TULUM

by
Marc Goldin

There it lay, looming before the hot, dusty traveler. He had spent the better part of the morning journeying there and now that he had arrived, felt exhausted from the rigors of the trip but oddly exhilarated upon seeing its towering splendor. The structures were squared off in the classic Mayan style, their stark whiteness and elaborate carvings set against the sky�s brilliant blue.

�This is it,� he breathes, looking at the primary building, the Temple of the Jaguar, the focal point of the walled complex. It was the highest and the grandest of the bunch. The way the steps led up the side of the pyramid, one could easily imagine climbing them to the portals at the top, nestled among the clouds, to enter a sky world.

He and his small group pause on the road that enters the city and reflect on the very thing that has brought them to this place. If, in fact, a sacrifice is called for, then they have come to the right spot, for this city with its palaces and temples has a rich and long, perhaps indeterminable history of such rituals.

Years ago, he had read accounts from social historians, of some of the more colorful events that had occurred here, taken and translated from the glyphs that were scattered along the buildings. In books, he saw images engaged in bloodletting ceremonies. Lintel 24, a carving of Lady Xoc, a noblewoman pulling a thorn-studded rope slowly through her pierced tongue. In another picture, a Mayan warrior is seated before a small bowl to catch the blood dripping from his opened veins.

Although he had earlier tried other means and methods to bring about a correction within himself, all signs pointed to the undeniable fact that a stronger medicine was needed. It was then that he�d finally acknowledged that an offering was inevitable and it was upon him to provide it. The one thing that had remained was where this should take place, which was how he and his small group had come to be at the entrance to the walled city.

They trudge up the hot, dusty road that takes them in and among the buildings, the road that ultimately leads them to the sacrificial site.

�It�s now.� The thought echoing like a blast from a conch shell across an expanse of time. Before starting up the steps to the Temple of the Jaguar, he looks up and thinks about how high and imposing it seems, but this also gives him a sense of the grandeur of it. At the top, he sees small figures moving about in what appears some sort of preparation. He assumes these to be the high priests and their assistants. He sighs once, quietly, and begins the climb. It is at this point that he must leave his little group and continue on alone. He dares not look back although he feels the impulse.

Climbing and climbing, his legs feel weighted and leaden, although the steps are shallow. So many of them, he must stop for a moment. As he pauses and looks around, the vista is breathtaking. The lesser palaces and temples below are all situated in a sort of perfect asymmetry. Looking further, he can see past the cliffs that the city is set on, to the white sand beaches and the three or four shades of blue green that are the Caribbean.

He continues the climb, step upon step, and begins to near the top. The priests and their assistants are quiet, watching him as he approaches the platform. They are beautiful in their brightly colored ceremonial garb, resplendent in feathered masks. He cannot see their faces.

One of them motions him to a stone altar, and by hand gestures, indicates the position he is to assume. He settles in, glancing around, and notes the shiny, gleaming instruments of the ritual, laid out in an orderly fashion. He also sees, off to the side, a reclining stone figure of a Choc mal, the god creature holding a bowl in which the offering is to be placed.

As he stretches out on his back on the cool stone altar, a quiet murmuring begins among the priests and their assistants. He supposes that these are the ritual incantations and he is then handed a bitter liquid to drink from a clay bowl. A smooth cylindrical stone is placed under his neck, tilting his head back and propping up his throat. He looks once more at the placid inscrutable face of the Choc mal and then casts his eyes up to watch the generous white clouds that float lazily along in the brilliant blue sky.

The head priest says a few more words and picks up one of the shiny, gleaming instruments. He feels the cool obsidian touch his throat and slide delicately along near the base. Curiously, he feels no pain, just an internal probing. Through a light red mist that has now joined with the blue and white of the sky, he feels more probing and then a wrenching sensation. Beyond the edges of his eyes, undiscovered galaxies of stars wheel out of control.

The priest�s upraised arm thrusts skyward, clutching the object newly ripped from his neck. He speaks to the others and then turns to face the reclining Choc mal. The priest leads the incantation, the rest of the assembled joining in response. The object is held up to the sky once more and then placed reverently in the Choc mal�s bowl, where it lays quivering.

On cue, drums begin to pound nearby and he hears the shrill of bamboo flutes. As he slips into a Xibalban underworld, he hears the voices in chorus and sees for the first time, carved over one of the portals, the figure of a jaguar, readying itself to pounce.

� Marc Goldin
Reproduced with permission