Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Swish.

Lilith dashes onto the court and grabs the basketball before it hits the ground, then takes off running.

‘Hey! Crazy bitch, come back here!’

Lilith races for the seven-foot-high chain-link fence… and hurdles it.

Jaws drop. The boys swear out loud, watching helplessly as the teenaged girl dodges traffic and ducks behind a fast-food restaurant.

‘Come on!’ Ron, Dante, and Brett scale the fence. The three boys cross the street, then cut between a row of shrubs bordering the rear of the hamburger joint.

Lilith is waiting in back, seated atop an open steel trash bin that is surrounded by a rusty brown, eight-foot-high wooden fence.

‘There she is,’ whispers Dante, his rage tinged with lust.

‘Know what? I think she’s playing with us,’ Ron says. ‘You had a good time Friday night, didn’t you, girl? I think you want some more.’

‘Let’s do her right here,’ says Dante. Reaching up, he grabs Lilith by her ankles.

‘Get off me!’ She kicks at Dante and Ron as they drag her down, pinning her to the ground.

‘Hey, come on, easy guys.’ Brett backs away, but is unable to tear his eyes away as Dante pulls up Lilith’s skirt, grabbing for her underpants.

This time, a fully sober Lilith slips inside the nexus.

She immediately springs to her feet, rising through invisible waves of energy. Ron and Dante’s expressions morph into disbelief as she lunges for them, grabs them by the hair, and smashes their skulls together with all her might.

The violent collision sends blood and bone spouting in slow motion through gelatinous waves of energy.

Lilith stares at the dueling crimson streams, then turns her attention to Brett.

The boy has turned and is attempting to flee.

Lilith kicks him in the buttocks, launching him facefirst into the side of the steel trash bin.

The bruised teen collapses. Bleeding and barely conscious, he struggles to crawl away on all fours.

‘Finish him.’

Lilith turns in shock, the nexus suddenly filled with an icy aura.

The old man is tall and gray-haired, his appearance striking. A long aquiline nose, like that of a hooked eagle, dominates his wrinkled Mesoamerican face. The left eye is a piercing azure-blue, the right eye hazel and lazy, always glancing sideways. Loose silky white clothing hangs from his bony frame.

‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am.’

‘Uncle Don? Why are you here?’

‘I’m here to guide you. Now finish the last one quickly, before someone sees you.’

‘I… can’t.’ She doubles over, the lactic acid buildup excruciating.

Don Rafelo seems to glide through the invisible waves of energy as he approaches. ‘You can’t finish him because you’re weak. Move aside and learn.’ Don Rafelo reaches down to Brett. Gripping the boy’s skull in the knotty fingers of his right hand, he twists, shattering the boy’s cervical vertebrae, severing the spinal cord.

Brett collapses flat on his face-dead.

Don Rafelo turns to Ron and Dante and inhales deeply, ‘tasting’ their diminishing life forces. ‘You did well. These two are close to death. Help me get them into the trash bin.’

Lilith complies.

The trash truck will arrive three hours later. By nightfall, the remains of the three teens, along with the rest of the debris, will be deposited in a dirt pit located atop ‘Mount Trashmore,’ a man-made mountain of garbage located twenty miles south of Lake Okeechobee.

8:10 p.m.

The motel clerk fingers his goatee as Lilith lays the five crumpled twenty-dollar bills she has stolen from Quenton’s wallet upon the coffee-stained front desk.

‘That should cover my uncle’s room for the rest of the week.’

The clerk scoops up the money, then hands her a key, his grip lingering a second too long. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can do you for.’

She ignores his leer, then heads outside.

Don Rafelo appears from behind a parked car. He follows her to Room 113.

The room is musty, reeking of mildew. Lilith turns on the air-conditioning, the antiquated unit growling to life. ‘Okay, Uncle Don, I’ve done everything you’ve instructed, now I want to know how you found me.’

Don Rafelo lies back on one of the twin beds, staring at her. ‘I never lost track of you, even when your parents tried to escape me by fleeing to America. I’m the one who arranged your parents’ marriage.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of their bloodlines. Each of us possesses a life force, Lilith, something the Western World refers to, with much distortion, as the soul. Harbored within your genes are two powerful animating forces. The first was created long ago by the joining of two ancient bloodlines, one Mayan, tracing back to the days of Kukulcan, the other Aztec and the lineage of Quetzalcoatl. But it is the second life force-the Rafelo bloodline-that allows us to tap into the darker forces of the universe. It is this dark force that chases you across the Earth like a cold wind. It is spiritual in form, yet it possesses the ability to manipulate the other.’

‘I don’t understand. Where is this dark force? Where’s it coming from?’

‘Another place, another time. You will feel its presence as you move closer to our homeland and the Gulf of Mexico. The dark force is powerful, it reaches out to embrace you. It is what summoned me from Morelos to guide you.’

Lilith’s azure eyes widen. ‘I want this power. Teach me!’

The old man grins. ‘That is why I am here.’

When Lilith Robinson stumbled upon her parents’ belongings, she’d discovered a treasure trove of materials highlighting the life of her great-uncle, Don Alejandro Rafelo, a man whose roots dated back to fourteenth-century France, and his ancestor, Gregor Rafelo.

Gregor Rafelo was born outside Paris in 1397. Like his father before him, he became a career military man who served as a special guard under the command of Gilles de Rais. Competent and brave, Gregor was assigned to Joan of Arc’s guard and fought several battles at her side, bloodbath after bloodbath.

Following the relief of Orleans in 1429, the thirty-two-year-old Rafelo returned home to his family, distraught over all he’d seen. Months later he turned to religion, converting from Christianity to Albigensianism.

The Albigenses (named after the town of Albi, in southern France) were an offshoot of the popular Manichaean dualistic system, which believed in the separate and independent existence of a god of good and a god of evil. To the Albigenses, the god of good was Christ, who, during his stay on earth, became an angel with a phantom body that allowed him the appearance of a man. The god of evil was Satan, who was responsible for imprisoning the soul in the human body.

By living a good life, the Albigenses believed a person could earn his soul’s freedom after death. Failure to achieve righteousness during one’s lifetime would result in the soul’s being reborn again as another human being, or even an animal. Everything material, including wealth, food, and even the human body itself was considered evil and abhorrent. As such, the sect held that the traditional Christian Church, with its corrupt clergy and immense material wealth, was an agent of the Devil.

The Christian Church, in turn, viewed the existence of the Albigenses as the single most important heresy of the Middle Ages. When peaceful attempts to convert the group failed, Pope Innocent III launched the Albigensian Crusade. By 1230, most of the Albigenses had been brutally suppressed, leaving much of southern France desolate over the next two centuries.

The secret sect of the Albigenses that Gregor Rafelo joined was divided into two groups, the simple believers and the ‘perfects,’ derived from the Greek word katharoi for ‘purified.’ Perfects were extremists who renounced all possessions and survived only on the donations provided by other members. They were forbidden to take oaths, to eat meat, eggs, or cheese, or to have sexual relations. Haunted by the blood on his hands, Gregor Rafelo sought ‘perfection,’ a decision which made life extremely difficult on his wife, Fanette, and their adolescent son, Andre.