But the three had inspected only one temple when Ix Zubin expressed her disgust at the sloppy, inartistic manner in which the edifices had been built: ‘They’re as gross and brutal as our Chac Mool.’
Tulúm had been built in the days when Maya glory was fading, when architects were content to use rude chunks of rock on which no attempt had been made to achieve a finish. The buildings showed façades that were inherently ugly and were so oriented that no lovely vistas resulted. A few apertures did look out upon the Caribbean but they were very small, as if the priests inside had been afraid to face the frightening sea, preferring instead the scrub woodland which attacked from the west and with which they were familiar. The principal temple did serve one useful purpose: it was convenient as a pilgrimage center for those who could not afford the longer journeys to Cozumel or Chichén Itzá, but the men who served it were as uncouth as their building. The temple had as its prized adornment an exceptionally hideous Chac Mool whose reclining body was so cramped and distorted that it seemed hardly human and whose brutal scowl was terrifying. There was little else that might awaken spiritual understanding, and Ix Zubin was harsh when she helped her son evaluate what he was seeing: ‘It’s a hodgepodge. No beauty. No lifting of the spirit. No inner sense of majesty inspired these architects and sculptors. No reason, really, for the temples at all, except maybe to serve a population that couldn’t afford the trip to a real one.’
Her son, acquainted only with the temples on Cozumel, could not agree: ‘Tulúm’s twice as big as anything we have. I like the way it overlooks the sea. It’s high, too, up on this cliff, much higher than any of ours.’
Ix Zubin was impatient with such limited reasoning: ‘Big is no measure, Bolón. Look at that Chac Mool. Horrible though ours is, in comparison to this it’s a work of art. Ours is well carved, properly finished, and the boots and headdresses are handsomely done. It’s a real statue, and if you can tolerate Chac Mool, which I can’t, ours must be considered effective. But this one!’ and she scorned its manifold defects. ‘What’s most irritating, Bolón, it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do.’
‘What is that?’
‘Create a sense of awe … a feeling of mystical power.’
‘When I see that stone saucer resting on his belly and imagine what’s to go in it, I feel awe,’ Bolón said, but she would not accept this: ‘Bolón, look at the hideous thing. It offers nothing but shock,’ and she elaborated on the principle that had guided both her grandfather and her in their service to their island: ‘Whenever you do a job, do it right in its essentials, but then add something to make it more important than it would otherwise be. I hate our Chac Mool, you know that, but I admire the way the sculptor took pains to make the boots so perfect, the helmet so right. Let that be your guide when you become High Priest of our temple.’
As they prepared to leave Tulúm for the journey to Chichén Itzá, Ix Zubin had an opportunity to study her son, and the more she saw of him as he stood on the verge of manhood, the more pleased she was. ‘Look at him!’ she whispered to herself as he marched ahead. ‘What a handsome body, what a quick mind in its own way.’ And she saw with motherly satisfaction that the countless nights she had spent binding boards against his forehead had borne fruit, for his face sloped backward in a perfect unbroken line from the tip of his nose to the top of his head in the way a Maya head was supposed to. No forehead bone interrupted that unblemished sweep, and with such a profile her son was assured of being judged one of the most handsome young men in any community. She could not understand why some mothers, and she could name a few in the better families of Cozumel, failed to train their son’s heads properly, for all it took was patience and the application of pressure every night for the first six years.
There was a haphazard, poorly tended trail from the temple at Tulúm to the congregation of great buildings at Chichén Itzá, but it could not be called a proper road. However, along it did come, now and then, some important personage riding in a chair covered like a tent with woven mats and carried on the shoulders of four slaves. Bolón, watching one such entourage sweep hurriedly by, with those behind the chair following at a run, told his mother: ‘That’s the way I’d like to go,’ and she reprimanded him: ‘What a lofty ambition! To ride on the backs of others,’ and he blushed at having been so presumptuous.
The narrow path received enough shade from the low trees to protect the travelers from the blinding sun, but the humidity was so great that they did perspire profusely; Ix Zubin’s thin garment was damp most of the time, and although Bolón traveled bare to the waist, his scanty breechclout was soaked. Whenever they reached one or another small village in a clearing, they were more than eager to stop for whatever refreshment the place provided. Gingerly and only after the most cautious calculations and the careful counting of Bolón’s cacao beans did Ix Zubin decide that she could risk a small piece of jade or fragment of Ah Nic’s gold from her horde to pay for the food they needed. But she was gratified when her son scouted to find things they could eat without surrendering further treasure: a monkey killed with a sharp spear and roasted, a turkey trapped in a net, succulent buds of familiar trees, a fish which Ah Nic caught from a sluggish stream, roots of proven nutritional value and even young, carefully selected leaves of bushes. At night they slept under trees, using leaves and extra clothing as their bedding.
When they broke out of the low woodland they saw stretching far before them the great, flat plains of Yucatán, broken only occasionally by forlorn groups of scraggly trees. Now the sun beat so relentlessly upon them that they feared they might faint. But their good luck persisted, for one day when they fell exhausted beneath a tree that offered meager shade, they were joined by a group of pilgrims who had come from another part of the forest. These men and women carried with them light woven mats which they attached to pairs of forked branches, to form a comfortable protection above their heads, and since they were taking surplus mats to a trading center near Chichén Itzá, they allowed Ix Zubin and her companions to borrow some to make their own head coverings.
The strangers, having no interest in Chichén Itzá, broke away well before the ancient site, but Ah Nic, loath to lose the protection of his head covering, cried like a little child: ‘I want to keep mine!’ and when Ix Zubin offered the traders a small piece of jade for the three mats, the purchase was completed. The strangers gone, Ix Zubin said: ‘I’m glad we’re alone, for these are solemn moments,’ and when Bolón asked why, she explained: ‘When you travel you must not only look but also think,’ and as they sat in their newly purchased shade she talked with her son regarding the glories of their people. She was delighted when she saw that he was following carefully what she said, and that night when she lay stretched upon the ground she thought: He’s becoming a priest. Given enough time, he’ll make it.
The next day Ix Zubin continued to discuss issues with her son: ‘Whoever becomes the High Priest at our temple, and I’m sure it will be you, must be strong in defense of old beliefs. He must know the great traditions of our people, or he won’t be able to fulfill his responsibilities,’ and she spoke of her introduction to the grandeur of Maya life: ‘When my grandfather realized that at five I could handle counting and the mysteries of numbers better than most men of twenty striving to be priests, he said: “Cozumel isn’t big enough for your dreams,” and he stopped everything he was doing to cross the water to the big land and take me down the jungle paths to Tulúm, where he showed me how miserable that temple was, then through the dark paths we followed to just about this spot, where he told me: “Now you shall see the greatness of our people.” When I asked why we had walked so far, he said: “Unless you’ve seen what greatness is, you can never achieve it in your own life. When you study the papyrus in our temple, I want you to read it not as a singular thing, but as one among thousands, found in a hundred temples across this broad land, and each confirming all the others. That’s what we travel to Chichén Itzá for,” and that’s why you and I have come, so many
years later.’
As they approached the vast collection of buildings, now empty because leadership of the Maya had passed to Mayapán, Ix Zubin saw that temples she had so vividly remembered, and with such frightening memories, were now even more awesome, for they had been captured by crawling vines which passed over them like clutching fingers. Confronted by this mystery of the land reclaiming the temples, she became a different woman, a priestess self-ordained and inspired by her memories of dreams and nightmares. She was again that child of dazzling brilliance, the adventurous young woman who had preserved the long memories of her Maya people. Her first visit to Chichén Itzá had so awakened her to the terror and glories of Maya life that she now became hungry to instill in her son an equal appreciation. With that resolve, she strode past the Chac Mool and plunged her son into the grandeur of the Chichén Itzá ruins.
Bolón was staggered by the vastness of the buildings, their architectural brilliance, their variation and the manner in which they linked one with the other, providing large open spaces for the assembling of people, ball courts for games with rubber balls and deep, mysterious wells called cenotes into which, after the strangers came with their new religion, maidens were thrown, throats slashed, so that the gods might be appeased. Even though the invaders from the west had reached this spot a full five hundred years earlier, Ix Zubin still thought of them, because of the cruel religious customs they had imposed, as strangers.
But it was a trial of a different order that she wanted to impress upon her son, and as she stood over one of the cenotes, she told Bolón: ‘Whenever the city faced a crisis that required immediate instruction from the gods, the priests brought twelve naked maidens here at dawn and tossed them one by one into the deep water down there. At noon they came back with long poles to fish out as many girls as had survived, and these lucky ones were supposed to bring with them specific instructions from the gods.’
‘What if none survived?’
‘That meant the city was in trouble.’
‘I think it was the twelve girls who were in trouble,’ Ah Nic ventured, but his niece reproved him for making light of a religious tradition, horrible though it was.
It was two quite different features which Bolón would remember longest: the noble pyramids falling into ruin but with high temples still atop their pinnacles, and the artistic excellence of the Chac Mools who, with their gaping saucers on their bellies, seemed better carved than the ones he had known at Cozumel and seen briefly at Tulúm.
But his mother now called his attention to something else: ‘Look at how these temples were built, the perfection of their stones, the magical way in which one blends with the other,’ and as he studied these details she continued in an almost mystical monotone: ‘These temples were built by men who talked with the gods, who had seen a vision of a more perfect world.’ At one point, when the three stood together sharing a view of four temples whose facades seemed to intertwine, each serving its prescribed purpose, Ix Zubin grasped Bolón’s hands and cried: ‘In spite of the horrors I saw here, if I’d never seen the glories of Chichén, I would have died blind,’ and she continued in an unbroken litany to describe its wonders.
For three days they remained among the ruined temples but seemed barely to have touched the richness of the place, for when Bolón believed that he had exhausted the things he wanted to inspect, he came upon a ball court much smaller than the imposing one he had first seen, and this lesser court was so handsomely set down among larger buildings that they seemed to protect it and the two stelae that marked its end lines. It was a gem, a practice court no doubt, and he was led to dash into the middle of its playing area and leap and twist as if he were engaged in a vigorous game, and soon he was shouting as if to unseen teammates. His mother, watching as she waited beside one of the handsomely carved markers, said to herself: He’s caught the spirit. He’s prepared to be a priest. And that night, as they camped near the little court, she told him: ‘You’re ready to be a priest, perhaps even a great one like Grandfather, but in your own way. The problem now is, are you ready to be a man? Let’s move on to Mayapán to see how you do battle against the powers there,’ and they went to bed hungry yet satisfied, for the richness of the temples had satiated them.
In the morning Bolón was up early, eager to resume the journey to Mayapán and test his will against the rules of that city, but before they could get started they were surprised by the arrival at the temple of a group of eleven somber men and women, obviously dispirited and without a leader. When Bolón ran forward to interrogate them, one said sullenly: ‘We’re from Mayapán,’ and he cried: ‘That’s where we’re going!’ whereupon all spoke at once: ‘Don’t do it!’ and ‘No reason to go!’ and ‘We’ve just left and all is confusion.’
Ix Zubin hurried up to ask: ‘What happened there?’ and a man with a black spade beard said almost tearfully: ‘When our leaders saw their power slipping away, great Mayapán sliding into the dust, they became frantic and did all the wrong things. Stupid laws, beheading citizens who disobeyed those laws, riots everywhere. Flames, houses gone and temples too. The end of the world.’
When the Cozumel people moved among the newcomers they heard ample confirmation: ‘Yes, Mayapán was in turmoil for many years. When all was chaos, new invaders swarmed from the south with new gods and new laws. Many loud promises …’ The speaker, a workingman, shrugged his shoulders, and his wife, gathering her daughter to her, completed his observation: ‘Promises … and now … who knows?’
‘Even to attempt to go there,’ the man with the beard warned, ‘would be to risk life and reason.’
‘Where, then, are you going?’ Ah Nic broke in, and a very old man with white hair gave a long evasive reply, punctuated with lamentations: ‘Ah me, when the heavens fall in tempest, wise ones huddle close to the earth so that lightning does not strike them.’
‘Good counsel,’ Ix Zubin said impatiently. ‘But where will you find that protective earth?’ for she was concerned about her son’s safety, and the old man, after more expressions of grief, started another aimless answer: ‘In these days we seek consolation … courage … the wisdom of those who went before,’ and a woman who showed irritation at these ramblings broke in with a solid statement: ‘We’re going to Palenque, where the gods first took us under their protection,’ and at the mention of this almost sacred name, both Ix Zubin and her uncle gasped, for that ancient site was strong in their minds, and this sudden opportunity to see it was compelling. Without consulting her two companions, and abandoning any thought of visiting moribund Mayapán, Ix Zubin cried: ‘Can we go with you?’ and before anyone could respond, Bolón cried with equal pleading: ‘Can we? Can we?’
The verbose old man smiled, and said with condescension: ‘It’s many days travel, west and south. As a woman, you couldn’t possibly—’
Boldly Ix Zubin interrupted: ‘I’m the granddaughter of Cimi Xoc,’ and when the man with the spade beard heard that august name he held out both hands to greet Ix Zubin, but then he posed certain sensible questions whose answers would prove or disprove her relationship with the revered astronomer. She responded properly, going far beyond expectations and revealing herself as one who had some knowledge of the secrets of the planets and even considerable information about how the Maya people had governed themselves in ancient times.
Her questioner was a prudent man who did not want his group to be saddled with weaklings, so before he gave his answer he pointed to the heavens where a waning moon still showed visible in daylight, and said: ‘Palenque is far. Before we reach there, that moon will stand once more where it stands today. Before we are able to return, it will have stood there twice.’
Turning to her men, Ix Zubin started to query them to see if they deemed themselves equal to the task of continuing on to Palenque, and when Ah Nic, whom she questioned first, displayed the reticence which she expected, she heard the people from Mayapán murmuring against admitting him to their group. This distressed her, for she could see animos
ities festering which would destroy their expedition, so with great force she challenged her uncle: ‘You are a priest of the Temple of Fertility in Cozumel. These women from Mayapán would travel a far distance to receive your blessing. You are the conscience of our people, the custodian of good things. Brace yourself and assume the leadership to which your rank entitles you.’
Her words had a double effect. The women among the newcomers, realizing how indebted they were to the rites at Cozumel, and to any priest who supervised them, began to whisper, while Ah Nic himself acknowledged the truth of what his niece had said. Mustering his courage and assuming a proper demeanor, he spoke quietly: ‘I am your priest and it is my duty to see that all of you reach Palenque, that holy place, in good stead. Of course Bolón and I can stand the rigors, and as for Ix Zubin, she’s stronger of heart than any of us. Let us move forward,’ and the long trek to Palenque began.
Although the Mayapán men were impressed by the old man’s willingness to assume command, they needed two more assurances. ‘This could well be the last journey any of us will ever make,’ they said, ‘so we must be sure. When you walk from here to Palenque, you travel through jungle, swamps, streams overflowing suddenly … Days without seeing the sun … A million insects, snakes … Few villages …’ Staring at the would-be voyagers, the spokesman asked: ‘Can you face that?’ and Ah Nic said grandly: ‘Yes.’
Then came the crucial question: ‘We’ll have to buy many things along the way … whenever we have a chance. Do you carry anything of value?’
Bolón started to tell them that yes, they had … but Ah Nic gently placed his hand on the young fellow’s arm, smiled at the Mayapán people, and assured them: ‘We do,’ and they, approving of his reluctance to disclose the exact level of their wealth, nodded and said: ‘In that case, off we go,’ and the company of fourteen started the thirty-three-day walk to Palenque.