"Marcelina," I said, taking the bowl and trying to smile. "I'm not
really--"
"You must have a little," she whispered back. "It would be very rude. .
. ."
Well, I thought, just a taste. I tried it and realized it was a dense
gruel of cornmeal and honey-water, like a lukewarm gluey porridge,
though with a bitter after-jolt. But I choked it down and tried to look
pleased. Marcelina urged me to have more--I took another small sip--and
then they produced corn dumplings wrapped in large leaves, together
with a pile of fiery chiles and a bowl of squash, corn, and beans, all
mixed together.
After one bite, though, Marcelina reached out and--her eyes
downcast--whisked the bowls away, passing them back to the women. She
said something to them, then turned to me.
"Eating too much would be as rude as not eating at all."
That was a cultural norm I didn't remember, and I suspected she'd just
changed her mind about the wisdom of my eating local food.
I smiled at the women and used some of my so-so Spanish to offer them
thanks.
"_Muchas gracias_." I nodded toward the bowls. "_Esta es muy
delicioso_."
They beamed as though they understood me. Who could say? But they'd
been intensely interested in watching me eat, even more than Marcelina.
Work on her. Now.
"Marcelina." I turned to her, only vaguely noticing she hadn't had a
bite. "Do you understand why Dr. Goddard moved me down to the operating
room yesterday? There in the clinic? What did he tell you?"
"He said it was for special tests." Her voice was gentle through the
gloom. "You were very . . . sleepy. You must have been very, very
tired. But he told me something in your blood work was unusual, so he
had me bring you down for a pelvic exam. I gave you a sedative"--she
was pointing at the Band-Aid still on my arm--"the way we always do.
But then he said you were fine."
"Do you realize he did things to my body I didn't agree to?" I studied
her trusting Mayan face and tried to get a sense of how much she knew
about what was going on. That was when I first became sure of an
increasing disquiet in her eyes, as she kept glancing away. Why was she
so uncomfortable talking about Alex Goddard? "And I think he did some
of those same things to Sarah."
"Dr. Goddard tried to help her in many ways when she was here before."
Marcelina's tone had become odd and distant. "Now he wants to help you
too."
Yes, there was definitely something uneasy in her eyes.
"Before he came here," she went on, trying to look at me, "_Baalum _was
just a poor, simple village. Many children died of diseases. So I left
and went to Guatemala City to study. To become a public-health nurse.
Then after he came here, I moved back to help him with his clinic, the
children."
She was trying to make a case for him, and I noticed she'd avoided the
actual question.
"Now _Baalum _has become a special place," she said finally. "A place
of miracles. And if a woman from outside comes, she can be part of
that. When Sara was here before, I started teaching her to speak our
language, and the others did too. She truly wanted to be part of his
miracles. Sometimes we don't understand how they happen, but he has
great medical powers."
One thing's for sure, I thought. He's got plenty of power over the
people here, including you. The whole place has been brainwashed. I
looked her over and realized she'd just gone on mental autopilot. She
wants to be loyal to him, and she can't let herself believe there's
something rotten in the "special" paradise of _Baalum_.
"Listen," I said, getting up, "I need to go see Sarah right now. Her
father's been in the hospital, and he's not well. I spoke with him
yesterday, and he's very worried about her. I know Dr. Goddard is
treating her, but it's better if I just take her home immediately."
More and more I was beginning to suspect this detour for the two women
had been a diversion, an attempt to stall. Marcelina had set it up.
Maybe she wanted to tell me something, and she didn't have the nerve to
do it point-blank.
"Families are very important," she said, sounding sincere. "We'll go
now." She spoke to the women briefly, an animated benediction that
seemed to leave her even more disturbed. As we headed out and on down
the path, I again wondered what was really happening.
When we reached the end of the long "street," the arched arbors still
above us, she stopped in front of an odd stone building unlike any of
the others and pointed.
"This is where she likes to be," she said quietly. "Except for the
pyramid, it's the most sacred place in Baalum."
The doorway was a stone arch about five feet high and pointed at the
top like a tiny Gothic cathedral.
"What . . . is this?" I felt as though I was about to enter something
from the Temple of Doom.
"It was once the royal bath," she explained. "In ancient times heated
rocks were brought in, with spring water from a sacred _cenote_."
We walked through the portal and entered a room whose roof was a stone
latticework that let the gray daylight just filter through. The space
was vast, with carved and colored glyphs all around the walls, while
the air was filled with clouds of incense from pots along the floor. It
felt like a smoky pagan church.
At the far end was a large stone platform, and in the dappled, hazy
light I could see it was embossed along its sides with carved and
painted classical scenes and glyphs, glistening little red and green
and blue pictures of faces and figures.
My eyes finally started adjusting to the shadows, and I realized the
platform had been fitted with a covering across the top, a jaguar skin
over bundled straw, and a tiny form was lying on it, wearing a white
shift. . . .
Dear God.
"Morgy, I've been so hoping you'd come," Sarah said, rising up and
holding out her hands. Then she slid her feet around onto the rough
stone floor and managed to steady herself. Her shift was wrinkled now,
but she still was wearing the brown slippers and the braided leather
waist-cinch. She appeared sleepy, though her eyes were sparkling and
she seemed to have more strength than she'd had when I first saw her
out in the square. I looked at her and weighed the chances she could
walk. Possibly. But I'd carry her if I had to.
"Sar, honey, we're going home now," I said, finally finding my voice.
She didn't respond at first, just turned to caress the decorated sides
of the platform. "I've been wanting to show you this, Morgy. It tells
my story." Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way off,
as though through a dense haze.
"Please, we don't have time for stories." Was she hearing me at all?
"Let's just--"
"See," she went on, ignoring me as she pointed down, "that's the Cosmic
Monster, that one there with maize sprouting out of his forehead. And
that man next to him with a flint knife is my father, letting blood
from his penis. He's the king. And that one there is me, Lady Jaguar.
He gave my name to this place." She paused to reverently touch the
carved stone. "Look, I've just stuck a stingray spine through my tongue
and put my blood in the _copal_ censer there."
"Sar, please--"
"Here, see it?" She was pointing to a section at the very end. "That's
the two-headed Vision Serpent up above me. He's the god Kukulkan . . .
or something. I've made him come to me by giving him my blood. I'm--"
"Sar, what in heaven's name is going on with you?" I grabbed her and in
spite of myself, shook her. Jesus! The whole scene left me in shock.
She was sinking back deeper into her fantasy world. Was she taking the
drug again, I wondered and fantasizing she was some dead Mayan
princess? Please, God no.
That was when I saw Marcelina walk over to a shelf along the wall and
lift down another clay-pot incense burner, along with a small white
brick. What--?
"Oh, yes!" Sarah exclaimed moving quickly over to her. "Let's do it for
Morgy."
Marcelina nodded warily and handed her the white brick, then turned to
me. "She likes to do incense. It always calms her. This is _copal_,
what the shamans use."
I watched while Sarah shakily began crumbling pieces of the sticky
substance into the pot. My God I thought, she's truly, truly lost it.
Next she inserted dry tinder and began trying to knock sparks into it
with a piece of hard black jade and a flint. But she was too weak, and
finally Marcelina had to take the flint and do it for her. Then, as the
gray smoke started billowing out, Marcelina began a long chant, shrill
and strangely melodic. I felt a chill creep down my back. When she
finished she turned her dark eyes on me sadly, waiting.
"What were you saying?" I asked finally, sensing she wanted me to.
"I was singing from the Popol Vuh." Then she translated.
_Holy earth, giver of life,