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
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
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