Under the Gaze of Ix Chel

by Dustin Smith

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

March 22nd

The Mayans brought artistry to their writing. They had a level of care that could not be replicated even with the invention of the printing press, typewriter and computer. To entertain the reader and avoid repetition, they could use a single logogram or rearrange their glyphs to represent the same word phonetically. This must have been great fun for contemporary Mayans, but it was not ideal for academics trying to decipher a language last written 400 years ago.

I went back to Annie’s notes on the glyphs. “Sacrifice we serve,” I whispered. A row of people lying prostrate in a queue to have their heads caved in at the stone altar.

Also, to throw more wrenches into the works, some stoneworkers had a habit of writing in shorthand, and each city had its own dialect. Thanks to the giant’s shoulders I stand on, academics have deciphered ninety per cent of Mayan glyphs with reasonable accuracy. Yet still over half the images on the pot did not sing to me.

“Did you say something?” Ryan asked. He was sitting at his desk writing emails. Or maybe just monitoring me. He stood, stretched and came over to my work area, then loomed over my shoulder. “Worked something out?”

“It’s just a thought.”

“Go ahead. Don’t be shy.”

“It’s just that they’re queuing. They’re not bound; they’re not captives. These people have chosen to go. They have chosen to sacrifice themselves so that they can serve.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s good context. Bloodletting was a daily ritual. They had to give back to the gods that made them. This would have been the ultimate offering to their king.”

On the way to the sacrificial stone lay a dead nobleman. I knew this because he wore the royal headband. His glyph was unique, so I had no clue how to pronounce it.

We both turned to confront the creaking door behind us. Austin barrelled through the kitchen, then onto the grass before disappearing into the jungle. I didn’t know then what I’d said to upset him.

March 25th

The glyphs were humming rather than singing. I was reticent to type because beetles and woodlice scurried around under the laptop’s keys. I pulled a few keys out but couldn’t find any bugs. They were good at hiding. It was sweltering as always in the summer, so I moved out to the marquee, hoping the insects wouldn’t travel with me.

Would somebody sacrifice themselves for me so I could traverse the afterlife more easily? Maybe Mum if she was ill. Dad would have said it was a foolish idea thought by a stupid person.

The rest of the team had called a cab to Turrialba for the weekend. Georgia and Ryan insisted I go with them, saying I needed to unwind. But I held firm; I could sense a breakthrough was coming. The song of the glyphs was sounding like English sung in some strange foreign accent.

I was close.

The three shades were in the mirror again. Just silhouettes, which somehow I found more unnerving. Since the night of the snake, my ghosts lived in the mirror. Only appearing when the sun had transfigured into a jaguar and descended into the underworld. Ix Chel, a crescent moon, now ruled the sky.

I was playing with the letter k. It was wonky in my keyboard after my earlier bug hunting.

There was a fourth silhouette in my mirror.

The three originals stood with their heads bowed. Behind them crept a man with something in his hands. I spun in my chair. It was Austin, all in black, with a rope in his hands, creeping up on me like a budget ninja.

He straightened and put one hand on the grip of a pistol he had tucked into his belt. “Don’t move an inch,” he hissed.

I eyed the rope. “Was I about to have an accident?”

He grinned, but the joy died a country mile below his dark beady eyes. “No, you are going to top yourself. You’ve been very erratic recently. The tropics aren’t for everyone.”

“I do—”

“Look!” he snapped. “You can either go peacefully with the rope or” — he pointed at the gun — “there’s going to be a terribly messy burglary. It’s not uncommon around here.”

Desperate for time and a sensible thought, I said, “Why? What have I done to you?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Austin nodded again and again. “Think of it as an honour. I’ve chosen you because you know your stuff.”

Chosen you?

“If I need a guide when I pass on to the next realm. You’ll be a great help. You’re an obsessive. I’ll need your studious eye when traversing the roads to heaven. The road to heaven is full of traps and dead ends. I’m a big fan of insurance.”

That’s when I realised Austin had a spiritual side. Shame it wasn’t Buddhism.

“Now turn around, and this will all be over in a jiffy,” he said.

I spun back to the desk. I had four steps of time to come up with a plan. Four steps to live.

Three.

The laptop? Too slow to pick up and swing. A Coke bottle—

Two. The grass crunched underfoot. Could I swing him over the table? I wasn’t James Bond.

One.

I saw the answer.

The foul aroma of his sweat filled my nostrils, and I snatched the mirror. It had the density of a small bowling ball. I swung a wild, high, arcing haymaker, spinning my chair simultaneously. I missed his temple, but it crunched into his jaw. The impact jarred my wrist; I grunted and dropped the mirror. Austin wobbled, blood trickled from his mouth, and then he collapsed backwards.

At a dreamlike, glacial speed, he reached for the gun. I bounded off the chair, landed to his right and snatched the gun. As I slid it out of his belt, he grabbed my wrist, and then there was an almighty roar.

I froze, not understanding for a moment. Then I realised we’d fired a wild shot, sending a bullet flying off into the jungle. Austin swung, and I rocked and then tumbled on my side. He’d punched me in the temple. Small red stars bloomed and then died in front of my eyes.

Austin crawled towards the pistol. It wasn’t in my hand anymore. I jumped on his back, slid my arm under his chin and tugged him away from the gun.

That’s when I saw him standing at the edge of the marquee. My protector. My ancestor? My long-dead great-great-grandfather? His snake lingered by the tree.

I didn’t want to let Austin go. He killed. He’s a murderer. A headhunter. So I held on, clawed my legs into his waist and pulled my arm tighter. I’m sure the snake appreciated my style. My head spun as if my brain were soaked in gin, but it wasn’t subtle work. All I had to do was squeeze.

Then, finally, after an eternity of sharing gazes with my protector, Austin went limp. The Mayan nodded. There was no joy in the expression. It was a matter-of-fact statement: It’s done.

According to the papers, courts, police reports, the internet and every living person I’ll ever meet — who has the gall to ask — it was self-defence. Open and shut.

I can never tell them I saw Austin move again.

Austin rolled from my grip and, with blazing eyes, dived for the gun and came up empty. He bolted upright and reached for a glass bottle on the desk, but his hand slipped through it.

He was silver-grey as if made from moonlight and could have been a child of Ix Chel. Austin’s eyes went wide. He’d realised something and spun on the spot, arms raised in a defensive gesture. Then he stopped when he saw my protector.

My spirit protector folded his arms and furrowed his brow. Austin shook his head, turned and glared at me. Then, the three shades erupted from the mirror lying on the floor near my feet. The woman, the topless floating teen and the portly man.

My protector spoke, and I understood. He said three words simultaneously: “Justice, peace and truth.” A red, sparkling glyph of a plumed serpent flew from his mouth and branded Austin in the chest. He crumpled to his knees.

The portly man went first, grabbing Austin’s left wrist. It came off in his hands as if made of wet paper. The woman and the teen did the same to his ankles. Grey blood gushed from him onto the grass and twinkled in the moonlight.

He screamed, but no sound came from Austin’s mouth. He was becoming a silhouette. My guardian strode over to him, grabbed his one intact arm and slid the flailing man, as if he had no weight, into the beast’s maw. The last time I saw Austin, he was mouthing “Help” to me.

The shades bloomed into colour. That’s when I realised the woman was Annie. Her black hair was now glorious red, like the Annie I’d seen in the pictures. Freckles dotted her rosy cheeks; she smiled, then, along with the teen, they floated first towards the canopy, the stars and then, finally, Ix Chel. The portly man tensed his shoulders, then followed my protector into the snake.

They’d found the path home.

* * *

That’s the last time I saw ghosts. I cup the mirror in my hand; I know something or someone is listening that’ll keep my secrets.

I place the mirror in my desk drawer. It doesn’t live on display anymore; it has served its purpose. What if I nod off in my desk chair, which I still do occasionally and see silhouettes? I’ve seen enough ghosts in one lifetime. Also in my drawer is a ceremonial needle. I check the lunar calendar: not tonight. Tomorrow, with the full moon, I will prick my finger, massage a bead of blood into the ground and thank my ancestors, my protector and the moon goddess, Ix Chel, for watching over me.