Black Rain

He looked at Danielle. She nodded.

“Tell him we’ve not come here to struggle against them,” McCarter began. “Tell him we’ve come here to ask for their help and …” McCarter bobbed his head slightly, “to return what was stolen from them, probably in the time of his father.”

“You’ll have to show him the crystals,” Devers said. “The warriors didn’t seem to understand me, and I think they may have a proper term instead of a description.”

Devers turned to speak and Danielle pulled out the box she had reacquired from Kaufman before his demise. From it she produced the Martin’s crystals. She handed them to McCarter as a murmur of surprise surged through the crowd.

The Old One leaned closer to inspect the crystals. “Ta anik Zipacna,” he said, which Devers translated as: The eyes of Zipacna.

McCarter reeled from the statement. It told him he was right, these simple nomads were the descendants of the Maya.

“Zipacna are the Stealers of Life,” the Old One explained. “They are the Takers of Men; the Plague, the Zipacna are the Many Deaths Who Walk the Night. All these names are for the Zipacna.”

No further explanation was needed.

The Old One raised his hands outward to indicate the entire tribe. “The People come to watch for the Zipacna, to see if they rise from the pit—from the depths of the stone mount. It has been more than the time of many great fathers since they were seen. Yes, always they have slept until now. Until the West Men set them free. Because of this, the Great Sky Heart is angry, the rains will not fall.”

Sky Heart. McCarter thought the Mayan term was “Heart of the Sky,” a term that described the gods, the chief god in particular, Hurricane.

McCarter addressed the Old One directly. “The rains would kill the Zipacna,” he said. “If the Black Rain fell it would save the People.”

Now the Old One stared at McCarter, perhaps reeling in the same way McCarter had only moments before. His eyes were open wide, their luminescent brilliance no longer hidden by the curtains of skin. McCarter had used the words “Black Rain” because they were an integral part of the ancient legend—what he didn’t know was that the Chollokwan used the same words to describe the first heavy rain of the season.

Here they would wait, until the falling of the Black Rain. The heavy rains would tell them it was safe to leave the clearing and the stone temple behind. In most years there was so much rain, even in the dry season, that they had to arbitrarily choose which particular storm would be counted as the Black Rain, but in certain years, especially El Niño years like this one, the choice would be clear.

McCarter could see the essence of this on the Old One’s face and he felt an opening. He watched as the frail body turned and conferred with his council before speaking again.

“He wants to know what kind of help we request,” Devers said. “And what kind of help we believe they could give us.”

“Tell him we want to leave the jungle. We were asked to leave before and now we will, but we need their help to make the journey. We offer the crystals, the Eyes of Zipacna in exchange for this help.” McCarter held up the box again. “Tell him we wish to return to our homes, to a place beneath our own sky.”

The other elders whispered among themselves but the Old One did not consult them. He looked at McCarter and spoke, his words flowing through Devers.

“Many who journey do not return to their homes.” He pointed to the river. “The water flows strongly.” He made a fist. “The current takes men away. To return home one must fight against the power of the stream. For some this is too much. For you,” he said, waving a hand over the NRI group, “it will be too much, it seems.”

“But the current flows to our home; the river will take us.” McCarter replied this way, though he guessed that the statement had not been meant literally. “It was the journey to this place that was most difficult for us.”

“Then you must go,” the Old One said. “With or without help, you must leave.”

As the Old One spoke, McCarter’s heart sank. He had assumed that the crystals held a high place in the Chollokwan beliefs, and from the way the elders stared at them, he believed he was right. But it seemed practicality forbade them from rendering assistance. As McCarter guessed, the able-bodied would not be wasted on escort duty for strangers and foreigners, and that, McCarter feared, meant doom for their small and dwindling party.

As McCarter fell into silence, Hawker whispered to Danielle, “This isn’t exactly going well.”

She leaned over to McCarter. “Don’t give up,” she said, quietly. “We’ll never get another chance at this.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” McCarter replied.

“Make something up.”

“Like what?”

“Offer them guns,” she said. “We’ll give them rifles and bullets if they’ll help us.”

McCarter shook his head. “What good would that do? It would just be a trick.”

“We’ll teach them how to use them.”

“No,” he said. “It’s beads for Manhattan all over again.”

Before Danielle could say anything more, the Old One spoke. “The time for talking is over,” Devers explained.

“Professor,” Danielle urged.

McCarter’s mind was spi

“We ca

Danielle nudged him. “Say something,” she pleaded.

He couldn’t think of anything. And the Old One stood and turned to go.

“Wait,” she shouted. She stood. A wave of shock ran through the Chollokwan gathering.

“Oh no,” McCarter said. He’d warned Danielle not to speak, explained to her that the Chollokwan would take it as an insult if she addressed them directly, that her presence would seem odd to begin with and counterproductive if she projected herself as their leader. She’d pretty much scoffed at that when he’d explained it the first time, but so far at least she’d kept to the plan. Now, he guessed, that plan was going off the rails.

For Danielle it was an i

“Quickly,” she said.

Looking surprised, but no doubt realizing that the village with a hundred warriors would be far safer than the desolate clearing at this point, Devers stood and voiced her new offer. “We will join our small tribe to yours. We have weapons of great power.” He pointed to the rifles. “And warriors, if only a few.” He pointed to Danielle, McCarter and Hawker, all of whom were now standing. “Our help would be of great value to the People. It would be of great help against the Zipacna.”

Across the fire from them, the wizened old man chewed on the edge of his lip, his eyes going from Devers to McCarter to Danielle. He remained silent, apparently considering the offer, gazing at Danielle for a long moment before speaking. “The tribe of the West Men have fought the Zipacna, but it also fights with itself,” he said, finally. He pointed to Hawker. “White Faces bring death to their own in the night.”

Apparently they’d been watching the clearing, with mixed results. Try as she might, Danielle could think of no way to explain the strife and combat between her people and Kaufman’s, fighting that must have appeared to the Chollokwan as a civil war.

The Old One continued. “These ways ca

“But we can help you,” she insisted.

The Old One turned his face to the fire, putting his hands together in front of his lips, fingers touching like a yoga master.