Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

At least, not until the Spanish priests arrived.

To promulgate Christianity in Mesoamerica, the priests had to teach their ‘ignorant pupils’ that the universe was divided into forces of good (God) and forces of evil (Satan). Any act deemed unacceptable was naturally considered evil. Evildoers thought to have conspired with the Devil were branded witches, and witchcraft in New Spain would not be tolerated.

The Holy Office of the Inquisition in New Spain was quickly established, and soon thereafter Mesoamerican tribal members were brought to trial and convicted of being witches.

By bringing the Devil and witchcraft to the forefront, the Catholics inadvertently helped it to flourish. Secret societies formed among the conquered Mesoamericans, with the larger cities becoming centers of sex and sin. Satan (appearing in the form of a goat) played host to witch parties. Pacts were made with the Devil. Black magic was introduced and passed from one generation to the next.

Where there was once innocence, sorcery now thrived. Thanks to the invading white man, fear of the Devil had become a real thing.

Etienne Rafelo arrived in Mexico in the fall of 1533, his mission: To spread the seeds of the ‘dark forces’ throughout the New World. His travels would lead him to Tecospa, a small Nahuatl Indian village situated across the mountains from Morelos. Here he would meet an Aztec leader named Motecuma, whose maternal ancestors were direct descendants of Quetzalcoatl, a member of the brotherhood of the Guardian.

Etienne would fall in love with Motecuma’s oldest daughter, Quetzalli, an azure-eyed beauty who possessed the Guardian’s Hunahpu bloodline. The couple would raise eight children in the southernmost part of the Valley of Mexico, a land the mighty Aztecs had once ruled.

Like her father, Quetzalli was a Nagual witch. Mesoamerican witches dated back a thousand years. They had counseled kings and could forecast events. It was said a Nagual could cause sickness by sucking the blood of his victim or by giving him the ‘evil eye.’ It was believed the more powerful witches could even capture a man’s soul.

Twenty-seven generations after the Rafelo-Quetzalcoatl bloodline began, Don Alejandro Rafelo was born. Like his ancestor, Andre, Don Rafelo sought a different path.

The villagers of Morelos both despised and feared Don Rafelo. They said his ojo made him powerful, that his K’az-al t’an-ob (curses) caused serious and painful diseases.

Blessed with intelligence and a feverish lust for power, Don Rafelo made it his life’s calling to learn the truth behind the power of the Nagual. Unlike the superstitious locals, he knew the witches gained their insight-not from spells and incantations, but from their bloodline. The Olmec, Aztec, Toltec, and Maya had risen to power under the tutelage of two great Nagual, Kukulcan and Quetzalcoatl. Don Rafelo knew these men had sired dozens of children, and that his own family’s spiritual abilities could be traced back to Quetzalcoatl. What Don Rafelo needed to increase the power of his lineage was a descendant of Kukulcan’s bloodline.

He would find his genetic link in Cecilia Meztli, a Mayan woman whose maternal ancestors were raised in the city of Chichen Itza, sired by the great Kukulcan himself.

Too old to have children, Don Rafelo selected his sister’s son, Miguel Aurelia-Rafelo, to wed Cecilia. The curanandero warned the girl’s family to stay away from Don Rafelo, but the Meztlis owed Don Rafelo money, and the arranged marriage would pay off the debt.

The azure-blue-eyed Madelina Aurelia was born seventeen months later, and Don Rafelo had the minion he had long sought. The Nagual conspired against the infant’s parents, intent on raising the child himself. Following a series of tragedies, the family secretly fled Morelos and headed for America.

Seventeen years later, Don Rafelo’s prized apprentice died after giving birth to Lilith Eve Robinson.

Lilith finishes mowing the backyard lawn as Quenton returns home from church. Hearing him enter the house, she quickly positions the frayed lounge chair so it faces the sun, her heart racing. She removes her bikini top just as Don Rafelo had instructed, then lies back on the chair, rubbing oil over her exposed breasts, moaning just loud enough for her legal guardian to hear.

Quenton is in the bathroom urinating. Hearing the noise, he peeks between the curtains of the open window and stares at the topless teenager.

‘Sweet Jesus…’

Over the years, Quenton Morehead had convinced himself that his molestation of Lilith had been a necessary part of her ‘exorcism.’ He had already asked Jesus for forgiveness, and if the Lord could forgive him, then surely Lilith would. Now in his late sixties, he had eased up on the child’s ‘treatments,’ fearing the emboldened teenager might speak out against his acts.

But Quenton still had his needs, and the girl’s budding adolescence gnawed at him, creating desires that even prayer cannot staunch. But this public display of nudity-this was something altogether different. The girl was teasing him, charging his insides with electricity.

Lilith moans louder as she slips her fingers beneath her bikini bottom and pleasures herself.

It is more than Quenton can handle. Leaving the bathroom, he heads outside.

Feeling his presence, Lilith opens her eyes. ‘Something you wanted?’

Quenton grabs her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘You wanna be a bad girl? I’ll show you what we do with bad girls-’

Lilith slips inside the nexus.

A moment later, Quenton Morehead finds himself on his back on the freshly mowed lawn, staring up at the blue heavens and his granddaughter’s surreal azure eyes.

Lilith’s fist blots out the view as it wallops his nose.

‘Oww… God… damn you, you little whore!’ Blood spurts from both nostrils.

‘Whore? Whores get paid, Quenton.’

‘I have paid you! Fourteen years I’ve fed you and clothed you and kept a roof over your head. You owe me!’

Still straddling him, she fondles her breasts. ‘You want this, Quenton? Come and get it.’

He reaches for her, but she hits him again, the furious, impossibly fast blow knocking loose his front teeth.

Lilith is on her feet, her bikini bottoms twirling around her index finger as she struts, naked, back into the house. ‘Be sure to put the lawn mower away before you come in.’

Quenton rolls over, spitting out two bloody teeth. Only thing I’m gonna do is beat the hell outta you, then do you ’til you walk funny.

‘… nineteen… twenty… twenty-one…’

Eighty-two-year-old inmate Pierre Robert Borgia sucks air through his teeth, his face red, his muscles trembling as he completes his daily regimen of sit-ups.

‘… twenty-two… twenty-three… twenty-four…’

It has been nearly fifteen years since the former secretary of state was incarcerated for ordering the murder of Michael Gabriel.

‘… twenty-five… twenty-six… twenty-seven…’

Borgia has been a model prisoner. He has helped tutor inmates in a literacy program. He has led prayer groups on Sundays.

‘… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…’

Daily video-mail has kept him apprized of his family’s efforts to reduce his sentence. He knows parole is just around the corner.

‘… thirty-one… thirty-two… thirty-three…’

Exercise has helped keep Borgia’s blood pressure in check. Daily meditation has preserved his sanity.

The thought of revenge keeps him alive.

‘… thirty-four… thirty-five… thirty-six…’

Borgia’s anger had once been directed solely at the son of his arch rival-a man who had assaulted him onstage three decades earlier, costing him his right eye.