The Luck of the Maya. Theodore Brazeau
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cousin Gonzalo. There was nothing I could do for them. I straightened myself out as best I could and hiked down the highway to get away from the scene. I flagged down a Flecha Roja bus for the ride into Tuxpan.”
“From Tuxpan, I called Houston and told them what had happened. John and Archie came down as fast as they could and, with a generous application of mordidas, covered up the incident and retrieved the bodies.”
“At the time, I didn’t suspect treachery. Now I do. I’m sure of it.”
We drove on in silence with Jeb and I both wondering what the hell we had gotten ourselves into this time.
LUCY
When we stopped in Pachuca, I left the guys at the hotel after supper, nursing their coffee, and went to visit some cousins I hadn’t seen in a long time—second cousins, actually, but we had been very close growing up.
“¡Lucita!” Laura screamed when she saw me. “¿De veras eres tu? Is it really you? Where did you come from? Is that your truck? What are all those holes?”
I told her the story of our recent adventures and asked her if she knew where I could get a couple of guns. Guns were strictly against the law in México, except for things like hunting, but that didn’t mean people didn’t have them. Especially in my family.
Laura and I visited for a while, got caught up on all the family news. I didn’t know when I’d see her again. Houston is a long way north and Chetumal is a long way south. When we made our tearful goodbyes, she handed me a heavy package and we hugged “¡Vaya con Dios!” We said to each other.
CARLOS
We stopped in Pachuca for a great supper of mole poblano in the hotel dining room. Lucy left to run some errands that resulted in our possessing a couple of pistols and some ammunition.
I hoped we wouldn’t be arrested for anything. We had proper tourist papers, but we were looking less and less like tourists. I was glad to see that the firearms went into a little box welded onto the frame of the truck. Jeb and I hadn’t even known the box was there. You don’t want to be caught with guns in México. Not good. We seldom carry them and usually it’s not worth the risk. After our recent experiences, though, we were glad enough to have them.
That Lucy is full of surprises. Always was. Still is.
The next day we skirted México City on our way through Puebla to Veracruz.
We got back into story telling mode, with Lucy leading the way with another of her childhood Mayan memories. A traditional story, she said.
“Listen up. This is it.”
And there was Zipacna, the eldest son of Seven-Macaw. “I am the maker of mountains,” he said.
One day, Zipacna was bathing at the seashore, when the Four Hundred Boys came by, dragging a large log. They had cut a big tree to make a beam for their house.
“What are you boys doing?” Zipacna asked.
“We have this log, but it is heavy. We can’t lift it to carry it home,” answered the Four Hundred Boys.
“I’ll carry it,” Zipacna offered. “Where does it go? What do you want it for?”
“It is a beam for our house,” they replied. Then he took it all the way to their house.
”You could stay with us,” the Four Hundred said. “We could use some help tomorrow to carry another beam. Do you have a father and mother?”
“Not any more,” answered Zipacna. “I will help you tomorrow.”
Later the Four Hundred Boys discussed Zipacna. “What will we do with him? He is dangerous to us. He is very strong.”
“We should kill him. Let’s dig a deep hole and throw him in and then throw logs down on him. That should do him in.”
And when they had dug the deep hole, they said to Zipacna, “We can’t do any more. Will you dig some more dirt?”
“OK,” Zipacna replied. And he went down into the hole and began to dig. But he had realized that he was to be killed, and had dug a side tunnel for his own safety. He passed the dirt up to the Four Hundred.
Meanwhile, the Four Hundred Boys were dragging big logs to the lip of the hole. They threw them down on Zipacna, but Zipacna wasn’t there. He had hidden in his side tunnel and was safe.
“He doesn’t speak. Isn’t he down there?” they asked themselves. “Keep listening. He should scream when he dies.”
And then he did scream a single scream. “Good,” they said. “He’s done for.”
“Let’s make our pulque to dedicate the new house. It will take three days to make and after three days we will dedicate our house.”
“On the day after tomorrow, we will see if ants come out of the ground where Zipacna is stinking and rotting.”
But Zipacna was listening from his hole, and cut off the hair from his head and cut off his nails. He gave them all to the ants, who swarmed to the surface carrying them.
“He is finished,” the Four Hundred said. “We’ve done it!” And they thought he was dead.
“And then, on the third day, their pulque was ready. They drank of it to dedicate their house, and became very drunk.
While they were in a drunken sleep, Zipacna came out of his hole and brought the entire house down on them, flattening them completely. They were all killed. Not even one or two or three survived.
And so died the Four Hundred Boys. It was once said that they became a constellation in the sky, called the Hundred, or the Pleiades, but maybe not.
“That’s it,” said Lucy. “A happy ending for Zipacna.”
“A happy ending? Mass murder? Lucy, that story makes even less sense than the first one.” Jeb complained. “Where do those four hundred people come from? And Zipacna was just trying to help them, so they tried to bump him off? What’s the moral here? Don’t get drunk on pulque? Where do you get these stories?”
“Well actually, this one comes right from the Popul Vuh,” she replied, defensively. “Well, maybe not right from it, but through my Grandfather and he was very reliable. I think. And I may have forgotten a detail or two. I was just a little kid, after all.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you more stories later, until they start to make sense to you. Maybe not. Right now, I’m going to take a little nap.”
It was after dark when we pulled into Veracruz, which was good for our policy of keeping a low profile, although I thought any kind of a low profile was going to be difficult to maintain with Lucy along. She directed us to a warehouse in a not-too-wonderful district back from the waterfront. We parked the truck inside and, following Lucy’s directions, trimmed our beards to a more distinguished look, changed into some of our more touristy looking clothes, combed our hair and, looking much more presentable, got into a blue Ford four door that was conveniently parked there with the key in it.
“This is my uncle’s car,” Lucy had said. “His warehouse, too, for that matter, so it’ll be all right to leave the pickup here. Let’s park it over there, out of the way, and leave the keys in it.”
Lucy pocketed one of the pistols, a .380 Browning, and left the other one in the safe-box in the pickup.
“I don’t think we’ll need this, but I didn’t think so last time, either, and look what happened. Por si acaso, just in case.” Lucy said.
Lucy, I said gently, as we drove off, Jeb and I are feeling a little left out here. There seem to be a few things you aren’t sharing with us. So far, so good, I said, but I have a strange feeling that some future surprises may not be so convenient. Do you think you can help us out here?
I felt like strangling her, but thought I’d try gentle first. Besides, I suspected