Codex Maya

© Copyright 2004 Steven Benzell. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in Victoria, Canada

A cataloguing record for this book that includes the U.S. Library of Congress Classification number, the Library of Congress Call number and the Dewey Decimal cataloguing code is available from the National Library of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from the National Library’s online database at: www.nlc-bnc.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN: 1-55395-558-7

This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing. on-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfillment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

Suite 6E, 2333 Government St., Victoria, B.C. V8T 4P4, CANADA

Phone 250-383-6864 Toll-free 1-888-232-4444 (Canada & US)

Fax 250-383-6804 E-mail [email protected]

WEB SITE WWW.TRAFFORD.COM TRAFFORD PUBLISHING IS A DIVISION OF TRAFFORD HOLDINGS

LTD.

Trafford Catalogue #02-1274 www.trafford.com/robots/02-1274.html

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

Contents

PROLOGUE

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 8

DAY 9

DAY 9

DAY 10

DAY 11

DAY 12

DAY 13

DAY 14

DAY 15

DAY 16

POSTSCRIPT

THE PROPHECY OF CHAACNAL

This novel is dedicated to my wife Betsy

PROLOGUE

Daybreak was ominous. From the pinnacle of the palace, Jaguar Claw, king of Yaxuna, watched the enemy army approach the outskirts of his great city. The fearsome northern Itza invaders armed with six-foot spears and atlatl darts assembled dutifully into battle formation. Their terrible war drums resounded across the plain and reverberated against the stone of the city. Jaguar Claw, dressed in the war regalia of his ancestors, signaled his captains to position their men.

The king’s brother, Chaacnal, royal scribe and high priest, viewed the coming battle with dread. The ancient prophesies forecast doom for the royal dynasty of Yaxuna, the Ahaubob. The spirit lords of his clan had grown weary and yearned to descend into the underworld. Chaacnal pleaded with the king, Beloved brother, already the Itza have overwhelmed Izarnal and Balam. Our warriors will spill blood in vain, I beseech you, liege, pay their tribute and continue to rule and live.

Jaguar Claw turned to his brother. There was fire in his eyes. I have fasted. I have let blood. I have communed with the visions of our ancestors. I will die king rather than become vassal. I command you to gather the work of our scribes, the chronicles of our people, and depart for Uxmal at once.

The king embraced his brother, Take my sons, Smoking Claw and Bird Jaguar, to the court where Lord Cacao rules with Lady Evening Star. One day they will avenge my blood.

The king then beckoned his cousin, Sun Disk, a scarred veteran of many battles to stand before him. "Mighty friend, choose twenty brave warriors. Guide

Chaacnal and my sons to Uxmal through the forest. Gather what the high priest requires quickly. Leave now! The time of battle is at hand.

Sun Disk, who would have preferred to fight and die beside his king, did as commanded. As the terrible sounds of war began to fill the air, he led the high priest and young princes toward the fabled city of Uxmal.

High in the dark gray sky, a dagger of sunlight pierced the clouds and illuminated Jaguar Claw’s palace in a radiant finale’ of golden light. King Jaguar Claw beckoned Princess Rainbow Sky, his wife, to place his war helmet upon his head. The king then hoisted his great obsidian battle-ax and descended the stairs of the palace. Flanked by his splendidly attired war captains, priests and prophets, he led his warriors to the battleground.

With a tremendous shout and the roar of drums and ear piercing flutes, the two armies rushed each other. The sky blackened with deadly missiles and the ground grew red with the blood of a thousand slain warriors. The fighting raged on until Captain Serpent, an Itza noble, managed to subdue King Jaguar Claw and decapitated him with a terrible stroke of his obsidian battle-ax.

Victorious, the next day Captain Serpent marched to Chichen Itza with the head of Jaguar Claw displayed upon a ten-foot stave. When he reached the city, he paraded triumphantly past the Temple of the Warriors and the Pyramid of Kukulkan with hundreds of captives in tow, among them one hundred noblemen suitable for sacrifice to Underworld Gods deep in Xibalba.

The procession ended at the Ball Court, where the nobles and priests of Chichen Itza sainted the conquering army. Before a vast multitude, the bloody games began. By nightfall the nobles of Yaxuna had been perfectly sacrificed to the Gods of Xibalba. Their severed heads were displayed to the priesthood and the populace. The gory prizes were then solemnly stacked upon a small temple in the shadow of the Pyramid of Kukulcan.

Three days later, Sun Disk led Chaacnal and the princes of Yaxuna out of the bitter forest into Uxmal. They had evaded Itza patrols and now beheld the magnificent Pyramid of the Magician rising from the Puuc Hills. Chaacnal led the princes, aged six and nine, to the royal court of Lord Cacoa and Lady Evening Star. The King held a staff engraved with the emblems of his royal blood. He addressed Chaacnal and the young princes warmly,

"My eyes are gladdened by your sight. I feared your noble line destroyed. Your father, Jaguar Shield died bravely in battle. He has joined his ancestors among the heavenly spheres. Your mother Rainbow Sky is captive of Captain Serpent, and has been brought to Chichen. Three hundred of my warriors died along side the brave men of Yaxuna. The moon is red with blood.

Smoking Claw and Bird Jaguar, true sons of destiny, you will live by my side and eat at my table. You will learn the true ways of blood. Someday you will avenge your father and your people. Chaacnal, your wisdom and piety are renowned. Teach the princes of my kingdom the righteous paths of the scribe.

Chaacnal took residence at the palace. In his priestly quarters at the base of the Pyramid of the Magician he revealed the meanings of the glyphs and emblems to young nobles aspiring to the priesthood. He explained the movement of the stars and planets, the burden of days, and the darkness of Xibalba.

The war with Chichen dragged on. Uxmal fought valiantly as its trade routes to Mexico and Guatemala were severed by the Chontol Warriors of Chichen. The sons of Jaguar Shield became great warriors. Many times their bravery saved Uxmal from defeat.

Twenty years had passed since the destruction of Yaxuna.

Chaacnal’s days were coming to an end. He summoned the sons of Jaguar Claw to the far outskirts of Uxmal where the construction of his tomb was nearly completed.

The old priest greeted his nephews in the shade of a giant Ceiba tree and displayed before the young warriors the work of a lifetime.

"Behold princes, before you is the treasure of your blood, the Codices of Yaxuna. In my youth I was sent to Palenque and the court of the great King Pacal. I was taught the arts of the scribe. Pacal’s own second son was my teacher. I learned to make ink and paper and brush and book. I learned the emblem glyphs, the magic of numbers. I learned the paths of the stars. I learned the secret cures of the plants.

"I copied the old texts, Before you is the work of my years. See that the codices are buried beside me and pray that someday they will see the light of day. My spirit will guard over them. The days of Uxmal are over, darkness is coming and our people will suffer, not once, but twice. Now goodbye brave princes for I am dead.

Chaacnal, the light of his people, the great scribe, teacher and healer closed his eyes and died.

DAY 1

It was late even for Bourbon Street. A fine mist cooled the French Quarter as the last revelers stumbled to bed. The shiny asphalt reflected the glistening neon of the jazz joints, honkytonks, and gin mills that lined the storied street.

James Montgomery Southern, just through customs, leaned wearily against the cigarette scarred Old Absinthe Bar. A vintage Wurlitzer belted out City Cruise as polluted salesmen, collars undone, knocked down boilermakers and beer. A beat waitress, dreaming Café du Monde and beignets, counted tips beneath a smoky portrait of Napoleon.

James wore a crisp new Panama hat, a wilted polo shirt, and lightweight jeans. The cascade of curly brown hair that fell from his fedora made him appear younger than his 33 years. A pair of stuffed nylon duffels dotted with the decals of Central America’s least reliable airlines lay at his feet.

A tattooed Cajun amiably presented James a concoction of Jamaican rum, lime and Coca Cola.

Here you go Southern.

James knew the bartend since the 90’s. Once upon a time they had waited tables together at Commander’s Palace.

James knocked down half the drink and said, Antoine Boudreaux, It is hard to believe that a mere six hours ago I was speeding from Progresso to Merida in 1969 Chevrolet Impala driven by a semi-suicidal, nearly blind, badly-bred Yucatecan taxi driver who had drunk way too much pulque. Not only is it a small miracle that I arrived at the airport on time but in one piece as well.

James smiled, I wish I could convey to you in mere words how thrilled I am to be back in The Big Easy sipping Cuba Libres" with you my Cajun friend./

James polished off the drink and said, Salud!

You still selling those silver trinkets? said Antoine with a bemused smile.

Damn straight amigo. Its good money and a whole lot easier than working for the Brennans.

James dug into his pocket and presented the bartender a keepsake. Here’s a little something for your sweetheart Yvette.

Antoine inspected the item. Hey man this is nice. What is it?

"It’s a pill box, Taxco silver, mother of pearl inlay. Your sweetheart can put her Valiums in it, and with you for a boyfriend I’m sure she needs plenty."

James made quick work of a second drink and pushed away from the bar. What’s the damage?

Forget it, said Antoine still fingering the silver. Hey Southern, tomorrow we’re having a crawdad boil at my brother’s place in Algiers. You know where, drop on by.

Thanks said James.

Back on Bourbon Street, James savored the wail of a soprano sax floating from The Famous Door. Tired but happy he trudged to Canal where the deep green St. Charles Avenue streetcar awaited. James sat himself in the rear conductor’s chair from where he watched a motley crew of townies, tourists and students clamber onto the electric trolley.

The trolley jolted uptown past Lee Circle where indomitable Robert E. forever faced north.

Two minutes and thousand yards later, the streetcar screeched to a disconcerting halt in the tomblike stillness beneath the I-10 overpass. James moved to a side seat, opened the window, and witnessed a blaze of flashing police and ambulance lights. A team of paramedics weaved a gurney through the chaos.

Trailing the stretcher was Reaper, a diminutive med school washout, whom James knew from quarter beer nights at Fat Harry’s.

Hey Reap! James shouted through the window, What’s going on?

Reaper stopped short in the pulsing light and searched for his interrogator. He caught James’ familiar mug framed by the streetcar window, and grinned broadly.

Hey Southern, Reaper reached up to shake James’ hand.

Reaper’s eyes twinkled, Weird shit bro’, we got a Latino John Doe, maybe 35 years old, who has just had his heart ripped out. I’m not talking Romeo and Juliet; some psycho actually slashed into the poor bastard’s chest and surgically removed the organ. Here’s the corker. Inside the bloody wound the nut left some kind of carved green disc. How do like them apples?

As the trolley lurched forward James called out, Sounds like Voodoo.

Maybe, said Reaper, but not Louisiana style.

Time and money were running out for Monique Le Plongeon. Wearily she watched the broiling Louisiana sun sink more of her money into the murky Mississippi. As darkness descended she dismissed her gloom and began Tai Chi. Tall and blonde she drew strength from her mastery of forms. Her exercises complete, Monique joined the twins in the adjoining room. Tula, her jet-black hair pulled back into a knot, was ticked off. She swatted away the satellite map of Yucatan from the coffee table and said, This is absurd Monique. We need to be in Mexico right now preparing for the equinox. Why are we wasting time in this drunken boozy city?

Ixel insists on the others, Monique shrugged. Do you doubt your own aunt’s wisdom?

Maya, Tula’s identical twin, reassured them both, It’s OK. All the arrangements are in place. We must do as Ixel instructs.

Tula sighed, Maybe so, but as far as I’m concerned we should have been in Mexico yesterday.

James, unnerved by the crime scene, sat back as the trolley jolted past Jackson, Jefferson and Napoleon Avenues. The night turned stormy and an incessant rain pounded the trolley. When the streetcar ground to a halt at the corner of Bordeaux, James girded himself, gripped his bags and dashed for Prytania Street as the skies thundered and an apocalyptic downpour drenched New Orleans from the lake to the river.

Home, soaked and saturated, James gratefully shed his apparel and blissfully slipped into his antique mahogany four-poster, only to be mortified by the unexpected presence of a beautiful young woman.

Angel! What the hell are you doing here?

Angel was an exotic dancer who periodically parachuted into and out of James’ life. Her appearances and disappearances were usually at the behest of Garland

Le Rouche. James distrusted Garland; a rotund, flamboyant, gay redhead who read fortunes, foreheads and tarot cards in Gentilly.

James often wondered if he had somehow ‘dissed Garland back in college, and that Garland had chosen Angel as his instrument of revenge.

How the hell did you get in here? asked James shaking her left arm.

Through the bathroom window. She said dreamily.

Damn.

Aren’t you glad to see me? She said provocatively, stretching her showgirl frame.

No, I am not glad to see you, Angel. You’re bad news, bad luck, and bad company. What happened, Angel? That demented spirit guide of yours decided Mercury was too far from Uranus and it was time to pay me a visit?

I’ve been waiting patiently for you. she said, impervious to James’ wrath. Come on James, don’t you want to relax a little after that nasty plane ride?

James weakened as Angel rose from the bed daintily losing the top sheet. James knew succumbing could be costly, but after three loveless weeks in the sweltering backwaters of Chiapas he was a goner.

In desperation, he made a gesture of tossing her clothes on to the bed.

Put these on Angel. What kind of fool do you think I am anyway?

A tall, she said posing, handsome and horny one.

James succumbed to her charms and gingerly kissed her pouting lips. He cursed his weak resolve even as his body sleepily slipped into her delta dreamland.

DAY 2

Percussive pecans dropped a pizzicato on the tin shack in James’ backyard. The immense tree dated to the plantation days when all uptown was sugarcane and New Orleans was blissfully Bourbon.

James, stirred by the drumming, opened his eyes. Angel had left a note on the dresser saying she was off to Biloxi to dance at the Redneck Riviera. James crumpled the note, resolved to change the locks and fix the windows.

He brewed a pot of Café Du Monde and played Louis Armstrong and the Hot Five on the box. Savoring his coffee, James admired his newly restored hardwood floors and painted foyer.

James Montgomery Southern was ready to kick back. The previous three weeks in Mexico were a grind and worse still, it was the first anniversary of his x-girlfriend’s decision to leave him.

In retrospect he couldn’t blame Mimi Blanchard. Well bred and ambitious she hated James’ constant third world jaunts and Bohemian lifestyle. When a wealthy Creole lawyer waltzed down from Baton Rouge two Mardi Gras ago, she reeled him in like a twenty-pound catfish. James, in due time, was sacked like a bag of bad oysters. Last he heard she was teaching Italian at L.S.U.

The téléphoné rang.

Hello baby. a familiar voice intoned.

Gordyl My main man! said James, a grin already spanning his face.

I heard you were back in The Big Easy.

Yea you right. Tell me something good.

Tonight the Meters are having a reunion at Tipitina’s.

Tm there."

Slow down Southern. I got a hottie lined up for you, a total knockout.

A hottie? After how many beers?

Man I’m serious. This is the real thing.

In that case I’m much obliged. See you later ‘gator.

Gordy Baxter was a phenomenon of primal energy. He tore through high school in Kenner without cracking a book and won an athletic scholarship to play halfback at Tulane. He never started, but did run back a punt for a touchdown senior year.

His latest entrepreneurial foray consisted of hauling tourists in an out of Cajun country. What Gordy lacked in scholarship he made up for with savvy, a gap toothed smile and a heart as wide as the Mississippi.

Gordy’s big dream was to someday buy and restore one of the mansions in the Garden District.

James was living his own dream, big time.

He was a Trader Horn. He traveled the backwaters of Central America searching for silver, jewelry and native crafts. Stateside, he sold the goods via mail order and the net. The money was fine and he was his own boss.

The icing on the cake was that he loved Mexico and Guatemala. His Spanish was fluent and he could converse in two Mayan dialects. His greatest coup was his purchase of museum grade antique jade jewelry from a Lacandon chief outside Palenque.

The Lacandon were especially interesting to James. They were the last of the Maya to maintain the old faith.