Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Low-frequency moans echo in his ears. ‘That’s, uh, interesting.’

The lab door bursts open, Major Phillips hurries inside. ‘Sorry, sir, but we’ve got a situation.’

Jacob Gabriel lies on the floor of the Faraday chamber, unconscious. The staff physician listens to his heart, while Ryan Beck and a nurse attempt to comfort the boy’s visibly upset mother.

‘What happened?’ Chaney rasps.

The major shrugs. ‘Honestly, sir, I don’t know. Jacob’s mind is incredibly focused, giving him direct access to the clue line, better than any viewer I’ve ever worked with. Everything was fine, then he just blacked out.’

Dominique pushes her way to the major, poking her index finger against his chest. ‘Whatever you did to him-’

‘Ma’am, I swear… it wasn’t me. Jacob’s doing this himself.’

‘Blood pressure’s good,’ the doctor calls out. ‘Pulse is strong, but very slow. He seems to be in some kind of transcendental state. Let’s everyone try to stay calm and give him a few minutes.’

Father?

Who’s out there?

It’s Jacob. Your son.

Foul beast, go away! Think you can fool me with your -

Father, please, it’s really me. It’s Jacob. Jacob Gabriel. Father

Jacob? Jacob, is that really you? I’ve dreamed of you, son, but… but is this real? Is it really happening?

I’ve dreamed of it, too. And it’s happening, Father, it’s real.

But how? How is it we can communicate?

Thoughts are energy. We’re both Hunahpu. We share similar frequencies. Father, where are you?

I don’t know. I’m not even sure I exist. I have no physical form, but somehow I can think, and I can feel emotions. It’s as if I exist in a vacuum of energy, only I can’t escape.

Something’s out there, isn’t it? Something’s frightening you. It’s as if I can taste your fear. Father, what is it?

It’s the Abomination… I can feel its presence. It’s like ice, hovering in the periphery. It circles me like the shadow of death, always waiting for me to drop my defenses.

But what is it?

A presence of pure evil. It wants to feast on my soul.

Tell me what to do! How can I help?

You have helped, son, more than you’ll ever know. I’ve been so lost, drowning in loneliness and despair. Your thought energy… it’s like a lighthouse beacon to my soul. You’ve strengthened me, you’ve given me hope. I know now that I haven’t been abandoned, that I’m not alone. You’ve given me a newfound sense of being.

Father, there’s so much I need to ask you. The Mayan Creation Myth

… is it true? Am I really the son of One Hunahpu? Is it really possible for me and my brother to travel to Xibalba? Can you be… resurrected?

There’s no easy answer to that. There’s so much I need to tell you, and I want to, I have to, but it’s dangerous. The effort to communicate weakens me, and the Abomination hovers… waiting for me to lower my guard. Still, I must try, there’s so much at stake. Jacob, how old are you now?

Seven.

My God…

Father?

Wherever I am, it’s impervious to time. You say you’re seven?

Yes.

My own journey… it also began when I was seven. In fact, it was at seven that I first encountered evil.

Teach me, please! Tell me how it began for you.

I‘ll try. The memories… they’re very powerful, so vivid. I can still recall inhaling the scent of the rain forest, registering its heaviness in my lungs. I can hear its nocturnal symphony playing in my ears. And the Peruvian desert… as I recall the desolation of that awful Nazca plateau, I can almost feel the blood pooling in my extremities as the afternoon heat baked my skin in its searing embrace.

That was my childhood, Jacob, an existence spent in Mesoamerican jungles and on the harsh plateau of Nazca. My parents, Julius and Maria, your paternal grandparents, they had been archaeology students who had first met at Cambridge. Their love blossomed on their own journey as they set out to resolve the mystery of the Mayan calendar and its two thousand-year-old doomsday prophecy. Me? I was the result of their fateful union, born, like you, as destiny’s victim.

I don’t feel like a victim. Most of the time I feel like Superman.

Careful, son. Even Superman has his kryptonite. Although my Hunahpu genes were not as developed as yours must be, I also felt superior. By the age of seven I had grown into quite the brat, rebelling against everything my parents were attempting to teach me.

You said you encountered evil?

Yes. At the time we were living in a one-room, stucco dwelling in Piste, a tiny village outside of Chichen Itza. I remember the day it happened, a typical morning in the Gabriel clan. Julius had just grounded me for swapping a pair of his best binoculars for a baseball glove and ball, and I was furious, stomping and cussing up a storm. The moment my parents left for the ruins, I packed a small bag, my passport, and a few pesos borrowed from my mother’s purse-and I headed out to begin my life anew.

You ran away?

I had to. I felt boxed in, unable to cope, unable to just be myself. But I had a plan. Merida and its airport were seventy-five miles to the west. Somehow I would stow away on board a plane bound for America. Even though I was only seven, I had already aced my high-school equivalency test and was being recruited by several universities. If I could just get to the States, I knew I could survive.

Guess I’d been walking less than an hour when a taxi pulled off the road. I immediately recognized the driver-T’quan Lwin Canul-a middle-aged local of pure Mayan descent. He had a large nose and dark eyes, and wore his black, oily hair long and braided. Tattoos ran up and down his body, and jewelry pierced his ears and heavy brows. More bizarre was his tongue, the tip of which had been sliced down the middle and forcibly separated over time so that the last two inches were forked, resembling that of a viper.

The ‘serpent’s tongue’ gave T’quan a heavy lisp. He leaned out his open window at me, and hissed, ‘Going somewhere, mas’sa?’

‘Off to see a distant cousin,’ I lied. ‘What would it cost me to get a ride to Merida?’

T’quan gave me a price, then mentioned he needed some assistance cutting down a tree. We struck a deal. If I helped him, he would have me in Merida by nightfall.

And you believed him?

I was naive, and the truth is disguised by what we want to hear. Before I knew it, we were bouncing along a dirt path, cutting through dense jungle. Eventually we came to a small clearing and T’quan’s hut, which sat adjacent to a freshwater sinkhole.

The old man led me inside and offered me a drink. I watched as he dipped his cup into a wooden barrel, the scent of the fermented ceremonial drink known as pulque drifting up at me. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Where is the tree?’

‘Forget the tree,’ he said, ‘I require help with a ritual. Tell me, mas’sa, have you ever heard the story of Tezcaplipoca?’

‘You mean Tezcatilpoca,’ I corrected, as if I knew everything about the ancient ones.

‘That is Aztec pronunciation,’ he said. ‘To the Nahuas, he was Tezcaplipoca, god of the night, god of evil, a creature of black magic.’ As he spoke, T’quan opened a container of what appeared to be scarlet dye and proceeded to paint a stripe across the bridge of his beaked nose. ‘Tezcaplipoca was the mirror that smoked. It was his presence that drove Kukulcan from Chichen Itza. He was our greatest and most feared god.’

T’quan told me his Nahua ancestors had lived in this same jungle a thousand years ago. While Kukulcan built temples, T’quan’s clan followed Tezcaplipoca-god of conflict and turmoil, god of power.

The old man removed his tee shirt, revealing a bony, dark-skinned canvas of chest, covered in tattoos. Draping a black cape around his shoulders, he led me back outside to the sinkhole, the very cenote T’quan’s ancestors had used to worship Tezcaplipoca.