The Dragonflies of Chaac
by Harrison Kim
part 1
I plunged into a perfectly round jungle pond with fifty silent villagers dressed in white sinking into the water around me. Dragonflies buzzed round their heads, arcing upward and disappearing in the growing mist. We stood up to our chests and necks in the shallow pond. Mud gave way beneath my white sandals, and I squished farther down. The water was warm as blood.
The villagers chanted and raised their arms high above their heads. “For Chaac,” they sang. The tips of my fingers tingled as I opened my mouth and echoed their cries. As we chanted, the fog thickened and greyed. A warm mist blew over us; my head, buoyant, was drawn towards the light that shone just above our fingertips. How could there be light in the middle of a forming cloud?
Around me the silent faces went limp. I sensed a wavering in my head, a dizziness. Roaring filled my ears, a lion growling in the midst of thunder. I let go of everything and floated high into the mist, into the cloud, gazing upon the white sombrero heads dotting the pond, all within concentric circles like wheels upon wheels.
I entered a darkness that whirled from the edge of the thunderhead, a darkness that sucked my spirit to its centre. I felt the spirits of the villagers rise into that cloud with me. I stared across at images of their faces and, around me, their whispers and chants gathered within a blackness. I couldn’t tell if I uttered their words or the others spoke through me.
Then came a rumbling, a thunderstorm crash, and I scrunched smaller, to escape. The smaller I made my spirit, the more concentrated the cloud and the thunder explosions. Yellow flashes burst all around, filling the sky; then came a last, earth-shattering crack and a falling. I burst out of the raincloud with all the others, in pieces, in cascading droplets, part of the flood, pelting down upon the empty bodies below.
My liquid awareness gathered in the pond and drew itself into a body as water holds itself within a physical vessel. I opened my eyes in my new flesh as the other white-clad villagers opened their living orbs once more. I looked to the sky with everyone else. The blue-black cloud had vanished. The sun shone directly down. Dragonflies buzzed above our heads, their multi-eyed green and turquoise forms energizing the air. I stared at my hands, gnarled and twisted, dark brown and heavy veined. Who was I?
* * *
I’d pedalled into the village in the earlier hours of that morning on my long-distance bicycle. I’d purposely travelled into this remote jungle area as a physical and mental challenge to transform myself, part of my quest to become a more spiritual and centred being. I was 24, fit and alert.
Strange wisps of formless mist circled as I pedalled up a steep hill. I noticed men and women all in white standing ahead of me. I slowed up, and they padded silently around me. “Hola,” I said to them n Spanish. “How are you this bright morning?”
They didn’t answer. Ahead, a line of people had formed across the road, standing with arms folded, saying nothing, their eyes partly hidden under white sombreros. The men carried machetes held in white sheaths, strapped to their sides. I alighted from my bicycle and walked slowly up to the line.
“What’s happening?” I asked in Spanish. “Is this a religious day?”
Again, no one spoke. I moved to my panniers to open them up and offer them some food.
They shook their heads, “No.” I turned around to walk back the other way, but a line of white figures blocked my path. I checked out the closest building, with a faded sign on the side and an open door. It could be a store, maybe someone could help me out.
“Hello!” I shouted through the opening. “Is there anyone there?”
A man in a stained brown uniform popped his head out a side window. Bushy hair billowed out from under his too-small brown cap. Dark tobacco stains flecked his teeth. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m passing through on my bicycle,” I told him. “Heading for Merida.”
“You speak excellent Spanish for a gringo,” said the man. “I’m Armando Valenzo, police chief.” He waved. “Come into the station with me.”
“I only want to be on my way,” I said.
Armando looked at the two lines of silent men. They stared back at him.
“You’ll be safer in here,” he said. “Bring your bike in, too.”
Sweat dribbled down the sides of the silent men’s cheeks. A squat fellow’s hand moved to his machete handle as he stared at Armando.
I looked away and followed the policeman into the station. It stank like alcohol and tobacco. An open bottle of white rum sat on a scratched, litter-covered wooden desk. Snuff boxes lay scattered on random pieces of paper.
Armando tapped at his holster. “This is my gun. It will not protect us, but being in here will, with the alcohol.”
He took a big swig. “When you’re drunk, you’re immune to the rain God,” he said.
Then he gave a loud, forced laugh. I tried to smile. “I should buy your bicycle and pedal out of here,” he said. “I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for six months.”
“Why won’t the people let me pass?”
“Everything must stop for Chaac,” Armando said. “He’s the rain god, and it’s his festival today. Everyone’s working up to the big trance.” He rummaged in his desk drawer. “I don’t understand Maya,” he continued. “That’s what they speak here, when they speak.” He motioned to a ripped horsehair chair. “Sit down and have a drink.”
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“You are either with me or with them,” he replied, pulling a thick wallet out of the drawer. “See this?” He showed me a wad of fifty-peso bills. “I collect rent and commission for the owner on many of the dwellings here. I almost have enough to get the hell away.” Then he sat forward. “Goddamn it, you will drink!”
He pushed the white rum towards me.
I touched the tips of my fingers to the bottle. Armando continued. “Getting drunk and, better yet, passing out, will protect you from Chaac.” His little eyes peered from under the bushy hair. “I’m trying to help you. Swallow the liquor!”
I hesitated again, and he grabbed the bottle from me, drank another gulp, then flopped back against his chair. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I was being rude.”
He motioned with his hand. “Put your bike in the cell over there. You can sleep on the floor.” He jumped up, grabbed a chess board from a shelf covered with dusty books. “Do you play? Please say you will play.”
I stood my bicycle up against the jail wall. I considered going back outside, facing the silent white-clad villagers with their machetes. I looked at the police chief, his eyes beseeching.
“Yes,” I said, “I play.”
The Chief smiled and slowly opened the chess set. Armando asked me question after question as he painstakingly laid the pieces down and drank the rest of his rum, and the noon heat crept in from the jungle.
“Who sent you? My superiors?”
“I’m from the U.S., cycling through Mexico.”
“There are many blue-eyed agents,” his voice slurred. “How do I know you’re not from the Mexican government? Your Spanish is excellent.”
“I have an American passport,” I said. I smiled. “I’m grateful you’ve taken me in.”
The Chief nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I did stick my neck out there.”
We started the chess game. I took Armando’s knights, then held back from capturing his Queen; I didn’t want to make him angry. He talked, then paused, then drank. I purposely slowed my moves to mirror his. We seemed to be playing the same game for hours.
Armando stared at the board. “If I lose,” he said, “that proves you are smarter than me.” He paused, then chuckled. “The last government agent they sent vanished mysteriously.”
He glanced up and wiped off his chin. He seemed to have longer, more bristly whiskers now, his cheeks looked pouchy. Outside, I heard a humming.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Forget about it,” said Armando, his voice quavering.
He looked up again. His jawline appeared feral, like a wild pig’s, wider with pock marks and grey wrinkles, a mouth that twitched when he spoke. His eyes widened as the humming grew louder. “I need more rum,” he said and reached under his desk.
I ducked as a dragonfly flew in through the half open door, then another.
“Shut that door, sir!” Armando staggered to his feet and fumbled at his holster. Then he slumped back down.
I ran to the opening.
Villagers in white moved silently up and down amid thousands of buzzing green-winged insects. As I watched, an old man turned and faced me. He walked backwards past the police station and beckoned with both hands. Another man also turned and motioned at me, as several dragonflies settled on his white hat.
Armando squatted behind his desk, glowering, the remaining chess pieces in front of him. Sweat rolled down the side of his face. His right hand moved again towards his holster. “Come back here,” he slurred, “and finish the game! I’m wearing the gun here!” He started to remove it from its holster.
I jumped out into the street and bolted after the two men. They walked down the dirt road between the houses. Dragonflies buzzed over them, clouds of insects coming from all directions.
“I think you called me,” I said, in Spanish.
One man motioned, pointed to a nearby house. The other one waved his hand in a sign for “Go in.”
I stood by the doorway.
He motioned again: “Stay here.”
The inside walls and floor shone spotless and white while the sun’s rays reflected off the bodies of the quickly moving dragonflies, creating flitting shadows on the walls. The man stepped inside, came back to me carrying a white shirt, white sombrero, sandals and pants. He placed them into my hand and motioned taking off his shirt, then pointed at me. I nodded. He gestured to an adjoining room and I went in and changed, forcing my wallet and passport into the new deep pockets, rather than in the pouch around my waist belt.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Harrison Kim
