gauntlet now, are we? So you think you are a better rapper than me?”
“Well, with all due respect, Professor, you’re kind of an old timer. My raps are fresh.”
“You gonna take that, Charlie?” asked Drame, laughing.
“You’re talk is big, boy, you want to prove it?”
“Damn straight,” said Zach.
“Rap off! Rap off! Rap off!” chanted Drame and Brenda.
Zach went over to a table and put his iPod in a small dock. He scrolled through several songs until he came up with some background rap music, which bellowed out the speakers on the deck. The dinner party guests all put their glasses in the air and encouraged Zach and Charlie to get up in front of the table for the competition.
“OK, said Drame. “Zach, you go first. Then Charlie has to rhyme Zach’s line, and then Charlie sends another line back to Zach. First stupid line loses, OK?”
“Got it,” said Zach.
“You’re on,” said Winston. Zach took out a ballcap, and turned it sideways on his head. Winston had no hat, so he took Drame’s safari hat and put it on his own head. Zach started off, beat-boxing to the music.
Zach: Today, no delay, we be cruisin’ in this boat…
Charlie: This rig is so big, it’s amazin’ it can float,
I know I can beat you with my fly rap song….
Zach: I think you be smokin’ off Skip’s big bong,
When rappin’ is a happenin,’ little Zach-ster is the king…
Charlie: Your raps are just fine, but they ain’t got zing,
When this is all over, little Zach-ster will be cryin’…
Zach: Oh no, I’m the best, you can even ask the Mayan
(Zach grabbed Ka’-an by the shoulders) Or maybe take advice from Mountain Man Pete…
Charlie: I’m sorry, little Zach, just admit defeat,
When I’m on my game, all my fans make a fuss,
Zach: (straining for a rhyme for one second) Look out tomorrow for a river of pus,
‘Cause that’s where they’ll throw you when they hear your raps…
Charlie: When you sing, my son, they all be takin’ naps,
When Charlie’s a rappin’, he will always beat ‘em all….
Zach: Man, you’re as old as a Neanderthal,
What you really need dude, is a Fountain of Youth…
Charlie: One more word like that, and I’ll punch you in the tooth,
‘Cause when Charlie’s rappin, he don’t take no prisoners…
Zach: Uhhh, instead of Skip, I wish I was kissin’ her….
Zach grabbed Brenda’s shoulders.
Drame gave a loud buzzer noise. “Wait a minute. ‘Kissin’ her,’ that’s weak. I’m callin’ Charlie the winner. “
“Hey,” said Zach, laughing, “Let’s see you try and rhyme ‘prisoners.’”
Charlie gave Zach a slap on the back. “Nice try, son.”
“Next time we do this, I am going to use ‘hippopotamus.’”
“Sour grapes, sour grapes,” said Winston.
“Well that does it for me,” said John Morse, putting down his empty wine glass. I am going to call it a night. “Come on Zach,” said Morse, putting his hand on his son’s shoulders. “We can get a re-match with Charlie in the morning.”
The group disbanded and went below-decks to get some sleep. As the guests retired to their bedrooms, the large yacht glided forward in the warm waters. Tomorrow they would reach Flower Island.
Natal, Brazil.
Inside the empty Natal Football Stadium, Officer José Manuel Dodaz sat in a red stadium chair watching his Brazilian football team practice below. The Natal Police Department was in charge of security at the stadium. One of the perks was that he got to come here on Sundays and watch his team practice. He was also certain to get stadium duty during several of the games in the early rounds of the FIFA World Cup. He was proud to be a Brazilian on any given day, but on days when his football team played in the World Cup, he was especially proud. After Five World Cups, no one could dispute that Brazil was the best in the world. But this year would be a milestone: winning the Cup before the home crowd. What they said about the Brazilians and football was true: “Os ingleses o inventaram, os brasileiros o aperfeiçoaram," or "The English invented it, the Brazilians perfected it." Officer Dodaz had two children, both boys, aged eight and ten. They were football fanatics like he was. He would not be able to get them tickets to the games, but they would watch them with their friends on television. He had already bought them little yellow and green jerseys with their favorite players’ names embossed on the back.
Dodaz looked around the empty stadium. The games next week were going to be great. He just hoped no one did anything stupid to spoil the fun. He took one last look around the stadium, checking for anything suspicious. He had checked air vents, janitor’s closets, food vendors’ snack kiosks. Nothing looked out of order so far. He had already been given training in spotting counterfeit tickets. He knew the black market was already churning out false tickets to sell to unsuspecting tourists. He was also one of the officers in charge of checking vendor licenses. Brazil had to make sure that no terrorist posing as a vendor snuck into one of the events.
After his tour around the stadium was complete, Officer Dodaz left the stadium through the front gate and walked to the special police lot near the stadium where he met his partner. The two talked about security at the stadium for a few minutes before getting in their police car. Officer Dodaz, along with his partner Officer Rejinaldo Rodriguez, began patrolling his regular route around the streets of Natal. The construction throughout the city was intense. Brazil had made a massive infrastructure commitment in order to host both the FIFA World Cup and the Olympics. Roads were being re-routed every day as the construction pressed through the summer.
“I hate this construction,” complained Dodaz.
“I know, it seems like the road goes a different way every day. Hey José Manuel, have you got your stadium passes for the first round games yet?”
“Not yet, you?”
“No. They should be coming this week I think. Too bad we are not going to get to see Brazil play. But we might get to see the Americans lose, so that’s something, heh?” joked Rodriguez.
“They sure suck every year. You think with all that money, they could field a decent team, but every four years they come back, and every four years they lose.”
“Their problem,” said Rodriguez, “Is that they are not Brazilian. Hey pull over here, I want to get some acarajé.”
“Reji, how can you eat shrimp in the middle of the day?”
“Stop, stop, you are passing it. The vendor is right there. I will only be a minute.”
A few minutes later, Rodriguez got back in the car, unrolling the aluminum foil wrapper given to him by the street vendor and cramming the snack into his big mouth. As the two policemen sat waiting in the car for Rodriguez to finish his makeshift lunch, Dodaz saw a familiar figure walk down an alley up ahead.
“Check it,” said Dodaz, pointing in the individual’s direction. A large man, wearing a yellow short-sleeved collared shirt and jeans, walked away from the patrol car, heading down an alley between two buildings.
“That Davy?” asked Rodriguez.
“That’s our boy. Wonder what he’s up to on a beautiful Sunday afternoon?”
“One way to find out.”
Dodaz nodded and drove around the block, waiting for Davy Branco to appear from the other side of the alley. Branco was a known criminal, but always seemed to be one step ahead of the law. Dodaz and Rodriguez suspected he had friends in the District Attorney’s Office who were cutting him favors. Branco was known to be a blood relative of Cezanne, one of the biggest drug lords in Mexico, so the police often kept an eye on him from time to time.
“Keep back a little,” said Rodriguez to Dodaz.
“Hey, Starsky, this isn’t my first day on the force. I know how to tail a suspect.”
They watched Branco walk up a block, cut down two streets and then call for a cab in front of a hotel. Dodaz tailed the cab, staying several cars back. Branco got out of the cab, then walked into a flower shop. The officers waited three minutes. When Branco did not come out of the flower shop, Rodriguez said he was going in. Rodriguez went into the shop and came back to the patrol car moments later.
“He went through the shop and out the back into the alley. Go up two blocks and take a right and we will head him off.” Dodaz gunned the patrol car up two blocks, made a right down a narrow alley, and then came out on a large street. The two officers scanned the wide boulevard for a few moments. Dodaz was the first to spot Branco.
“There.” Branco was up the boulevard another three blocks away and was hopping into another cab.
“What’s with the Planes, Trains and Automobiles routine?” asked Rodriguez. “You ever see him do that before?”
“Nope. He has either spotted us and is trying to lose the tail, or someone has told him to take roundabout ways from getting from Point A to Point B so that he is not followed. Either way, that means he is up to no good.” The two officers followed Branco’s cab and watched it enter the expressway. They followed the cab for the next several minutes, again staying back so as to avoid being spotted.
“I don’t think he spotted us,” said Dodaz.
“Why do you say that?”
“The cab hasn’t sped up or taken any evasive maneuvers. You would think they would have swerved off on an exit or something if he knew he was being followed.”
The officers continued to follow Branco’s cab as it made its way across town and finally stopped in front of a large warehouse. Dodaz parked the squad car while Rodriguez got out binoculars. They watched Branco knock on the door of an establishment. After a few minutes, a large man wearing sunglasses and all black opened the door, spoke with Branco for a moment, and then let Branco inside.
“You see the sign over the door?” asked Dodaz.
“Wells Beverage and Bottling. Means nothing to me,” said Rodriguez.
“You know of Davy owning a beverage company?”
“No, I never heard that before. Import/export, I thought that was Davy’s racket.”
“Right, that’s what I thought.”
“Hmm.”
“Did you see the guy who opened the door?” asked Dodaz. “All black clothes, big guy. Did you see he was wearing a shoulder holster?”
“Yeah. So?”
“What does a beverage and bottling plant need with armed security?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe it is really, really good soda.”
“So we have a known criminal, who walks through a florist shop and out an alley, takes two different cabs so he won’t be spotted. He sneaks into a soda bottling factory where an armed guard answers the door. That sound suspicious to you?” asked Dodaz.
“Yeah, it does. Maybe I should call it in.”
Dodaz considered that a moment but then decided against it. “We don’t have anything yet. Why don’t we take a quick look around the back?” The officers snuck to the side of the building, careful not to let the armed guard spot them, and tried to look through the windows, but they were all painted black. Dodaz saw an open window on the second floor.
“Let’s push over that dumpster,” said Dodaz.
The two officers pushed a big brown dumpster so it touched the side of the metal corrugated warehouse. Both policemen climbed on top of the dumpster.
“Give me a boost,” said Dodaz. Rodriguez was the more burly of the two officers. The tall, athletically built Dodaz climbed on his friend’s back, and then gingerly stepped on his friend’s shoulders, shoving off to grab the sill of the open window. Forcing himself up and over, Dodaz piled through the open window, landing with a thud on the second-story floor. He looked out the window at Rodriguez, motioning for him to keep his shoulder radio channel open in case Dodaz need him. Rodriguez took a position near the corner of the building, so that he could keep one eye on the window Dodaz had used, and another eye on the front door of the building. Rodriguez drew his weapon.
Inside, Dodaz was in a small office on the second floor, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Dodaz knew that his presence here was illegal, and that he needed a warrant to be in this building, but he figured if he could find out what was going on inside, then they would have the information they needed to convince their boss to stake out the warehouse and catch Branco doing whatever criminal act he was doing. Dodaz just had to make sure he didn’t get caught up here. He crept with his weapon drawn over to the door of the office, checking through the glass of the door. He saw nothing. Pulling the door open silently, he stuck his head quickly out into the hall, looking both ways. He could hear talking below but he could not see anything. The hall was a long metal platform with a railing. Moving on his belly, Dodaz snaked his way over to the edge of the railing, and looked down to the warehouse floor below. There were dozens of workers, loading cardboard boxes on a long conveyor belt. He could not see what was in each box. The operation seemed to be supervised by two tall men with dark hair wearing white lab coats. They had notebooks and appeared to be checking items off and inspecting the boxes. Dodaz stayed in this position for what seemed like an hour, but was really only about twenty minutes. It was stiflingly hot in here. No air conditioning.
Suddenly, he saw the two men with lab coats walk over to a door and open it. He could see Davy Branco just inside the door. There was a glass window in the wall, so he could see the three men in the small office talking around a small conference table. He had to get down there and find out what they were talking about. He went to the back end of the metal platform, away from the area where the men were loading boxes, and walked down a set of metal stairs to the ground floor. Donning a dark blue coat from a nearby dirty clothes bin, Dodaz walked towards the warehouse floor and took a place next to another worker near the end of the assembly line. Keeping his head down, Dodaz began unloading the cardboard boxes with the other workers. After a few minutes, he bent down to place a box on the ground, and quickly popped the top for a view inside. He was surprised at what he saw. The box contained water bottles, about a quart in size, with a half-sphere lid, shaped like soccer ball cut in two. On the side of the bottle was a flag with three horizontal stripes--red on the top, white in the middle, and blue on the bottom. Was that France? thought Dodaz. No, their stripes were vertical. Dodaz didn’t think it was Russia. Netherlands, maybe? The water bottles had a small fan and handle. It looked like one pressed the handle and the bottle would blow a water mist spray on the user. He put the tabs of the top of the box back together after his quick look. These looked like bottles for spectators at the World Cup. What was Davy Branco doing making souvenir water bottles?
Dodaz became momentarily concerned. This looked like a legitimate business. What would he say to his boss about breaking and entering into a warehouse with no search warrant to spy on a legitimate business? He looked around. None of the other workers appeared to be looking at him. Strolling across the floor, he started for the door where the two men in lab coats had gone through to speak with Davy Branco. As he got near the door, he could see through the window that the men were getting ready to leave the room, apparently having completed their meeting. He dove for the wall, where there was a water fountain, and bent his head down to take a drink so the men would not see him. As the three men came out of the conference room and back out onto the warehouse floor, he heard one of the men in lab coats say something about an “incubation period.” Then he heard Branco laugh and say, “Those fuckin’ Americans will never know what hit ‘em until it’s too late.” Incubation period? What could that mean? Dodaz’ mind raced. Were these guys planning on releasing a biological or chemical agent of some kind? Was this a terrorist thing? That’s all he could think of to fit the facts. Just then he heard Branco say, “Hey, shithead!” Dodaz kept his head down by the water fountain.
“Hey shithead! By the water fountain. You’ve taken enough of a break, get the fuck back to work!”
Keeping his head down, Dodaz nodded, and returned to the conveyor belt to continue loading boxes. He had to get out of here and tell Rodriguez to send the troops. Twenty feet away, Davy Branco was staring at the tall factory worker in the blue coat that was too small for him. What was that bump on his shoulder? This guy looked a lot fitter and more athletic than most of the other grunts working on the assembly line. He looked out of place. Branco looked at the man’s feet. Casual black loafers, not tennis shoes. Those looked like cop shoes. Wait a minute, thought Branco. Something clicked in his brain and alarm bells started to go off in Branco’s head.
Dodaz tried to nonchalantly grab a box and move it to the far end of the assembly line to make his escape. As he got about twenty feet, he heard “Freeze, motherfucker!?