Read Online Caribbean by James A. Michener - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James A. Michener
Ads: Link
an impostor.”
“When did he arrive?”
“In my grandfather’s day. They placed two Chac Mools on the island, but not in our temple, and sacrifices became quite common, slaves usually but our own sons when required, and Grandfather spoke out against the practice.”
“What happened?” Bolón asked, staring at Chac Mool.
“Something Grandfather never anticipated. When an unseasonal drought came, they decided that an additional Chac Mool must be installed in our temple, and over my grandfather’s objections this beastly thing was hauled in here and placed as you see it,” and now she, too, stared at the implacable stone visage. “And on the day it was finally set in place, more than fifty men edging that huge rock into position, the other priests suddenly grabbed Grandfather, dragged him to that stone altar over there, bent him backward across it, and with a sharp obsidian dagger, slashed open his chest like this.” With a trembling forefinger she indicated the passage of a knife across herson’s belly, then added in a voice choking with remembered grief: “The priest holding the knife dropped it, reached his hand into the opened gash, fumbled for the still-beating heart, ripped it from Grandfather’s body, and threw it in there.”
Pointing to the stone saucer held by the statue, ugly in every perspective, she shuddered and led her son from the temple, with Chac Mool’s evil gaze following them as they left.
Ix Zubin spent the month prior to the impending sacrifice adding two pages to the papyrus record of Cozumel, and in them she summarized the achievements of her renowned grandfather and the lesser accomplishments of his son. With Bolón watching and confirming the accuracy of her symbols, she added the specific dates during which each had exercised power, and when she had finished, mother and son looked at the scrolls with pride. “There the record will be,” she said. “Your forebears were men to be remembered.” Then she pressed her son’s hand: “And so shall you be. To guide us through the stormy days ahead.”
She had barely made this prediction when the clouds began to gather, for three burly messengers from the island leaders came to confiscate the scrolls: “These are to be kept by those in charge,” and for the first time in centuries the scrolls left the confines of the temple. As the messengers disappeared she called after them: “Why?” and one called back: “They believe all that your grandfather did was wrong. That’s why they want to close down what they call ‘his temple.’ ”
Stunned by this desecration of the sacred scrolls, Ix Zubin wandered for two days about her lovely island, nodding to the pregnant women climbing out of the canoes after their long journeys. Then from a hilltop she studied the endless sea as it came to the eastern shore, but always she came back to that handsome assembly of nine buildings at the shrine, with their white-pebbled walkways, tall trees and flowered nooks. They formed a noble scene, one to gladden the heart, and she was not prepared to surrender it to mean men who lacked vision or appreciation. Her mind was made up.
Returning to her quarters at the rear of the main temple, she told her son: “We must leave at once and make our plea in person at Mayapán,” and Bolón had been so startled by recent developments on the island and so aware of their significance that he did not have to askhis mother why. But he was not prepared for what she said next: “We shall set forth on a mission of extreme importance—to you … to me … to Cozumel. If you are to save our temple and serve in it, you must understand the glory of our accomplishment. You must see what we were and what we might become again.” And a new sense of gravity was introduced into their pilgrimage.
But now Ix Zubin was confronted by an almost insurmountable problem, for according to Maya custom it would be unthinkable for a lone woman accompanied only by a
“When did he arrive?”
“In my grandfather’s day. They placed two Chac Mools on the island, but not in our temple, and sacrifices became quite common, slaves usually but our own sons when required, and Grandfather spoke out against the practice.”
“What happened?” Bolón asked, staring at Chac Mool.
“Something Grandfather never anticipated. When an unseasonal drought came, they decided that an additional Chac Mool must be installed in our temple, and over my grandfather’s objections this beastly thing was hauled in here and placed as you see it,” and now she, too, stared at the implacable stone visage. “And on the day it was finally set in place, more than fifty men edging that huge rock into position, the other priests suddenly grabbed Grandfather, dragged him to that stone altar over there, bent him backward across it, and with a sharp obsidian dagger, slashed open his chest like this.” With a trembling forefinger she indicated the passage of a knife across herson’s belly, then added in a voice choking with remembered grief: “The priest holding the knife dropped it, reached his hand into the opened gash, fumbled for the still-beating heart, ripped it from Grandfather’s body, and threw it in there.”
Pointing to the stone saucer held by the statue, ugly in every perspective, she shuddered and led her son from the temple, with Chac Mool’s evil gaze following them as they left.
Ix Zubin spent the month prior to the impending sacrifice adding two pages to the papyrus record of Cozumel, and in them she summarized the achievements of her renowned grandfather and the lesser accomplishments of his son. With Bolón watching and confirming the accuracy of her symbols, she added the specific dates during which each had exercised power, and when she had finished, mother and son looked at the scrolls with pride. “There the record will be,” she said. “Your forebears were men to be remembered.” Then she pressed her son’s hand: “And so shall you be. To guide us through the stormy days ahead.”
She had barely made this prediction when the clouds began to gather, for three burly messengers from the island leaders came to confiscate the scrolls: “These are to be kept by those in charge,” and for the first time in centuries the scrolls left the confines of the temple. As the messengers disappeared she called after them: “Why?” and one called back: “They believe all that your grandfather did was wrong. That’s why they want to close down what they call ‘his temple.’ ”
Stunned by this desecration of the sacred scrolls, Ix Zubin wandered for two days about her lovely island, nodding to the pregnant women climbing out of the canoes after their long journeys. Then from a hilltop she studied the endless sea as it came to the eastern shore, but always she came back to that handsome assembly of nine buildings at the shrine, with their white-pebbled walkways, tall trees and flowered nooks. They formed a noble scene, one to gladden the heart, and she was not prepared to surrender it to mean men who lacked vision or appreciation. Her mind was made up.
Returning to her quarters at the rear of the main temple, she told her son: “We must leave at once and make our plea in person at Mayapán,” and Bolón had been so startled by recent developments on the island and so aware of their significance that he did not have to askhis mother why. But he was not prepared for what she said next: “We shall set forth on a mission of extreme importance—to you … to me … to Cozumel. If you are to save our temple and serve in it, you must understand the glory of our accomplishment. You must see what we were and what we might become again.” And a new sense of gravity was introduced into their pilgrimage.
But now Ix Zubin was confronted by an almost insurmountable problem, for according to Maya custom it would be unthinkable for a lone woman accompanied only by a
Similar Books
