Episode Nine
My eyes itched for sleep, my body melded to the bench as if I’d become a permanent fixture of it. Already the sun was rising, fingers of white mist curling toward it, beckoning it to climb ever higher. Beams of marigold colored light filtered through the branches of a nearby maple, turning the ground a muddy sort of hue, and I glanced at the watch on my wrist for what I knew was likely the tenth time.
6:20AM. An ungodly hour, even for a man that never really slept. I rubbed at my eyes with the back of my hands, trying to bring them to life. Dr. Hartford’s warning still echoed inside of me, and I found myself marking each new day with the appearance of a new symptom. For now, the worst of it was a biting irritability and a heaviness to my limbs that I could not otherwise explain. My mind, though sometimes cloudy, was still mostly reliable, and I had to believe that meant I was still some time away from my otherwise imminent demise.
“Glad I stopped and picked up coffee,” Maeve muttered as she slipped from the shadows at the corner of my eye, dropping down onto the bench with an easy grace. She passed me a paper cup, and I curled my fingers around it, grateful for the warmth. It seemed these days that I could never get warm, as if the winds of winter passed through my sternum to rest in my bones, never again to be set free.
“Rhett, don’t take this the wrong way but…you look like shit.”
I laughed, a hollow sound. “Thanks,” I replied, taking a long swill of coffee. It was bitter, and scalding, and it left a trail of raw skin in its wake, but I didn’t care. It was hot enough to warm my insides, if only for a moment, and the caffeine would soften the sharp edges of exhaustion soon. All in all, it was a good morning. As good as it would be for a long time.
“He should be opening his office soon,” Maeve muttered, glancing at her watch. I smiled in spite of myself, the eerie feeling of déjà vu reflected in her movement.
“Let’s get going, then,” I said, bones rattling as I rose from the bench. Our feet found an easy rhythm as we plodded along the university’s park path, the cobblestones worn smooth after decades of use. They’d been ground from the coarse slabs of rock to a smooth trail gradually, millions of feet wearing them away bit by bit. It was almost poetic, the way I saw my own life in those stones. Once hard, robust, now doomed to wither and wear at the hands of time. But there wasn’t much time left, and I was wearing away more quickly than a stone ever could.
The university loomed before us, its grand chestnut doors gilded in iron, the sandy stones still in near perfect condition. This was but one of the university’s buildings, but after some relatively light digging on the school’s website, we’d found not only a professor with knowledge of ancient civilizations, but one who was willing to meet with us and hear our story. I’d resolved to keep as much information to myself as possible, and Maeve and I had come up with a succinct list of questions.
What sort of rituals did the Mayans perform in the cenotes?
Were they actually able to transcend to a different plane of existence?
How did they manage to come back?
My mind lingered on the last, heart pumping a strange drumbeat as we made our way inside. Long halls with marble floors and rich navy walls gave an austere impression, warmed only by the wooden doors marking offices and classrooms, study halls and libraries. As we wound our way through the maze of halls, Maeve following along with the iron placards that pointed the way, I tried to focus on the physical around me. Already my mind was a jumble of thoughts moving too fast to catch. Thoughts that were nothing but shadow and smoke, moving seamlessly from one place to the next, filling the spaces of the permanent fixtures in my mind. Every time I reached for one, it slipped through my fingers as easily as water, and I was left to watch it disappear, wondering what it was that made me think of it, and why it was important.
“His office should be around the corner,” Maeve said quietly, her voice echoing off the walls. We stood alone in the hallway, and I sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would quiet the stuttering of my heart. Professor Albion’s office was the first on the left. His name was embossed in gold on the frosted window, followed by the credentials Ph.D. Philosophy and History of Ancient Civilizations.
“I know that’s impressive,” Maeve whispered, tilting her head closer conspiratorially, “but I just cannot fathom some 18 year old being like, ah yes, philosophy is what I want to dedicate my life to.”
“Don’t forget the history of ancient civilizations,” I chided with a grin. “That takes some serious dedication and intelligence.”
“You’re telling me,” she muttered. “And here I thought being a Paralegal made me smart. Boy was I wrong.”
And just like that, I was at ease. Not completely, of course—nothing could pull that knot of dread and fear loose from my chest. But Maeve had a way of smoothing my jumble of nerves, of making me forget the here and now, forcing me to give in to the less worrying things about life. So, when I knocked on Albion’s door, I left the worry and fear and dread behind me on the threshold, and allowed the excitement of what could be to take hold.
I’d expected an ancient man, one with graying hair and a bent back. I’d expected a frail scrap of man, one with features that had been worn away by time, the moments of his life carved into his face, leaving lines about his mouth and eyes. But that was not Professor Albion. In truth, he was nothing more than a middle aged man, one with strong, broad shoulders and a shock of dark hair. The only gray I could see were two patches at his temples, and while there were lines about his mouth and eyes, they were far too faint to be of consequence. He wore black slacks and a white button down rolled up at the elbows, the epitome of casual elegance, and the smile that turned his mouth was easy and warm.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice silk and velvet. “You must be Rhett and Maeve.”
“Yes,” Maeve agreed, holding her hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
A flush crept up her neck as their hands connected, and she brushed an errant lock of golden hair back from her face, peering up at the professor with something akin to hunger.
“You seem very young to be a professor,” she remarked, tilting her head as she considered him.
He gave a soft chuckle. “Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how you choose to look at it—my lines of study don’t usually provide many career options beyond professor or researcher. So, I was destined for this position from a very early age, I’m afraid.”
“Hopefully that bodes well for us,” I remarked, taking his extended hand.
“Well, Doctor,” Maeve began, but Albion held up a hand.
“Please, just David,” he said. “You mentioned in your email that you were particularly interested in learning about the Yucatan Mayas and their religious rituals?”
He held out a hand, motioning us toward the two seats opposite his side of the desk, and we sat, Maeve leaning forward to study the various plaques and degrees that adorned the wall behind him.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I recently took a trip to Mexico, and the guide mentioned that the Mayans used certain cenotes as part of their religious rituals. I was hoping you could tell me more.”
David folded his hands over the desk, the once soft lines of his face growing more poignant as his expression sobered. “There are conflicting pieces of information on that particular subject,” he said. “The idea originally came from carvings that were discovered on the inside of a cenote in the Yucatan province. Those same carvings, or ones that were very similar, were found in a handful of other cenotes. Historians at the time believed that these carvings were meant to signify holy places, places of great importance to the Yucatan Mayas.”
“Are you saying they were wrong?” Maeve asked.
“Not entirely, no,” he clarified. “Those carvings, once deciphered, did indeed show that those specific cenotes were used for religious purposes. The part that most scholars debate is what sort of rituals were performed, and why.”
Reaching into his desk, David withdrew a thick tome. He placed it on the desk, flipping the covers open and exposing a variety of pictures within. Rifling through the pages to a place in the middle, he stopped and pointed at several on the rightmost page.
“These are some of the most prominent symbols and carvings that were found when the cenotes were discovered,” he explained. I studied them, trying to place any of them in my dream world.
“Most of these are faces of various gods the Mayas worshipped,” David continued. “Some are symbols for drinking water and some for healing properties. So, there’s no question that the cenotes were used as part of religious ceremony. Whether that means they were simply asking for the gods to bless the cenote and the water for healing purposes, or something more…it’s hard to say.”
“What types of rituals were they thought to perform?” I asked, pulling the book closer. My eyes traveled over the pictures, trying to memorize them. Most had pieces worn away by time, chips of stone marring the intended shape and content of the carvings. The few that did remain intact were of little consequence, at least to me. They looked nothing like anything I had ever seen before, and I found it more than a little worrisome.
“The most commonly held belief is that the Mayas, specifically of the Yucatan area, used the cenotes to help them commune with their gods, as your guide said. The Mayas would strip free of their clothes and immerse themselves in the cenote’s waters. Often, this would be done at sunset, as it was believed that the times of day on the cusp of two worlds—when day and night meet—were when the barriers between our world and the next were weakest.”
“So sunrise or sunset,” I murmured, still glancing through the photographs.
“Exactly.” He nodded, mouth little more than a line etched into his face. “Only one could enter the cenote to speak for the tribe, and this was often a holy person or shaman. They would inevitably be sealed into the cenote for the entire night, and were not allowed to leave until sunrise.
“When they were set free, most claimed to have been transported to the world of the gods. There are conflicting reports among the Mayans as to what that world looked like, but most agree that wherever they went, it was far from the cenote.”
“How did they know when the shaman or holy person would come back from their…trip?” Maeve asked, struggling with end. “Did the Mayans simply open up the cenote and the shaman was there ready to go? Did they have to find a way to bring him back out of it?”
David’s expression never changed, but behind his eyes, shadows of something I didn’t understand seemed to come to life.
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell you the answer to that.” He sighed. “We know of the rituals because of the carvings, but they don’t tell a complete story. Access to the cenotes and their transportive abilities were only for the shaman and holy men to know. The secrets of the ritual were passed down from one to the next, never recorded at any time. At best, we can speculate, but even that has proven to be rather incongruous over time.”
“This may seem a silly question,” Maeve said, leaning closer toward the desk, “but is there any way of knowing if they really did…I don’t know…find a higher plane of existence?”
“You mean did they really commune with the gods?”
“Did they really go to another place,” I clarified. For the first time, David turned his attention toward me. It was subtle, the way his brows shifted, the way the lines between them contracted and deepened ever so slightly. He regarded me in silence for several minutes before answering.
“Many of the Mayans seem to believe that’s what happened. There are numerous recordings of what these…other places…looked like, though no two descriptions are exactly the same. It’s that inconsistency that many historians have used to debunk the idea of it altogether. Some, however, argue that no two humans see this world the same way, so why would they see another world the same.”
“And what do you believe?” I asked, thumbing through the pages idly. I was grateful to have something for my hands to do besides fidget, but as I glanced down at the page I’d flipped to, I stopped.
For a moment, the world around me faded into nothing. The edges of my vision darkened, as if the rest of the world had fallen into shadow. I stared at the page, heart stammering, breath quickening, unable to speak or think. The picture filled the entire page, much of it taken over by the image of sandy colored stone. There were markings all across the stone face, carvings that meant nothing to me. Except for a single image at the very periphery of the page.
I closed my eyes. It couldn’t be real, what I was seeing. It was impossible. I swallowed hard, berating myself for believing what I’d seen. But when I opened my eyes again, it was there. Pressed into the stone face, etched deep and solid, was a carving of the man in black.
—
“Rhett, what the hell?”
Maeve reached for my arm, gripping hard at the elbow, and at her touch I stopped. We stood in the hall, several doors down from David’s office, and I slumped against the wall turning to face her. She watched me, her face softening from anger to concern in a matter of seconds.
“Why did we need to get out of there so fast?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“Those pictures in the book David showed us…I saw something—rather, someone—I recognized. It was the man in black.”
She raised her eyebrows, breathing out a low whistle. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Stuffing her hands into her back pockets, Maeve began to pace the hall. “Was it one of the pictures he showed of the cenote?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t be sure. But it was carved along with other symbols that were etched into the cenote, so I’m inclined to think it was.”
Reaching out for her, I pulled her incessant movement to a stop.
“This is good, right?” she muttered, chewing her lip. “If they saw him, and you’ve seen him, then it’s connected. That means we can figure a way out of this.”
I wasn’t as confident about it as she seemed to be, but I didn’t bother saying so. Even if they were connected, and I had a strong feeling they were, that didn’t mean we were any closer to finding a way out for Val, or Meadow, and I was no closer to figuring out how to pull myself out of those dreams either.
“It’s a start,” was all I could say, and I hoped she wouldn’t hear the edge of defeat in my words, or see the fear buried in my eyes.
—
It felt as if the world was collapsing. As if my bones were slowly bending inward, fusing together against my organs, pressing on my stomach, my lungs, my heart. I was weary, and more tired than I could ever truly express. In all the years I’d spent pulling all-nighters with Meadow and partying until the early hours of the morning, I’d never felt quite like this. I was almost certain that if I closed my eyes, I would disappear into darkness, into a place of non-existence, and that it would swallow me and leave nothing of me behind.
It was almost disappointing, when I closed my eyes only to open them again, to find myself sitting in front of the sickly glow of my laptop screen, still skimming through articles and scholarly texts. I didn’t understand half of what they said. Even after four cups of coffee and an energy drink, I was struggling to focus. A thick fog had rolled across the hollows of my mind, settling and dispersing until it covered every inch of memory, of reasoning, until I was so full of it I could not think. I’d been researching stories of ancient Mayans, few as there were. I’d hoped, that by some miracle, I might find out more about the visions the shamans had experienced back then. And, on the flip side, maybe I’d learn something about the man in black, too.
So far, I’d come up woefully empty. For hours I’d sat, glued to the screen, reading through article after article until my lids were too heavy to hold up, and my body had lumped back against the cushions of the couch. Tired as I was, I didn’t want to sleep. Sleeping meant returning to Os Onta, to the wild fields that stretched beyond it and the place I’d considered home. I knew that I would have to confront the man in black sooner or later, but the echo of our last encounter still haunted my memories, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face that yet.
Rising from the couch, I closed the laptop and left it on the cushion. Maeve had already fallen asleep at the kitchen table, her own laptop still propped open, though her screen had long ago gone dark. I wondered if I should wake her, but I thought better of it. I might not be able to get any rest through sleep, but she could, and I wasn’t going to rob her of it.
Closing her laptop, I helped her from the chair. Her head lobbed onto my shoulder, her words slurred through a groggy haze, and I helped her onto the couch, covering her with a blanket. Some day, I would tell her how grateful I was to have her here with me, helping me through this. She and Alyssa had both been great comforts at a time when I had none, and while I didn’t think anything I ever did would adequately repay them, I knew I would have to try.
Finally, with nothing else holding me back, I climbed the stairs and headed to my bedroom. I stood in the doorway for a while, working up the courage to face the man in black. Would he be there, waiting for me the moment I arrived? I’d spent less and less time in the dream world now that I knew being there didn’t make a difference to my health. Sleep was something of little consequence, and I felt the more time I spent awake, the more likely I could find a solution to this unending problem. Still, I couldn’t fight the need for sleep forever, and as the days dwindled past without any new or useful information, I decided that the only thing left to do was to go back to Alta California and confront the other side.
Stripping down, I climbed in between the sheets, nestling down inside of them. They were smooth and cool against my skin, and I burrowed deeper, waiting for the heat to rise. It swallowed me in minutes, warming me through, and as comfort took hold of me, any strength I’d had to resist sleep slipped away.
(Read Episode 10 by clicking the Page 2 Link Below)