Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

  “You can’t take a main road. The soldiers will shoot you on sight.” Akabal looked at the cuts and bruises Xbalanque had incurred on their climb. “Your talent seems very selective.”

  “I don’t think it’s a talent.” Xbalanque wiped off some of the dried blood on his jeans. “I had a dream about the gods. They gave me my name and my powers. After the dream I could do—what I did in Xepon.”

  “The norteamericanos gave you your powers. You are what they call an ace.” Akabal examined him closely. “I know of few others this far south of the United States.

  “It’s a disease actually. A red-haired alien from outer space brought it to Earth. Or so they claim, since biological warfare has been outlawed. Most of those who caught it died. Some were changed.”

  “I have seen them begging in the city. It was bad sometimes.” Xbalanque shrugged. “But I’m not like that.”

  “A very few become something more than they were. The norteamericanos worship these aces.” Akabal shook his head. “Typical exploitation of the masses by fascist media masters.

  “You know, you could be very important to our fight.” The schoolteacher leaned forward. “The mythic element, a tie to our people’s past. It would be good, very good, for us.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m going to the city.” Chagrined, Xbalanque remembered the treasure he had left in the jeep. “After I return to Xepon.”

  “The people need you. You could be a great leader.”

  “I’ve heard this before.” Xbalanque was uncertain. The offer was attractive, but he wanted to be more than the people’s-army figurehead. With his power he wanted to do something, something with money in it. But first he had to get to Guatemala City.

  “Let me help you.” Akabal had that intense look of desire that the graduate students had when they wanted to sleep with the Mayan priest-king, or as one of them had said, a reasonable fac­simile thereof. Combined with the blood now caked on his face, it made Akabal appear to be the devil himself. Xbalanque backed off a couple steps.

  “No, thank you. I’m just going to go back to Xepon in the morning, get my jeep, and leave.” He started back down the trail. Over his shoulder he spoke to Akabal. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Wait. It’s getting dark. You’ll never make it back down at night.” The teacher sat back down on a rock beside the trail. “We’re far enough in that, even with more men, they would not dare follow us. We’ll stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning we’ll start back for the village. It will be safe. It will take the lieutenant at least a day to explain the loss of his truck and get reinforcements.”

  Xbalanque stopped and turned back.

  “No more talk about armies?”

  “No, I promise.” Akabal smiled and gestured for Xbalanque to take another rock.

  “Do you have anything to eat? I’m very hungry.” Xbalanque could not remember ever having been this hungry, even in the worst parts of his childhood.

  “No. But if we were in New York, you could go to a restaurant called Aces High. It is just for people like you. . . .”

  As Akabal told him about life in the United States for the aces, Xbalanque gathered some branches to protect against the wet ground and lay down on them. He was asleep long before Akabal ended his speech.

  In the morning before dawn they were on the trail back down. Akabal had found some nuts and edible plants for food, but Xbalanque remained ravenous and in pain. Still, they made it back to the village in much less time than it had taken them to toil up the trail the day before.

  Hunapu found that wearing the heavy cotton padding while he was walking was clumsy and hot, so he wrapped it up and tied it to his back. He had walked a day and a night without sleep when he came to a small Indian village only slightly larger than his own. Hunapu stopped and wrapped the padding around himself as José had done it. The dress of a warrior and a ballplayer, he thought proudly, and held his head high. The people here were not Lacandones and they looked at him suspiciously as he entered with the sunrise.

  An old man walked out into the main path that led between the thatched houses. He called out a greeting to Hunapu in a tongue that was similar but not quite the same as that of his people. Hunapu introduced himself to the t’o’ohil as he walked up to him. The village guardian stared at the young man for a full minute of contemplation before inviting him into his home, the largest house Hunapu had ever entered.

  While most of the village waited outside for the guardian to tell them about this morning apparition, the two men spoke and drank coffee. It was a difficult conversation at first, but Hunapu soon understood the old man’s pronunciations and was able to make himself and his mission known. When Hunapu was finished, the t’o’ohil sat back and called his three sons to him. They stood behind him and waited while he spoke to Hunapu.

  “I believe that you are Hunapu returned to us. The end of the world comes soon, and the gods have sent messengers to us.” The t’o’ohil gestured to one of his sons, a dwarf, to come forward. “Chan K’in will go with you. As you see, the gods touched him and he speaks to them directly for us. If you are hach, true, he will know it. If you are not, he will know that also.”

  The dwarf went to stand by Hunapu and looked back at his father and nodded.

  “Bol will also go with you.” At this, the youngest son started and glared down at his father. “He dislikes the old ways and he will not believe you. But he honors me and he will protect his brother in your travels. Bol, get your gun and pack whatever you need. Chan K’in, I will speak to you. Stay.” The old man put down his coffee and stood. “I will tell the village of your vision and your journey. There may be those who wish to accompany you.”

  Hunapu joined him outside and stood silently while the t’o’ohil told his people that the young man followed a vision and was to be respected. Most of the people left after that, but a few remained and Hunapu spoke to them of his quest. Although they were Indian, he felt uncomfortable speaking to them because they wore pants and shirts like the Ladinos, not the long tunics of the Lacan­dones.

  When Chan K’in and Bol, dressed for travel in the village’s tra­ditional clothing and carrying supplies, came for him, only three men were left to hear him. Hunapu rose and the other men walked away, talking among themselves. Chan K’in was calm. His com­posed face showed nothing of what he felt or if he was reluctant to embark on a journey that would undoubtedly bring his twisted body pain. Bol, though, showed his anger at his father’s order. Hunapu wondered if the tall brother would simply shoot him in the back of the head at the first opportunity and return to his life. It did not matter. He had no choice; he had to continue on the path that the gods had chosen for him. He did feel a certain misgiving that the gods would have chosen him to have the company of such garishly dressed men. Used to the simple shifts of his people, he considered the bright red-and-purple embroidery and sashes of these men to be more like the clothing of the Ladinos than to be proper dress for real men. No doubt he would see much that he had not seen before on his travels to meet his brother. He hoped that his brother knew how to dress.

  It took much less time to get out of the mountains than it had to climb up into them. A few hours walking that began at dawn brought Xbalanque and Akabal back into Xepon. This time the town was crowded with people. Looking at the remains of the truck in the square where most of the activity was centered made Xbalanque proud. Too late he began thinking about the price the town had paid for his escape. Perhaps these people would not be as impressed with him as Akabal. Akabal led him past the angry stares of some of the townsmen and the tearstained hate of many of the women. With so many people and Akabal’s firm grip on his arm, he had no chance to make a break for the jeep and escape. They ended up back at the cantina, today the site of a town meeting.

  Their entry caused an uproar as some of the men called for his death and others proclaimed him a hero. Xbalanque said nothing. He was afraid to open his mouth. He stood to one side, back against the hard wooden edge of the ba
r, as Akabal climbed up and began speaking to the groups of men circulating beneath him. It took several moments of mutual shouts and insults in Quiché and Spanish to gain the attention of all the men.

  He was so busy watching the men watching him for signs of violence that it took a while for what Akabal was saying to make sense to him. Akabal was again mixing Maya and Spanish in a speech that centered on Xbalanque and his “mission.” Akabal had taken what Xbalanque had said to him and linked it to a Christian second coming and the end of the world as prophesied by the ancient priests.

  Xbalanque, the morning star, was the herald of a new age in which the Indians would take back their lands and become the rulers of their land as they had been centuries before. The coming doom was that of the Ladinos and norteamericanos, not the Maya, who would inherit the Earth. No longer should the Quiché follow the lead of outsiders, socialist, communist, or democratic. They had to follow their own or lose themselves forever. And Xbalanque was the sign. He had been given his powers by the gods. Confused, Xbalanque remembered Akabal’s explanation of his powers as the result of a disease. But even this son of a god could not win alone against the fascist invaders. He was sent here to gain followers, warriors who would fight at his side until they had taken back all that the Ladinos and the centuries had stolen from them.

  When he had finished, Akabal hauled Xbalanque up onto the bar and jumped down, leaving the stocky man in filthy T-shirt and blue jeans alone above the packed room. Turning to face Xbal­anque, Akabal raised his fist into the air and began chanting Xbal­anque’s name over and over again. Slowly, and then with increasing fervor, every man in the room followed the teacher’s lead, many raising their rifles in their fists.

  Faced with a chant of his name that shook the room, Xbalanque swallowed nervously, his hunger forgotten. He almost wished that he had only the army to worry about. He was not yet ready to become the leader about which the gods had spoken to him. This was not at all how he had imagined it. He wasn’t wearing the splendid uniform he had designed in his mind, and this was not the well trained and directed army that would bring him to power and the presidential palace. They were all staring at him with an expression in their faces that he had never seen before. It was wor­ship and trust. Slowly, trembling, he raised his own fist and saluted them and the gods. He silently prayed to those gods that he would not screw the whole thing up.

  A dirty little man, the nightmare of the Ladinos come to life, he knew that he was not what these people had seen in their dreams either. But he also knew that he was their only hope now. And whether he was the accidental creation of the norteamericanos’ sickness or the child of the gods, he swore to all the deities he rec­ognized, Mayan and European, Jesus, Mary, and Itzamna, that he would do everything he could for his people.

  But his brother Hunapu had to be having an easier time than he was.

  Just outside the village, as Hunapu had been removing his cotton armor, one of the men he had spoken to had joined them. Silently they walked on through the Peten forests, each man with his own thoughts. They moved slowly because of Chan K’in, but not as slowly as Hunapu had expected. The dwarf was clearly used to making his own way with little help from others. There had been no dwarves in Hunapu’s village, but they were known to bring good luck and to be the voice of the gods. The little men were revered. José had often said that Hunapu was meant to be a dwarf since he had been touched by the gods. Hunapu looked forward to learning from Chan K’in.

  At the height of the sun they took a break. Hunapu was star­ing at the sun, his namesake, at the center of the sky when Chan K’in hobbled over to him. The dwarf’s face still showed nothing. They sat together in silence for some minutes before Chan K’in spoke.

  “Tomorrow, at dawn, a sacrifice. The gods wish to make sure that you are worthy.” Chan K’in’s huge black eyes were turned on Hunapu, who nodded in agreement. Chan K’in stood up and walked back to sit by his brother. Bol still looked as if he wanted Hunapu dead.

  It was a long, hot afternoon for walking. The insects were bad and nothing worked to keep them away. It was nearly dark by the time they had trudged to Yalpina. Chan K’in entered first and spoke to the village elders. When he had gained permission for them to enter, he sent a child out to the waiting party in the forest. Wearing his armor, Hunapu strode into the tiny town square. Everyone had gathered to hear Chan K’in and Hunapu speak. It was plain that they knew Chan K’in, and his reputation gave weight to Hunapu’s claims. Until they were hushed by their mothers, the children giggled and made fun of Hunapu’s cotton armor and bare legs. But when Hunapu began speaking of his quest to find his brother and join him in a revival of their own Indian cul­ture, the people fell under the spell of his dream. They had their own portents.

  Fifteen years earlier a child had been born who had the brilliant feathers of a jungle bird. The girl was thrust forward through the crowd. She was beautiful, and the feathers that replaced her hair only made her more so. She said that she had been waiting for one to come and that Hunapu was surely the one. Hunapu took her hand and she stood at his side.

  That night many of the people from the town came to the home of the girl’s parents, where Hunapu and Chan K’in were staying, and spoke to them about the future. The girl, Maria, never left Hunapu. When the last villager had left and they curled up by the fire, Maria watched them sleep.

  Before dawn Chan K’in woke Hunapu and they trekked out to the forest, leaving Maria behind to get ready to leave. Hunapu had only his machete, but Chan K’in had a slim European knife. Taking the dwarf’s knife, Hunapu knelt, holding his hands out in front of him palm up. In the left was the knife. The right, already healed from the machete cut three days before, trembled in anticipation. Without flinching or hesitating Hunapu drove the knife through the palm of his right hand, holding it there while his head dropped back and his body quivered in ecstasy.

  With no movement except for a momentary widening of his huge eyes, Chan K’in watched the other man gasping, blood dripping from his hand. He roused himself from his revery to put a piece of hand-loomed cotton cloth on the ground beneath Hunapu’s hands. He moved to Hunapu’s side and pulled his head over toward him, staring into Hunapu’s open, blind eyes as if seeking to peer into his mind itself.

  After several minutes Hunapu collapsed to the ground and Chan K’in snatched up the blood-drenched cloth. Using flint and steel, he lit a small fire. As Hunapu returned to consciousness, he threw the offering onto the fire. Hunapu crawled over and both men watched the smoke rise to heaven to meet the rising sun.

  “What did you see?” Chan K’in spoke first, his immobile face giving no clue to his own thoughts.

  “The gods are pleased with me, but we must move faster and gather more people. I think . . . I saw Xbalanque leading an army of people.” Hunapu nodded to himself and clasped his hands. “That is what they want.

  “It is beginning now. But we still have far to go and much to do before we succeed.” Hunapu looked over at Chan K’in.

  The dwarf sat with his stunted legs spread out before him with his chin propped up on his hand.

  “For now, we will go back to Yalpina and eat.” He struggled to his feet. “I saw some trucks. We will take one and travel on the roads from now on.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by Maria, who ran into the clearing, panting.

  “The cacique, he wants to speak to you now. A runner has come in from another village. The army is sweeping the area looking for rebels. You must leave at once.” Her feathers shown in the early morning light as she looked at him in entreaty.

  Hunapu nodded to her.

  “I will meet you in the village. Prepare to go with us. You will be a sign to others.” Hunapu turned back toward Chan K’in and closed his eyes in concentration. The trees in the background of the clearing began turning into the houses of Yalpina. The village seemed to grow toward him. The last thing he saw was Chan K’in’s surprise and Maria falling to her knees.

  By the ti
me Chan K’in and Maria got back to Yalpina, transporta­tion had been arranged. They had time for a quick breakfast, then Hunapu and his companions left in an old Ford pickup truck that carried them south on the road that connected with the capital. Maria joined them as well as half a dozen men from Yalpina. Others who had joined their cause were on their way to the other Indian vil­lages in the Peten and north to Chiapas in Mexico, where tens of thousands of Indians driven from their homes by the Ladinos waited.

  Xbalanque’s army grew larger as he traveled down toward Guatemala City. So did the tales of his feats in Xepon. When he wanted to stop the stories, Akabal explained to him how important it was for his people to believe the fantastic rumors. Reluctantly Xbalanque accepted Akabal’s judgment. It seemed to him now that he was constantly accepting Akabal’s decisions. Being a leader of his people was not what he had expected.

  His jeep and his cache had been intact. He and Akabal rode at the front of the column of old and creaking vehicles of all kinds. By now they had collected several hundred followers, all of whom were armed and ready to fight. In Xepon they had given him the pants and shirt of their village, but each town they rode into had another style and design. When they gave him their own clothes along with their husbands and sons, he felt obligated to wear them.

  There were women now. Most had come to follow their men and take care of them, but there were many who had come to fight. Xbalanque was not comfortable with this, but Akabal welcomed them. Most of Xbalanque’s time was spent trying to feed his army or worrying about when the government would strike them. Both Xbalanque and Akabal agreed that they had come too far too easily.

  Akabal had become obsessed with attempting to get television, radio, and newspaper reporters to join the march. Whenever they entered a town that had a telephone, Akabal began placing calls. As a result, the opposition press was sending out as many people as they could without arousing undue suspicion from the secret police. They counted on a few making it to Xbalanque without being arrested.