Pat Murphy - The Falling Woman

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In the ruins of an ancient Mayan city, archaeologist Elizabeth Butler confronts the shade of a long-dead

priestess. And enters the twilight world of Mayan magic and Mayan blood sacrifice.

~ ~ ~

“Murphy’s sharp behavioral observation, her rich Mayan background and the revolving door of fantasy

and reality honorably recall the novels of Margaret Atwood.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Pat Murphy has mixed fantasy, horror and contemporary realism in a literate and absorbing tale.”

—Chicago Sun Times

“Murphy splendidly captures the atmosphere and spirit of the dig, and adds a well-realized

backdrop…Impressive archaeological fantasy in dramatic Yucatán setting.”

—Kirkus Reviews

PAT MURPHY

THE

Falling Woman

ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are ficitional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

First printing: November 1986

First mass market printing: September 1987

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York, N.Y. 10010

Cover art by Peter Scanlon

ISBN: 0-812-54620-2 CAN. ED.: 0-812-54621-0

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-50322 Printed in the United States of America 0987654321

For my mother, a remarkable woman who taught me many things,

and

For Richard, who swam with me in the sacred cenote at Dzibilchaltún

This is the true account, when all was vague, all was silence, without motion and the sky was still empty. This is the

first account, the first narrative. There was neither man nor beast, no bird, fish nor crab, no trees, rocks, caves nor

canyons, no plants and no shrubs. Only the sky was there.

—Popol Vuh of the Quiché Maya

Notes for City of Stones

by Elizabeth Butler

There are no rivers on Mexico's Yucatán peninsula. The land is flat and dry and dusty. The soil is only a

few feet deep, a thin layer of arable land over a shelf of hard limestone. The jungle that covers the land is

made up of thin-leafed trees and thorny bushes that turn yellow in the long summer.

There are no rivers, but there is water hidden deep beneath the limestone. Here and there, the stone has

cracked and cool water from beneath the earth has reached the surface and formed a pool.

The Maya called such pools ts'not—an abrupt, angular sort of a word. The Spanish conquerors who

came to the Yucatan softened the word. Cenotes, they called these ancient wells. Whatever the name, the

water is cold; the pools are deep.

Hidden beneath the water are fragments of the old Mayan civilization: broken pieces of pottery, figurines,

jade ornaments, and bits of bone—sometimes human bone. In the mythos of the Maya, the cenotes were

places of power belonging to the Chaacob, the gods who come from the world's four corners to bring the

rain.

Dzibilchaltún, the oldest city on the Yucatán peninsula, was built around a cenote known as Xlacah. By

Mayan reckoning, people settled in this place in the ninth katun. By the Christian calendar, that is about one

thousand years before the death of Christ. But Christian reckoning seems out of place here. Despite the

efforts of Spanish friars, Christianity sits very lightly on the land.

The ruins of Dzibilchaltún cover over twenty square miles. Only the central area has been mapped. One

structure, a box-shaped building on a high platform, has been rebuilt. Archaeologists call this building the

Temple of the Seven Dolls because seven doll-sized ceramic figures were found buried in its floor.

Archaeologists do not know what the ancient Maya called the building, nor what the Maya did in this

temple.

The Temple of the Seven Dolls offers the best view of the surrounding area—a monotonous expanse of

thirsty trees and scrubby bushes. Near the Temple of the Seven Dolls, the jungle has been cleared away,

and mounds of rock rise from the flat land. Fragments of walls and sections of white limestone causeways

are barely visible through the grass and soil. The view would be bleak were it not for the enormous sky, an

unbroken expanse of relentless blue.

Do not look for revelations in the ancient ruins. You will find here only what you bring: bits of memory,

wisps of the past as thin as clouds in the summer, fragments of stone that are carved with symbols that

sometimes almost make sense.

Chapter One: Elizabeth Butler

“I dig through ancient trash,” I told the elegantly groomed young woman who had been sent by a popular

women's magazine to write a short article on my work. "I grub in the dirt, that's what I do. I dig up dead

Indians. Archaeologists are really no better than scavengers, sifting through the garbage that people left

behind when they died, moved on, built a new house, a new town, a new temple. We're garbage collectors

really. Is that clear?" The sleek young woman's smile faltered, but she bravely continued the interview.

That was in Berkeley, just after the publication of my last book, but the memory of the interview lingered

with me. I pitied the reporter and the photographer who accompanied her. It was so obvious that they did

not know what to do with me.

I am an old woman. My hair is gray and brown—the color of the limestone monuments raised by the

Maya one thousand years ago. My face has weathered through the years—the sun has etched wrinkles

around the eyes, the wind has carved lines. At age fifty-one, I am a troublesome old woman.

My name is Elizabeth Butler; my friends and students call me Liz. The University of California at

Berkeley lists me as a lecturer and field archaeologist, but in actuality I am a mole, a scavenger, a garbage

collector. I find it somewhat surprising, though gratifying, that I have managed to make my living in such a

strange occupation.

Often, I argue with other people who grub in the dirt. I have a reputation for asking too many

embarrassing questions at conferences where everyone presents their findings. I have always enjoyed

asking embarrassing questions.

Sometimes, much to the dismay of my fellow academics, I write books about my activities and the

activities of my colleagues. In general, I believe that my fellow garbage collectors regard my work as

suspect because it has become quite popular. Popularity is not the mark of a properly rigorous academic

work. I believe that their distrust of my work reflects a distrust of me. My work smacks of speculation; I

tell stories about the people who inhabited the ancient ruins— and my colleagues do not care for my tales.

In academic circles, I linger on the fringes where the warmth of the fire never reaches, an irreverent

outsider, a loner who prefers fieldwork to the university and general readership to academic journals.

But then, the popularizers don't like me either. I gave that reporter trouble, I know. I talked about dirt and

potsherds when she wanted to hear about romance and adventure. And the photographer—a young man

who was more accustomed to fashion-plate beauties than to weatherworn archaeologists— did not know

how to picture the crags and fissures of my face. He kept positioning me in one place, then in another. In

the end, he took photographs of my hands: pointing out the pattern on a potsherd, holding a jade earring,

demonstrating how to use a mano and metate, the mortar and pestle with which the Maya grind corn.

My hands tell more of my history than my face. They are tanned and wrinkled and I can trace the paths

of veins along their backs. The nails are short and hard, like the claws of some digging animal, and the

wrists are marked with vertical white scars, a permanent record of my attempt to escape my former

husband and the world in the most drastic way possible. The magazine photographer was careful to position

my hands so that the scars did not show.

I believe that the reporter who interviewed me expected tales of tombs, gold, and glory. I told her about

heat, disease, and insect bites. I described the time that my jeep broke an axle fifty miles from anywhere,

the time that all my graduate students had diarrhea simultaneously, the time that the local municipality stole

half my workmen to work on a local road. "Picture postcards never show the bugs," I told her. "Stinging

ants, wasps, fleas, roaches the size of your hand. Postcards never show the heat."

I don't think that I told her what she wanted to hear, but I enjoyed myself. I don't think that she believed

all my stories. I think she still believes that archaeologists wear white pith helmets and find treasure each

day before breakfast. She asked me why, if conditions were as horrible as I described, why I would ever go

on another dig. I remember that she smiled when she asked me, expecting me to talk about the excitement

of discovery, the thrill of uncovering lost civilizations. Why do I do it?

"I'm crazy," I said. I don't think she believed me.

It was three weeks into the field season at Dzibilchaltún that Tony, Salvador, and I held a council of war.

We sat at a folding table at one edge of the central plaza, an area of hard-packed dirt surrounded by

mud-and-wattle huts. The plaza served as dining hall, classroom, meeting place, and, at that moment,

conference room. Dinner was over and we lingered over coffee laced with aguardiente, a potent local

brandy.

The situation was this. We had thirty men to do a job that would be difficult with twice that number. Our

budget was tight; our time was limited. We had been at work for three weeks out of our allotted eight. So

far our luck had been nonexistent. And the municipality had just commandeered ten of our workmen to

patch potholes in the road between Mérida and Progreso. In the Yucatan, the season for road building

coincides with the season for excavation, a brief period in the spring before the rains come. In five

weeks— sooner if our luck was bad—the rains would come and our work would end.

"Shall I go talk to the commissioner of highways?" I said.

"I'll tell him that we need those men. I'm sure I could convince him."

Salvador took a drag on his cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms. Salvador had been

working on excavations since he was a teenager in Piste helping with the restoration of Chichén Itzá. He

was a good foreman, an intelligent man who was respectful of his employers, and he did not like to tell me I

was wrong. He stared past me.

I glanced at Tony. "I think that means no."

Tony grinned. Anthony Baker, my co-director on the excavation, was older than I was by just a few

years. We had met nearly thirty years before at a Hopi dig in Arizona. He had been an affable, easygoing

young man. He was still easygoing. His eyes were a startling shade of blue. His curly hair—once blond,

now white—was sparse where it had been lush. His face was thin, grown thinner over the years, and

sunburned as always. Each season he burned and peeled and burned again, despite all his efforts to block

the sun. His voice was low and gravelly, a soft rough whiskey voice with a deep rumble in the throat, like

the voice of a talking bear in a fairy tale.

"I'd guess you were right," he said to me.

"That's too bad," I said. "I was rather looking forward to barging into the commissioner's office. I can be

rude to young men." I sipped my coffee. "It's one of the few compensations for growing old."

Salvador took another long drag on his cigarette. "I will talk to my cousin," he said at last. "My cousin will

talk to the commissioner. He will reason with the commissioner." He glanced at me but did not unfold his

arms. "It will cost some money."

I nodded. "We budgeted for that."

"Good."

"If it doesn't work, I can always go negotiate with the man," I said.

Salvador dropped the stub of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with a sandaled foot. No

comment. Tony poured another shot of aguardiente into each cup.

The sun was setting. The hollow wailing of conch shell trumpets blown by Mayan priests rose over the

trilling of the crickets and echoed across the plaza. I alone listened to the sweet mournful sound—neither

Tony nor Salvador could hear the echoes of the past.

At a folding table on the far side of the plaza, three of the five graduate students who were working the

dig this summer were playing cards. Occasionally, their laughter drifted across the plaza.

"The students are a good bunch this year," Tony commented. I shrugged. "They're like every other bunch

of students. Every year they seem to get younger. And they want to find a jade mask and a gold bracelet

under every rock or else they want to have a mystical experience in the ruins when the full moon rises."

"Or both," Tony said.

"Right. Some hide it better than others, but they're all treasure hunters at heart."

"And we hide it better than any of them," he said. "We've been at it longer."

I glanced at his face, and could not continue pretending to be cynical when he was grinning like that. "I

suppose you're right. Do you think this is the year that we'll find a tomb bigger than King Tut's and translate

the hieroglyphics?"

"Why not?" he said. "I think it's a good idea."

We sat in the growing darkness and talked about the possibilities of the site. Tony, as always, was

optimistic despite our limited success to date.

From 1960 to 1966 a research group from Tulane University surveyed just over half of the ceremonial

center at Dzibilchaltún, completed extensive excavations in a number of structures, and dug test pits to

sample some six hundred other structures. Unlike the Tulane group, we were concentrating on outlying

areas rather than on the ceremonial center, expanding the surveyed and sampled area.

By the time the sun was completely down and the moon was rising, Tony and I were well into planning

the third year of excavations. Salvador had wandered off, impatient with us for being more interested in

next year's plans than tomorrow's work. We quit with the third year, and Tony wandered over to join the

students for a time.

Tony always got along well with the students, drinking with them, sharing their troubles and laughing at

their jokes. By the end of the summer, they would call him Tony and treat him with affection. Even at the

end of the summer, I would be a stranger to them. I preferred it that way.

In the moonlight, I went for a stroll down to the sacred cenote, the ancient well that had once supplied

water to the city. Along the way, I passed a woman returning from the well. She walked gracefully, one

hand lifted to steady the water jug on her head. From the black and white pattern that decorated the rim of

her jug, I guessed that she had lived during the Classic Period, around about a.d. 800.

I do not live entirely in the present. Sometimes, I think that the ghosts of the past haunt me. Sometimes, I

think that I haunt them. We come together in the uncertain hours of dawn and dusk, when the world is on

the edge between day and night.

When I wander through the Berkeley campus at dawn I smell the thin smoke of cooking fires that flared

and died a thousand years ago. A shadow flits across the path before me—no, two shadows—little girls

playing a game involving a ball, a hoop, a stick, and much laughter. For a moment, I hear them laughing,

shrill as birds, and then the laughter fades.

A tall awkward young man in a dark green windbreaker, a student in my graduate seminar, hails me. We

stand and talk—something about the coming midterm exam, something about the due date for a paper. I am

distracted—an old Indian woman walks past, carrying a basket of herbs. The design of the basket is

unfamiliar to me, and I study it as she trudges by.

"So, you think that would work?" the earnest young man is saying. He has been talking about the topic he

has chosen for his final paper, but I have not been listening.

"Let's talk about it during my office hours this afternoon," I say. Students sometimes find me brusque,

abrupt. I try to show interest in their concerns, but my attention is continually drawn away from them by

apparitions of the past.

I have grown used to my ghosts. It's no worse, I suppose, than other disabilities: some people are

nearsighted, some are hard-of-hearing. I see and hear too much and that distracts me from the business at

hand.

Generally, the phantoms ignore me, busy with their own affairs. For these shadows, as for my students,

the times are separate. The Indian village that I see is gone: past tense. The campus through which I walk

is now: present tense. For others, there is no overlap between the two. I live on the border and see both

sides.

The water of the cenote was cold and clear. The air beside the pool carried the scent of water lilies and

wet mud. I stopped at the edge of the pool, sat down, and leaned back against a squared-off stone that had

once been part of a structure.

Here and there, other stone temple blocks showed through the soil. Three thousand years ago, the Maya

had built a temple here. One thousand years ago, they had abandoned the temple and retreated into the

forest. No archaeologist knew why, and the ancient Maya were not saying. Not yet.

The heavy rains of a thousand springs had eroded the stones; the winds had blown dust over them.

Grasses had grown in the dust, covering the rocks and hiding their secrets. Trees had grown on the crest of

the mound, and their twisted roots had tumbled and broken the stones. The jungle had reclaimed the land.

I liked this place. By day, I could watch the shadows of women draw water from the pool, slaves and

peasants stooping to fill rounded jars with clear water, hoisting the full vessels to their heads, and moving

away with the stately grace required to balance the heavy jars. They talked and laughed and joked among

themselves and I liked to listen.

The wind rippled the water, and the moonlight laid a pale silver ribbon on the shining surface. Bats

swooped low to catch insects that hovered just above the pool. I saw a movement on the path that led to

the cenote and waited. Perhaps a slave sent to fetch water. Perhaps a young woman meeting a lover.

I heard the soft slapping of sandals against rock as a shadow crossed between me and the pool. The

figure walked with a slight limp. There was a bulkiness about the head that suggested braided hair, a hint of

feminine grace when the figure stooped to touch the water. She turned, as if to continue along the path,

then stopped, staring in my direction.

I waited. Crickets trilled all around me. A frog croaked, but no frog answered. For a moment, I thought I

had mistaken a woman of my own time for a shadow of the past. I greeted her in Maya, a language I speak

tolerably well after ten long years of stammering and mispronunciation. My accent is not good—I struggle

with subtleties of tone and miss the point of puns and jokes—but I can usually understand and make myself

understood.

The person standing motionless by the edge of the pool did not speak for a moment. Then she said, "I see

a living shadow. Why are you here?" By the sound of her voice, I guessed her to be a woman about my

age. She spoke Maya with an ancient accent.

Shadows do not speak to me. For a moment, I sat silent. Shadows come and go and I watch them, but

they do not speak, they do not watch me.

"Speak to me, shadow," said the woman. "I have been alone so long. Why are you here?"

The crickets filled the silence with shrill cries. I did not know what to say. Shadows do not talk to me.

"I stopped to rest," I said carefully. "It's peaceful here."

She was a shape in the darkness, no more than that. I could make out no details. She laughed, a soft low

sound like water pouring from a jug, "Peace is not so easy to find. You do not know this place if you find it

peaceful."

"I know this place," I said sharply, resenting this shadow for claiming I did not know a place that I

considered my own. "For me, it is peaceful."

She stood motionless for a moment, her head cocked a little to one side. "So you think you belong here,

shadow? Who are you?"

"They call me Ix Zacbeliz." When I was overseeing a dig at Ikil; the workmen had called me that; it

meant "woman who walks the white road." The nickname was as close as I came to a Mayan name.

"You speak Maya," the woman said softly, "but do you speak the language of the Zuyua?" Her voice held

a challenge.

The language of the Zuyua was an ancient riddling game. I had read the questions and answers in the

Books of Chilam Balam, Mayan holy books that had been transcribed into European script and preserved

when the original hieroglyphic books were destroyed. The text surrounding the questions suggested that the

riddles were used to separate the true Maya from invaders, the nobility from the peasants. If I spoke the

language of the Zuyua, I belonged. If not, I was an outsider.

The woman at the well spoke again, not waiting for my answer. "What holes does the sugarcane sing

through?"

That was easy. "The holes in the flute."

"Who is the girl with many teeth? Her hair is twisted in a tuft and she smells sweet."

I leaned back against the temple stone, remembering the text from the ancient book. As I recalled, many

of the riddles dealt with food. "The girl is an ear of corn, baked in a pit."

"If I tell you to bring me the flower of the night, what will you do?"

That one, I did not remember. I stared over her head and saw the first dim stars of evening. "There is

the flower of the night. A star in the sky."

"And what if I ask you for the firefly of the night? Bring it to me with the beckoning tongue of a jaguar."

That one was not in the book. I considered the question, tapping a cigarette from my pack and lighting it

with a match. The woman laughed. "Ah, yes—you speak the language of the Zuyua. The firefly is the

smoking stick and the tongue of the jaguar is the flame. We shall be friends. I have been lonely too long."

She cocked her head to one side but I could not see her expression in the darkness. "You are looking for

secrets and I will help you find them. Yes. The time has come."

She turned away, stepping toward the path that led to the southeast, away from the cenote.

"Wait," I said. "What's your name? Who are you?"

"They call me Zuhuy-kak," she said.

I had heard the name before, though it took me a moment to place it. Zuhuy-kak meant "fire virgin." A

few books referred to her; she was said to be the deified daughter of a Mayan nobleman. So they said. I

have found books to be completely unreliable when it comes to identifying the shadows that I meet in the

ruins.

With half-closed eyes, I leaned my head against the stone behind me and watched her go.

A modem psychiatrist—that shaman sans rattle and incense— would say that Zuhuy-kak was wish

fulfillment and hallucination, brought on by stress, spicy food, aguardiente. If pressed, he might say, with

waving of hands, that Zuhuy-kak— and the less talkative shadows that haunt me—are aspects of myself.

My subconscious mind speaks to me through visions of dead Indians.

Or he might just say I'm mad.

In any case, I have never made the test. I have never mentioned my shadows to anyone. I prefer my

shamans with all the window dressing. Give them rattles and incense and bones to throw; take away their

books. Let the white-coated shamans of the modem world chase shadows in the darkness. I know my

phantoms.

Generally. But my phantoms do not speak to me and call me friend. My phantoms keep their distance,

going about their lives while I observe. This ancient Mayan woman named Zuhuy-kak did not follow the

rules that I knew. I wondered, in the lily-scented night, if the rules were changing.

Back in the hut that served as my home for the field season, I lay in my hammock and listened to the

steady beat of my own heart. The palm thatch rustled in the evening breeze.

The hammock rocked me to sleep and the sounds changed. The steady beat was a tunkul, a hollow

wooden gong that was beaten with a stick. The cricket's song grew harsh and loud, like the buzzing of

stones shaken in a gourd rattle. The whisper of the palm thatch became the murmuring of voices: a crowd

surrounded me and pressed close on all sides. I felt the weight of braids on my head, a cumbersome robe

around me. When a hand on my arm tugged me forward, I opened my eyes.

A precipice before me, jade-green water far below, a drumbeat that quickened with my heart, and

suddenly I was falling.

I woke with a start, my hands clutching the cotton threads of the hammock. The rising wind stirred the

palm thatch and sent a few thin leaves scurrying across the hard-packed dirt floor of my hut.

In my brief glance over the edge, I had recognized the steep limestone walls and green waters of the

sacred cenote at Chichén Itzá. The scent, I thought, had been copal incense. The music—rattle and

drum—was processional music.

I closed my eyes and slept again, but my dreams were of more modern pasts: I dreamed of the long ago

time when I had been a wife and mother. I did not like such dreams and I woke at dawn.

Dawn and dusk are the best times for exploring ruins. When the sun is low, the shadows reveal the faint

images of ancient carvings on temple stones; they betray irregularities that may hide the remains of

stairways, plazas, walls, and roads. Shadows lend an air of mystery to the tumble of rocks that was once a

city, and they reveal as many secrets as they hide.

I left my hut to go walking through the ruins. It was Saturday and breakfast would be late. Alone, I

strolled through the sleeping camp. Chickens searched for insects among the weeds. A lizard, catching

early-morning sunlight on a rock, glanced at me and ran for cover in the crack of a wall. In the monte, a

bird called on two notes—one high, one low, one high, one low—as repetitive as a small boy who had only

recently learned to whistle. The sun was just up and the air was still relatively cool.

As I walked, 1 fingered the lucky piece that I carried in my pocket, a silver coin that Tony had given me

when we were both graduate students. The design was that of an ancient Roman coin. Tony cast the

silver himself in a jewelry-making workshop, and gave the coin to me on the anniversary of the day my

divorce was final. I always carried it with me, and I knew I was nervous when I caught myself running my

finger along the milled edge.

I was nervous now, restless, bothered by my dreams and my memory of the old woman named

Zuhuy-kak. I started when four small birds took flight from a nearby bush, jumped when a lizard ran across

my path. My encounter with Zuhuy-kak had left me feeling more unsettled than I liked to admit, even to

myself.

I followed the dirt track to the cenote. On the horizon, I could see the remains of the old Spanish church.

In 1568, the Spanish had quarried stones from the old Mayan temples and used them in a new church,

building for the new gods on the bones of the old. Their church had fared no better than the Mayan

temples. All that remained of it now was a broad archway and the crumbling fragment of a wall.

Each time I left California arid returned to the ruins, I found them more disconcerting. In Berkeley,

buildings were set lightly on the land, a temporary addition—nothing more. Here, history built upon history.

Conquering Spaniards had taken the land from the Toltec invaders who had taken the land from the Maya.

With each conquest, the faces of old gods were transformed to become the faces of gods more acceptable

to the new regime. Words of the Spanish Mass blended with the words of ancient ritual: in one and the

same prayer, the peasants called upon the Virgin Mary and the Chaacob. Here, it was common to build

structures upon structures, pyramids over pyramids. Layers upon layers, secrets hiding secrets.

I lingered for a time on the edge of camp. A stonecutter, working alone in the early hours, was tapping a

series of glyphs into a limestone slab. The clacking of stone chisel on limestone beat a counterpoint to the

monotonous call of the distant bird. 1 leaned close to see if I could identify the glyphs he carved, but a

chicken chose that moment to wander through the space occupied by the limestone slab. The stoneworker

and his tools faded into dust and sunlight, and I continued on my way.

I walked past the cenote, following the trail that the shadow called Zuhuy-kak had taken, winding through

the brush to the southeast plaza, where we had begun excavating a mound designated as Structure 701,

renamed Temple of the Moon by Tony. I strolled slowly along the side of the mound, studying the slope for

any regularities that might betray what lay beneath the rubble.

About a thousand years ago—give or take a hundred years— the open area beside the mound had been

a smooth plaza, coated with a layer of limestone plaster. Here and there, traces of the original plaster

remained, but most had been washed away by the rains of the passing centuries.

Workmen had cleared the brush and trees from the open area, exposing the flat limestone slabs that had

supported the plaster. Uprooted brush was heaped at the far end of the mound in the shade of a large tree.

I reached the brush heap, began to turn away, then looked again.

A stone half covered by the piled brush seemed to be at an angle, a little different from the rest, as if it

were collapsing into a hollow space beneath the plaza. I stepped closer. It looked very much like the other

stones: a square of uncarved limestone unusual only for its reluctance to lie flat. But I have learned to

follow my instincts in these matters.

The thirsty trees that set down roots in the sparse soil of the Yucatán are lean and wiry, accustomed to

hardship and drought. Even after they have been felled and left to die, the trees fight back, reaching out

with thorns and broken branches for the soft flesh of anyone who raises a machete against them. When I

tried to pull a branch from the tilted stone so that I could take a better look, the tree clung willfully to the

rest of the heap; when I yanked harder, it twisted in my hand and gave way so suddenly that I lost my

balance. As I fell back, another branch raked the tender skin on my inner wrist with half-inch thorns,

leaving bloody claw marks.

The monte fights back. My efforts had moved the branch slightly and the stone still looked promising. I

wrapped my kerchief around my wrist to stanch the blood and decided to wait until the work crew could

move the brush. I turned toward camp.

An old woman who did not belong to my time stood in the shade of the tree. The air around me was hot

and still. A bird in the jungle called out on a rising note, as if asking a piercing question.

The woman's dark hair was coiled in braids on her head; strips of bright blue cloth decorated with small

white sea-shells were woven into the braids. Around her neck was a string of jade beads—each one

polished and round, as if worn smooth by the sea. White discs carved of oyster shell dangled from her ears.

Her robe, a deeper shade of blue than the cloth in her hair, hung down to the leather sandals on her feet.

From her belt of woven leather strips hung a conch shell trumpet and a pouch encrusted with snail shells.

She was not an attractive woman. Her forehead slanted back at an unnatural angle, pressed flat by a

cradle board in her infancy. Dark blue spots tattooed on one cheek formed a spiral pattern, marking her as

a Mayan noblewoman. Her teeth were tumbled like the stone blocks in an old wall. The front teeth were

inset with jade beads, another mark of nobility.

She squinted at me as if the sun were too bright. "The shadow again," she said softly in Maya. She

watched me for a moment. "Speak to me, Ix Zacbeliz."

"You see me?" I asked her in Maya. "What do you see?"

She smiled, showing her inlaid teeth. "I see a shadow who talks. It has been long since I have spoken

with anyone, even a shadow. I did not know how lonely I would be when I sent the people away."

"What do you mean?"

"You will learn. We will be friends and I will teach you secrets." Her hands were clasped before her and

I noticed that her arms, from the inner elbow to the wrist, were bandaged with strips of white cloth.

The sun was hot on my shoulders and back. My heart seemed to be beating too quickly.

"You and I have much in common. You are searching for secrets. I looked for secrets once." She spoke

quietly, as if talking to herself. "But in the end, the h'menob of the new religion said I was mad. Wisdom is

often mistaken for madness. Is that not true?"

I did not speak.

"Lift this stone and you will find secrets," she said. "I hid them there myself, after I sent the people away.

You can find them. It is time for them to come to light. The cycle is turning."

"How did you send the people away?" I asked.

The plaza shimmered in the sunlight and I stood alone. Zuhuy-kak had gone. The bird in the monte called

again, asking a question that no living person could answer. I headed for camp, glancing over my shoulder

only once.

Notes for City of Stones

by Elizabeth Butler

A thousand years ago, centuries before the Spanish conquistadors came, the Maya abandoned their

ceremonial centers. After about a.d. 900, they built no more temples, carved no more stelae, the stone

monuments etched with glyphs commemorating important events. They fled from the ceremonial centers

into the jungle.

Why? No one knows, but everyone is willing to speculate. Every archaeologist has a theory. Some talk

of famine caused by overpopulation and years of intensive agriculture. Some claim there was a catastrophe:

an earthquake, a drought, or a plague. Some blame the invasion of the Toltecs, a militaristic group from the

Valley of Mexico, and still others suggest that the peasant class rebelled, rising up to overthrow the elite

class.

I enjoy pointing out the holes in all the theories. I admit— freely and honestly—that I have no idea why

the Maya left their cities and scattered far and wide in the monte. My favorite theory is one that a withered

Mayan holy man who lived near Chichén Itzá told me over a bottle of aguardiente. "The gods said that the

people must leave," he told me. "And so the people left."

Sometimes, I dream of an abandoned city. I dream that each day the sun shines on the walls, fading the

bright paints that color the stucco, cracking the plaster that covers the stone. When the evening wind blows,

it tatters the cloth that once closed the rooms off from the outside world, carrying leaves and dust in through

the open doorways. When the rains come, they flow down the stone steps, knocking loose fragments of

stucco, watering the small plants that have taken hold in the cracks. Deer graze on the new grass that

sprouts in the courtyard. Mice feast on maize, forgotten in underground chambers, spilled by peasants in the

haste of their departure. The mice, rodents of short memories, do not fear the return of the inhabitants. In a

temple room, a jaguar makes her home, bearing kittens beneath a statue of the Chaac amid a clutter of

windblown leaves.

Sometimes, I dream of quakes—the earth trembling as if it shivered in the cold. The wood beams that

support the roofs crack and the thick walls shift so that one stone no longer rests on the other just so. The

walls tumble down.

In my dreams, the sun, the face of Ah Kinchil, the supreme god, shines on the temples of the Maya.

Small trees reach up to the sun from the cracks between the stones. The rain falls and runs in a

helter-skelter course amid blocks that twist this way and that. Birds sing in the trees, and owls hunt here by

night, feeding on the arrogant mice that have come to regard this place as home.

Sometimes, very rarely, I dream of a thin man in the white pants of the Yucatecán peasant or a woman

in a clean white huipil, the embroidered dress of the peasant woman. The man or woman comes quietly to

the ruins, cautious lest the gods of the ancestors fail to approve of the visit. The people who return are more

fearful than the mice: the people remember the past and know its power. Candlelight chases back the

shadows for a time. The visitor burns incense, mutters propitiations and prayers, sacrifices a turkey and

leaves it for the gods, then slips away into the night. The jaguar and her kittens eat the turkey, and the

shadows return to the ruins.

The city I dream is not always the same. Sometimes it is Uxmal, and I watch swallows build nests in the

elaborately carved facades. Sometimes it is Tulúm, and I listen to waves crash below the House of the

Cenote and hear the humming of bees as they build a nest in the guard tower on the northern corner of the

city wall. Sometimes it is Cobá, and I watch the trees take root amid the stones of the ball court, shoving

carved blocks aside. Spanish moss sways on the branches, and pajaritos. laughing birds, fly in the

branches. The city that I dream changes, but the slow decay is always there. The shadows linger.

I do not know why the Maya left. I only know that the shadows stayed behind.

Chapter Two: Diane Butler

I pressed my forehead to the window of the jetliner and watched the plane's shadow ripple over the

brown land below. The plane jerked a little, bucking like a car on a rough road. We were flying through

turbulence, and I felt sick to my stomach. My hands were shaking.

Still, I felt no worse than I had for the past two weeks. Not much better, but no worse. At least I

was moving. I turned away from the window and rubbed my eyes. They felt gritty and sore from crying

and lack of sleep. When was the last time I had slept? Three days ago, maybe. Something like that. I had

tried to sleep but when I went to bed I lay awake, my eyes open and staring at nothing. I rubbed my eyes

again and covered them with my hands for a moment, shutting out the light. Maybe I could get some sleep

now. Maybe.

"Excuse me," said a man's voice. "Are you all right?"

Someone touched my arm and I jumped, moving my arm away.

I had not really looked at the man when he had taken the seat beside me. He was Mexican, a few years

younger than I was—maybe in his mid-twenties. Dark hair, high cheekbones.

"Fine," I said. My voice was hoarse and I cleared my throat. "Just tired." I tried to smile to reassure him,

but my face was stiff and uncooperative.

"I thought you were sick." He was watching me with concern.

I knew I looked pale. I felt pale. I felt half dead. "Fine," I said. I could think of nothing more to say. My

father is dead, I could say. I just broke off a bad love affair and quit my job as a graphic artist. I could tell

him that. I'm on my way to meet a mother I have not seen in fifteen years. And I think I might be going

crazy. Then I would burst out crying and hide my face in the shoulder of his sport coat and leave a big

damp spot. He looked very earnest and very sympathetic. "I'm fine," I said and turned back to the window.

"Are you going to be spending much time in Mérida?" he asked. "If you are, I can suggest some good

restaurants."

I smiled politely, a plastic smile, a Barbie doll smile, a curve of the lips with no intent behind it. "Thanks,

but I'll be on an archaeological dig outside Mérida. I don't plan to spend much time in the city."

"You must be going to Dzibilchaltún," he said and smiled when I nodded.

"How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Mérida is not so big. That's the only archaeological dig nearby. I have heard about Dr.

Elizabeth Butler, the woman leading the excavation."

"What have you heard?"

"She writes books."

I smiled despite myself. "That, I know." I had read all my mother's books, buying the hardcover editions

as soon as they came out.

"How long will you be there?"

"Hard to say."

I leaned back and closed my eyes against further questions. For once, the world inside my head was dark

and quiet. The plane was taking me south and there was nothing I could do to speed it up or slow it down.

No action was required of me now. I could not stop even if I had wanted to.

My memories of the past two weeks were hazy, but some moments stood out clearly. I remember the

night before my father's funeral. I could not sleep, and at some point, around about midnight I think, I got

the bottle of Scotch from my father's liquor cabinet, and I started drinking.

The liquor did not stop the noise in my head, but the buzz of the alcohol helped drown out the nagging

voices that told me about how badly I was behaving, about how ashamed my father would be to see me. I

turned on the television and idly flipped from station to station, never lingering beyond the first commercial,

until only one station remained on the air, playing old movies until dawn.

I sat in my father's easy chair and watched a pretty blond actress argue with a craggy-faced man. I

knew, without seeing the rest of the movie, that the argument would come to nothing. Sooner or later, the

craggy-faced man would sweep the blonde into his arms and she would allow herself to be swept,

forgetting all past disagreements. I knew that by the end of the movie they would kiss and make up. They

always kissed and made up in old movies.

My mother and father had fought, but somehow they never got around to kissing and making up. When

they fought, they never shouted—but even when my mother kept her voice down, her words had a bright

sharp intensity, like the touch of alcohol on an open cut. And my father was stubborn too—he would not

give an inch. I remember the time that he told me that my mother was crazy. There was a hard edge of

reproach in his tone, as if somehow her insanity had been her own fault.

A commercial came on, and I downed the rest of my Scotch. I left the television talking to itself and

wandered out onto the balcony. My father's house was perched on the edge of a hill, and the balcony

offered a panoramic view of Los Angeles, a carpet of twinkling lights, freeway interchanges glittering like

distant mandalas, neons flashing, streetlights, houselights, headlights. I stood at the railing, looking down at

the city and thinking about my mother. In a moment of sudden dizziness, I closed my eyes.

I opened them to darkness and silence. No lights, except for the pale crescent moon that hung low over

the dark valley. No freeways, no houses, no neon. The cool breeze that fanned my face carried the scent of

distant campfire smoke. I could hear an owl hooting in the distance and the rapid beating of my own heart.

I clutched the railing with both hands, fighting a wave of vertigo. Panic came over me: I feared I would

tumble over the railing and fall into the black void beyond the balcony, plummeting forever in endless

darkness. I closed my eyes against the vision and when I opened them I saw the lights of Los Angeles,

distant and cold, but infinitely reassuring.

I quit drinking. I did not sleep, but I quit drinking. And in the small hours before dawn, I decided to find

my mother. The need to find her seemed linked to my drunken vision of falling and to the restlessness that

had plagued me even before my father's death.

I shifted uneasily in my seat, listening to the reassuring hum of the jet's engines. I tried to imagine my

mother's face, building it out of the darkness. A thin face, dominated by restless blue eyes. Short and unruly

hair, brown with streaks of gray, the color of an English sheepdog. A slight woman whose clothes were too

large for her, whose hands were always moving, whose eyes were bright and curious. The picture of my

mother that formed in my mind was static, frozen, but I remembered my mother as being constantly in

motion: walking, cleaning, cooking.

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Scanned&ProofedbyCozetteIntheruinsofanancientMayancity,archaeologistElizabethButlerconfrontstheshadeofalong-deadpriestess.AndentersthetwilightworldofMayanmagicandMayanbloodsacrifice.~~~“Murphy’ssharpbehavioralobservation,herrichMayanbackgroundandtherevolvingdooroffantasyandrealityhonorablyrecallthen...

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