stand of
t-shirts. He was a tad short, but stocky like a military bulldog. Thick raven
hair framed his flint-chiseled face. His posture had a bit of an archaeologist’s
stoop - eyes down, studying something on the tile floor.
It
wasn’t until Lori stepped around a rack of postcards that she realized what he
was looking at.
The little blonde girl crying at his feet.
* * * *
Chac
Bacab should have seen the trap coming. He should have known to avoid the
visitor center all together, but he was running late after a long, restless
night. He needed something to pick him up and the restaurant within the visitor’s
center always had a pot of coffee brewing. The last thing he needed was an
inquisitive child tagging at his heels, but the little girl who’d stalked him
from the postcard rack to the t-shirt stand looked sweet enough in her blonde
pig-tails to give him a moment’s pause.
He
supposed she didn’t speak Spanish so he asked, “May I help you, little girl?”
He’d
guessed right. Without pause, and in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, the
little girl asked, “Are you a Maya?”
How
observant, he thought, impressed. “I am,” he said.
Without
missing a beat the little girl spouted, “My brother says the Mayas are going to
end the world.”
“Well,
that’s not entirely—”
It
was too late. The jaws of the trap had already proceeded to close around him for
in that moment the little girl snapped. Without warning, tears stormed the rims
of her eyes and Chac was suddenly bombarded with a chorus of “No! No! NO!”
Embarrassingly,
the little girl threw herself on the floor, bawling. “I don’t wanna die!”
Chac
felt the attention of the visitor’s center turn toward them. A slender woman
with hair as blanched as her daughter’s pushed through the gathering crowd and swooped the little girl in her arms, all the while scolding
him with her own biting words. “What are you doing to my child? Get away!”
With
a shove from the furious mother, Chac stepped back and watched her escape with
the little girl howling in her arms.
Chac’s
stomach soured. This hadn’t been the first time he’d been the brunt of 2012
hysteria. It was a cursed inheritance having descended from a people who’d
given his generation nothing but the shirt-tails of an epic calendar. No, it
wasn’t the calendar’s fault. He preferred to view it as a testament to his
ancestors’ brilliance. 2012 only marked the completion of something that should
be cherished, admired and celebrated. Instead, the calendar was declared as a remarkable
discovery, another secret revealed and a great achievement in archaeology. It
didn’t seem to matter that there were shamans who’d kept the calendar tradition
alive to this day.
The
truth, he knew, wasn’t nearly as tantalizing as a good mystery. Truth removed
elements of the unknown, and so truth was easily drowned by debating scientific
theories that fed into the dreams of doomsayers, New Age enlightenments and a
whole host of miscellaneous suggestive interpretations that left the Maya
people accountable to a world begging for reasons to speculate and worry.
Whether
feared or revered, the calendar behind the 2012 craze had been hopelessly blown
out of proportion and Chac was disgusted with the entire show.
Luckily
for him, the awkward attention drawn by the little blonde girl proved to be
short-lived. Perhaps disappointed by his lack of response to the little girl’s
plea, the visitors moved on to the things they’d come for.
They’d
all turned away, except one.
Another
blonde, a young woman in a sleeveless shirt and cargo pants, had not stopped
watching him. In fact, as he returned to his coffee pursuit, he noticed her
following him. Having had enough of the ignorant public for one day, Chac quickly
changed course for the ruins outside, hoping to lose her over an unpaid park
fee at the check station.
No
such luck. The young lady made it through with her day pass in hand, and
t-shirts. He was a tad short, but stocky like a military bulldog. Thick raven
hair framed his flint-chiseled face. His posture had a bit of an archaeologist’s
stoop - eyes down, studying something on the tile floor.
It
wasn’t until Lori stepped around a rack of postcards that she realized what he
was looking at.
The little blonde girl crying at his feet.
* * * *
Chac
Bacab should have seen the trap coming. He should have known to avoid the
visitor center all together, but he was running late after a long, restless
night. He needed something to pick him up and the restaurant within the visitor’s
center always had a pot of coffee brewing. The last thing he needed was an
inquisitive child tagging at his heels, but the little girl who’d stalked him
from the postcard rack to the t-shirt stand looked sweet enough in her blonde
pig-tails to give him a moment’s pause.
He
supposed she didn’t speak Spanish so he asked, “May I help you, little girl?”
He’d
guessed right. Without pause, and in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, the
little girl asked, “Are you a Maya?”
How
observant, he thought, impressed. “I am,” he said.
Without
missing a beat the little girl spouted, “My brother says the Mayas are going to
end the world.”
“Well,
that’s not entirely—”
It
was too late. The jaws of the trap had already proceeded to close around him for
in that moment the little girl snapped. Without warning, tears stormed the rims
of her eyes and Chac was suddenly bombarded with a chorus of “No! No! NO!”
Embarrassingly,
the little girl threw herself on the floor, bawling. “I don’t wanna die!”
Chac
felt the attention of the visitor’s center turn toward them. A slender woman
with hair as blanched as her daughter’s pushed through the gathering crowd and swooped the little girl in her arms, all the while scolding
him with her own biting words. “What are you doing to my child? Get away!”
With
a shove from the furious mother, Chac stepped back and watched her escape with
the little girl howling in her arms.
Chac’s
stomach soured. This hadn’t been the first time he’d been the brunt of 2012
hysteria. It was a cursed inheritance having descended from a people who’d
given his generation nothing but the shirt-tails of an epic calendar. No, it
wasn’t the calendar’s fault. He preferred to view it as a testament to his
ancestors’ brilliance. 2012 only marked the completion of something that should
be cherished, admired and celebrated. Instead, the calendar was declared as a remarkable
discovery, another secret revealed and a great achievement in archaeology. It
didn’t seem to matter that there were shamans who’d kept the calendar tradition
alive to this day.
The
truth, he knew, wasn’t nearly as tantalizing as a good mystery. Truth removed
elements of the unknown, and so truth was easily drowned by debating scientific
theories that fed into the dreams of doomsayers, New Age enlightenments and a
whole host of miscellaneous suggestive interpretations that left the Maya
people accountable to a world begging for reasons to speculate and worry.
Whether
feared or revered, the calendar behind the 2012 craze had been hopelessly blown
out of proportion and Chac was disgusted with the entire show.
Luckily
for him, the awkward attention drawn by the little blonde girl proved to be
short-lived. Perhaps disappointed by his lack of response to the little girl’s
plea, the visitors moved on to the things they’d come for.
They’d
all turned away, except one.
Another
blonde, a young woman in a sleeveless shirt and cargo pants, had not stopped
watching him. In fact, as he returned to his coffee pursuit, he noticed her
following him. Having had enough of the ignorant public for one day, Chac quickly
changed course for the ruins outside, hoping to lose her over an unpaid park
fee at the check station.
No
such luck. The young lady made it through with her day pass in hand, and
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