As Long as the Sun Walks: A Novel

AS LONG AS

THE SUNWALKS

A NOVEL

Judith McAllister

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

As Long As The Sun Walks

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2005 by Judith L McAllister.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Book One

In the Land of the North

A.D. 668

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Book Two

In the Land of the West

A.D. 672

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

Book Three

In the Land of the East

A.D. 673

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

GLOSSARY

Major Characters

* Historical figure

Dieties

Acknowledgments

More than ten years of research preceded the writing of this novel. but since archeology and Pre-Columbian art have always been of special interest to me, most of the reading, originally, was for pure pleasure. Then, when I finally sat down one day to write that historical novel I was always going to write, it seemed a no-brainer to set it against the grand backdrop of the classic age of the Maya. It’s the kind of novel I love to read, I thought, so it should be the kind of novel I’d love to write. And I did. Still, it took the encouragement of family and friends to get me through the process and I’d like to express my thanks to some of them.

To Alice, who read every word with her imagination and heart.

To Diane, who helped me to recover lost files when my computer was stolen.

To best-selling author Kathryn Lynn Davis, who told me I really could write.

To Melissa Foley at Barnes & Noble, who led me through the labyrinth of publishing and marketing.

To Dee, my sister, who proofs with an eagle eye.

To Larry, my life partner, who kept saying, Just do it.

To my four children who have always supported me in everything.

To the archeologists and anthropologists, whose work opened the doors of my imagination.

My apologies for literary license taken with historical figures and events, and with word translations chosen from among the more than 30 dialects of the Mayan language.

HUUN UN

ZAC-XIBCHAC CAB

Book One

In the Land of the North

A.D. 668

CHAPTER 1

I

Clay Whistle huddled among the cleft rocks with the restless sea at her back, brown-skinned knees tucked up under her chin and her mantle drawn close. Alone and frightened, the child signed desperately to ward off spirits.

The sky was empty, black, as though a bleak curtain draped low over the flat plane of the earth. This was the night that had been presaged by the calculation of star charts and by augury of red and black stones, the night of danger and ill fortune that the True People had been warned against by the High Priest, He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone. This was the night when the moon goddess, Ixchel, who reigned over this Middleworld in the absence of Ahau Kin, Lord Sun, would forsake her rightful place in the sky. For this space in the sacred round of time, She would not pull at the tides, nor weave and spin the affairs of women, nor trail madness through the minds of her chosen, but wrap Her pale body in the malevolent cloak of She-Who-Goes-Into-The-Well, Her luminous face hidden behind a dark mask.

A damp breath of off-shore wind raced up from the inlet, moaning through long grass on the headland above and rattling feather palms like old, dry bones. In the sound, Clay Whistle imagined the voices of s-wai, or spirits, of soul-stealing witches and angry ancestors. In the steady rhythm of the sea, she conjured the hiss of a feathered serpent, slithering unseen, perhaps, in the dark of the rock-strewn path where she cowered. Biting her lower lip, fighting obstinately against tears that would steal courage, she covered her face with her hands, telling herself, then, that it was just as dark behind closed eyes.

Unlike Red Canoe and cousin, Small Turtle, Clay Whistle had never before been afraid of the dark. They, however, were boys, and unable to understand the wonder of night; the richness of a deep indigo sky behind a net of shimmering stars, stars that winked bright as precious stones. Nor could they appreciate the soul-healing beauty of pale light from Ixchel’s ewer as it washed over the landscape, for these were women’s things. And though she was not yet a woman, He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone had once said that she was wise in some ways.

But this night was different, without beauty, she thought, without light, the absence filled with specters of omen and portent.

I am not afraid, she whispered to herself. Then, I am not afraid, I am not afraid, she chanted, loud enough so the spirits would hear. Grandmother had told her that fear was like a flint-tipped arrow, the spirits deadly archers, but that the gods had given the True People the more powerful weapons of pride and courage and dignity.

Ayah

Lifting her chin, Clay Whistle looked keen-eyed and determined into the face of the dark. I am Clay Whistle, she reminded herself, "grand-niece of the Great Lord Sun Shield. I am ahau, of the blood of kings. I will come out into the night when and as I choose. I will not hide here like a common Person."

In spite of her trembling legs, she stood, hesitantly, then straightening her back, proud and tall. Ahead, up the twisted, narrow path from the cove, was the ceremonial center, Cilich Peten, of the island of Jaina, bounded on two sides by the terraced temples of Sayasol and Zacpool. Beyond, spread the raised apron of lime-washed stone and the thatch-roofed residential complex. There, from the high narrow windows of the Great House, a beacon of lamplight played through the fingers of moving palm. There, in the women’s complex, her father’s third wife, Lady Small Bird, labored late into this night to bear him a son.

Hahal, truly, this was not a favorable night to bear a child. Nor, she admitted to herself, had it been a good decision to accept such a dare from Red Canoe, to come out alone among the dangers of this night only to prove a foolish brag; that she was not afraid of witches, that she, a girl child armed only with courage, could walk among the spirits and they would not steal her soul.

Truly, it had been a rash decision, she thought now, but had it been one based only on false pride? Surely false pride was only a small fault in character. But bei, no, it was more than that, she admitted, biting her lower lip. More than half a katun plus one had passed since her naming ceremony, more than eleven years since her godmother had shifted her from her arms and onto her hip to hand her the small symbols of high status, the carved jade, the cowrie shell and the long brilliant tailfeather of the quetzal. Already her days were crowded with study, and only a handful of childhood years remained. Too soon she would be expected to bind up her loose hair, to marry, to bear children.

Clay Whistle narrowed her eyes and glanced back up at the Great House. She thought again of Lady Small Bird, or Lady Caged Bird as she sometimes thought of her. She was a new woman not much older than she, yet her days had grown smaller here on this island. Truly, she was a bird with clipped wings.

Freedom. She said the word aloud and it tasted good on her tongue. Yet to yearn for such a thing was not correct, she knew, for she was not a common Person. To wear the cloak of royal blood was to carry the mantle of responsibility. Freedom. She said the word once more, then imagined letting it go, regrettably, to drift away on the night wind. Then terror clawed her heart and she signed again, afraid lest the spirits see her hope and steal it from her.

I will learn to be a True Person, she said to the spirits as she tightened her fingers into small fists and stepped out from the shelter of rock. But in spite of the bravado, she felt vulnerable upon the barren path, and as she came into the open, Brother Wind leaned against her back whispering things she did not want to hear, then pushed her forward, laughing at her feigned bravery. Insistently, He tugged at the hem of her mantle, at the heavy braids down her back. Then with a gust, He loosed a strand of dark hair to snake forward around her face.

Run, He whispered, run!"

With eyes half-lidded, Clay Whistle swallowed the fear that threatened to cry out from her mouth and focused on the lamplight beckoning from the Great House. Her spirit yearned toward it for the promised refuge, yet she kept face, standing firm, denying the trembling in her legs. Would she, she wondered, lose Red Canoe’s dare if she sought the protection of lamplight?

She considered it.

But, she would not be running away, she assured herself after a moment. Ma, no, for there was something other than the haven of light that called her name. Something else compelled her. Holding her breath, Clay Whistle listened for what could not be heard. Then, resisting the impulse to look behind her, biting her lip with determination not to bolt and run, she began with sure feet to make her way up from the cove and across the dark expanse of the ceremonial center, her sandaled feet silent on the limestone.

The great temples loomed at either side, black against black, like brooding birds of prey with folded wings, watching, watching. Steadily, with dignity befitting a True Person and a lady, Clay Whistle walked toward the lamplight and toward the voice-that-could-not-be-heard.

II

Like the small bird for which she had been named, Ix Ka Ulum struggled pitifully, caught in the powerful jaws of childbirth.

As she strained against the hard frame of the birthing chair, swollen body bathed in sweat and punished by wave upon wave of contractions, she cried out continuously to Mama Chunthan, Old-Woman-Who-Speaks. The old servant sat behind the chair, cradling her lady against her broad bosom, rocking gently and murmuring words used to soothe a fretful child. It had been a long labor. Too long. Old-Woman-Who-Speaks was tired. And she was worried.

The oil lamps, which had burned all day, had been refilled as sunlight left the narrow windows. Now, well into the moonless night, the air in the chamber was close with lingering heat and incense. In the lamplight, shadows were sharp-edged. In a corner near the covered doorway, the old priest sat cross-legged upon his mat, the lines in his face deeper from his night without sleep, his lips compressed, no longer evoking the power of ritual. The midwife, as exhausted as Old-Woman-Who-Speaks, squatted on a low stool before the birthing chair, a strong hand on Lady Small Bird’s belly.

The old servant woman looked up at the effigy of the Goddess Ixchel in her hollowed niche in the far wall. "Halal, truly, she whispered, She rules this room as she rules this night." As she narrowed her eyes, the clay goddess seemed to breathe, drawing in power from the lives she held in her clawed hands.

Lady Small Bird had fallen silent, retreating into some sanctuary in her mind where pain could not follow. The old woman realized, then, that the sound of rasped breathing was her own. Sighing heavily, she pressed her weathered cheek against her lady’s perfumed hair.

Small Bird had summoned Old-Woman-Who-Speaks when her waters had broken. She had been frightened—not by the twinges of pain that pricked at her belly, but by the unexpected early onset of labor. All the charts for the day when the child was to be born two weeks hence, had been consulted and found auspicious. This day and the days to follow were not favorable.

He comes too soon, Small Bird wailed as her servant hurried into the room. My son comes too soon!

The old woman took charge, hoping to reassure her lady with the routine of preparations. Other servants were roused and the message taken to Lord Acab U that the first child of his third wife was falling into the world.

Small Bird shook from cold and fright as she stepped into the stone basin to be bathed. She stood submissively, head down, ashamed of her fear. As her ser-vent poured the warmed, scented water, she noticed the girl fingering the exotic sun-metal ring on her forefinger. It had been a weeding gift from her husband.

Think, Lady, she said, you shall soon be slender again, and more beautiful than before. Your status will increase as mother of a first son. Lord Dark Moon shall give many more gifts for the honor you bring him.

Lady Small Bird had raised her chin, listening, regaining face as she shared the servant’s vision.

Now, as she bore down with what was left of her strength, her smooth face ugly in agony, Small Bird’s scream tore sharply through the fabric of the servant’s reverie.

"The jar is broken, Mama!" Her breath came in mewing gasps as the pain subsided. Her voice dropped to no more than an urgent whisper. I dreamed, Mama. I dreamed that I was a child again. I had brought my mother’s water jar to the well. But as I filled the jar, it became more than I could carry. And now it is broken. The jar is broken!

The old woman began to weep openly, for to dream of a broken jar was a warning of death. Helplessly, she looked down at the midwife, who leaned forward between the girl’s open thighs.

As the contraction eased, the midwife greased her arm to the elbow. Then, slowly and expertly, she forced her hand into the birth passage. With her other hand she pressed against Small Bird’s abdomen, feeling for the position of the child. When she looked up, her eyes said nothing had changed; the baby was still presented incorrectly and the mouth of the womb was swollen closed.

The midwife withdrew, wiping her arm on a clean linen. Lady Small Bird’s head lolled against her servant’s shoulder, her half closed eyes unfocused. She seemed unaware of the midwife’s violation. Standing with effort, the midwife looked across at the cup of medicine tea on the table near at hand. She set her mouth into a grim line.

Is it wise to relieve her pain? The pain has become her tether to life. The priest’s voice was loud in the chamber and heavy with warning.

Her spirit already leaves her, said the midwife. I can no longer bear her suffering. Our duty now is to the Lord’s son.

No. Old-Woman-Who-Speaks reached out to stay her hand, eyes pleading. She is only weak. See, the sun has crossed the sky and already prepares to leave the Underworld for His new journey. The night of bad luck has almost faded.

But the midwife had made her decision. Brushing the old woman’s hand away, she lifted the cup. This will give some comfort.

Give it to me, then, said Old-Woman-Who-Speaks. There was grim resignation on her face. I will ease her.

The midwife nodded, sharp eyes on the old woman’s hand as, trembling, she carried the cup to Small Bird’s open mouth. It is done, then. Her spirit already leaves her, she said. There is little time. We must take the child.

Old-Woman-Who-Speaks’ keening pierced the thick walls of the chamber. In the hallway where he waited by the doorway, the priest’s novice, Xan, looked with frightened face across the elevated courtyard. The night was very black, the goddess, Ixchel, long ago gone into the well. Cold wind guttered the torch near his head and below, the sea hurled itself at the jagged rock of the beach head, withdrawing, then, in regret.

The priest rose slowly from his mat, drawing a small obsidian knife from the folds of his garment. As he crossed the room, he turned it reverently in his open palm. The haft was intricately carved and inlaid with jade. The design was of kan, the snake. This was the knife called U Kab Ku—the Hand Of God.

The midwife looked for a long time into the priest’s eyes before she took the knife. Old-Woman-Who-Speaks saw that she searched for his understanding.

The servant turned her face away, tears spent, her chest tight with despair.

At the window, Clay Whistle closed her eyes, heart pounding. Neither she nor the old servant woman saw the midwife lay the razor-sharp obsidian against the taut skin of Lady Small Bird’s belly. Neither saw the first blood that rushed to cover the blade.

Clinging to the hard edge of the stone window casement, Clay Whistle held tight to Small Bird’s weak spirit. But life force faded as surely as ocean’s ebb.

I shall not forget you, Lady, she whispered. And I shall not forget the great strength of one small woman.

The limp child was dark with blood and death’s shadow, but its tiny hands were fists and its face fierce. Clay Whistle held her breath as the midwife forced a finger into the tight mouth to clear the airway. There was no response as she delivered a resounding slap and then another to baby’s lower back. The child is not dead, Clay Whistle thought, clinging stubbornly to hope, for in that sudden stillness that followed Small Bird’s death, she could hear a new voice that called her name. Suddenly, as though incensed, the baby opened its eyes and mouth, and reached out with trembling arms to draw in life.

Yes, I am here, Clay Whistle said as the child’s first cries spilled plaintively from the room and across the courtyard. I am here.

II

The high priest’s great cloak flared out behind him as he made his way across the damp courtyard. The night had grown colder, carrying an unseasonable chill from the Great Sea. The moon goddess, newly returned to Her rightful place in the sky, poured pale light through a hole in the clouds. He-Who-Car-ries-A-Staff-Of-Bone walked proudly and with purpose, projecting a confidence he did not feel. He could trust no one else to deliver this message; it was his duty as h-men, high priest. The novice followed close behind as he ascended the few broad steps to the Great House and crossed the covered gallery.

Only one muscular guard stood at the entrance to the audience chamber. Recognizing the priest, he stood aside, warning the novice with a scowl to pass no further. Mosquito watched his master disappear into the dimly lit room.

Lord Dark Moon waited, sitting cross-legged upon a low bench on the dais, erect and impassive, his large ringed fingers relaxed and open upon his knees. He wore only a simple loincloth and his greying hair was swept simply back in the traditional topknot. Even so, even in single lamplight, he was an imposing figure; both his bearing and his great girth attested to high status.

First Wife Ix Qah-sa, Lady Memory, sat at the back of the platform in shadow, a white, delicately embroidered mantle modestly covering her hair. As He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone approached, she raised her head, sounding the copper bells of her ear ornaments. The priest made obeisance, bending with dignity from his waist. Patiently, he awaited acknowledgment.

You do not bring good news, Priest.

"Ma, no, Lord." The old priest straightened.

Lord Dark Moon regarded him with hooded eyes devoid of expression.

Lady Small Bird, Third Wife, has died in childbirth. I share sorrow, Lord, in this great loss.

Lord Dark Moon sat still as stone. The priest, assured by his lord’s composure, continued. The child still lives.

Still? Lord Dark Moon raised his chin higher, nostrils flared.

The lady’s labor was long and difficult, Lord. It was necessary, finally, to take the child. It is small and has not much strength.

The priest hesitated. It was necessary to be direct, but it was also important not to insult the Halach Uinic, the True Man of Cilich Peten.

Is there more?

Regrettably so, Lord.

He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone took a deep breath so that his voice would not be weak. "The ixmehen, the female child, is not complete in spirit, Lord. The hands have not formed correctly, one finger from another, and one foot is turned inward. She will not walk straight."

Lord Dark Moon stared at the old man, then abruptly shifted on the mat, turning his face away.

The priest bowed his head and stood silent. Audience was suspended until the lord could recover face. He knew the grief with which he wrestled; his lord was past his prime and his favorite first wife, Lady Memory, had born only daughters. His second wife was barren. Small Bird had come to him from the mainland, a young woman of good blood from a poorer family that gratefully accepted many gifts in bride price. Lord Dark Moon had been generous, for she descended from a lineage of many sons. In taking her innocence, he had felt strong again and confident that on this woman-child he would sire an heir. Now she had died honorably in childbirth, but not in delivering a son. She had given him a daughter only, and a non-person of incomplete spirit.

The priest became more uncomfortable as he waited. There was danger that Lord Dark Moon would wrestle also with guilt, guilt for lustfully taking a maiden before the acceptable age for marriage. If he lost this battle of conscience, he would have to take responsibility for this bad luck.

The Maya, True People of the Land of Wild Turkey and Wild Deer, treasured children. They were of special value, an affirmation of life from the Creator God. But in their beliefs, the birth of a deformed child was another matter; it could be considered a sign of the god’s displeasure and, because this child was almehenob, one of highest birth, her spirit could attract great misfortune that could influence the lives of all True People. Sustaining one such as this until the ceremony of Hitzmech, when the infant’s spirit would be affirmed through the giving of a name, was a matter for serious consideration.

The priest could feel the self-blame and foreboding that spread across the room like incense. Disregarding protocol, he spoke. This event could not have been avoided, Lord. It came not from inappropriate behavior or from the misreading of the red and black stones. When the moon falls from the sky, bad luck enters into all houses, no matter how clean. Malevolent spirits enter into all those who are weak. We could not protect this non-Person and we cannot change what is so.

Lady Memory pulled her mantle across her face. Did she weep, wondered the priest, or as a woman was she afraid?

Lord Dark Moon turned back into the lamplight. Take the incomplete spirit from this house, he said with finality.

He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone closed his eyes in relief.

It was a right decision. And, as he had successfully removed blame from his lord, Lord Dark Moon had lifted the weight of bad prophecy from his shoulders. The priest bowed as he backed away from the dais, then he turned and walked slowly from the chamber.

III

Bundling the infant awkwardly against his chest, He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone approached the east boundary of the women’s compound. The short, thick retaining wall was low, no more than waist high, but beyond the terrace it served as a sea wall during high tide, dropping more than 60 feet. As the priest drew close, an updraft surged over the parapet, bringing the sting of salt spray.

The infant had been still. He thought that perhaps she was already dead. But, as he laid her upon the weathered stone, loosening the swaddling, she startled and began to cry. The weak, ululating sound was almost lost beneath the thunder of the sea. Her naked body, once tight upon itself, stiffened in an attitude of anger and surprise, the tiny deformed fingers splayed against dark sky. With shaking hands, the priest removed a sun-metal ring on fine thread from his leather pouch. With great patience, he tied it firmly around one tiny wrist.

"This you must take, ixmehen, daughter, so that your lady mother will know you. You must go now and return to us at a more auspicious time."

As he stepped back, he bowed his head in respect. This non-Person had tried to enter the world at a bad place in the round of time, but she was of a great house and must be sent away with correctness.

Mosquito came up from behind carrying a small, smoking censor. He placed it reverently at the foot of the wall and withdrew. He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone began to recite umeahauhob, the calling out of patrilineage.

"Go quickly from the house of your father, Ah Acab U, halach uinic of Cilich Peten. Go to your lady mother, Ix Ka Ulum, who calls you. And your grandfather, Ah Kanil Ha U, who calls you. And your great-grandfather Ah Acab Kanab, who calls you. And his father, Ah Yab Tos Ha . . ."

The priest continued the sing-song liturgy until nine generations had been named. Then, satisfied that his responsibilities were fulfilled, he dismissed the novice and retired across the terrace to the shelter of a palm-thatched pavilion to wait. Folding himself into the warmth of his cloak, he settled into the familiar cross-legged position and leaned back. The infant was weak. Exposed to the damp air, she would go quickly. This he knew as high priest. The wind can be as sharp and as swift as any knife, he said to himself.

Longing for the comfort of his bed, He-Who-Carries-A-Staff-Of-Bone closed his eyes. Almost immediately his head nodded forward, his chin settling comfortably into the weathered folds of his neck. Even as the child cried out, the old man slept.

Because he slept, he did not see the lithe creature creep along the apron of the parapet to stalk along the shadowed wall. He did not hear that the infant had ceased crying. Nor did he notice the wet footprints that trailed like dark stains across the courtyard.

IV

As Clay Whistle ran, her sandaled feet fought against the wet sand and her heavy braids drummed against her back. Though the newborn was small, she felt heavy and cold as a stone against her heaving chest. Her heart pounded as much from fear as from exertion, for surely the priest had seen her, even through closed eyes. Perhaps, even now, his all-knowing spirit followed her. She pumped her slim legs harder, sprinting across the short distance of the cove, cradling the infant hidden within her bodice with both hands.

At the far end of the beach, she stopped at the bridge of porous limestone, breathing through her mouth as she sought balance. Then with sure feet she picked her way across, moving slowly, for beneath her leather sandals, the limestone was razor sharp. Ahead she could see the light of the fire, a tiny beacon shining from the mouth of the small actun. As she drew closer to the cave, she made out the shadowed face of Red Canoe and, behind him, that of Small Turtle. Their voices carried on the night wind.

I told you she would be afraid. See how she runs! Red Canoe’s voice was raised in derision.

Small Turtle leaned around the taller boy to look out past him, elbowing him aside, frowning at this ridicule of his cousin. It is not so. Clay Whistle is not afraid. Squinting against the dark, he watched her pause to take a deep breath before struggling up the steep incline. Something is wrong, he said with certainty. She has brought something hidden in her garment, unless… he said rolling his eyes, "unless Clay Whistle has suddenly developed large yim!"

Red Canoe, who usually encouraged such crude remarks, said nothing, standing aside as Clay Whistle brushed past, arms crossed over the taut bodice of her usually loose huipil. Panting, beads of salt spray glistening in her hair, she collapsed onto the rush mat near the fire. The boys followed silently, their eyes as big as plates. As her breathing became less ragged, she untied the swaddling wrapped like a sling around her shoulder and back. Then, pulling open the neck of her garment, she carefully lifted the baby onto her lap.

Ayah, breathed Red Canoe, It is a baby! Is she dead? In his experience, healthy infants were seldom silent.

"Ma, no. See, she moves," she said.

The infant was trembling and dark with cold, but at the sound of Clay Whistle’s voice she opened her large, almond-shaped eyes.

She looks like a baby owl. From Red Canoe this was a compliment. The True People revered all wild creatures, for in the beginning it