in the cenote there is about eighty feet down. Most of the folks they tossed in died when they hit the water.''
A Mexican woman brought out the food—stewed chicken, tortillas, beans—and the conversation went on while everyone ate.
"I'd really rather not talk about this over dinner," Maggie said.
"Oh, come on," Carlos was saying. "Everyone likes to talk about human sacrifice. It's a great topic. All the tourist brochures talk about the young virgins who died so horribly."
"I hadn't realized that anyone had determined the victims were nubile young virgins," Barbara said dryly.
"I always thought it was difficult to tell how virginal a person was from an old thighbone."
"Now, Barbara," Tony said expansively. "You know we always assume that they were nubile young virgins until someone proves otherwise. It makes much better news copy. Who cares if they flung old men and women to the fishes?"
"The old women probably cared," Barbara observed. "I won't speak for the old men."
"Personally, I'd sooner be flung to the fishes than have my heart torn out with an obsidian blade," Carlos was saying. "If I had my choice, I—"
"Can we talk about something else?" Robin asked. Her request was ignored.
"So," Tony said. "Why would you toss someone in a sacred well?"
"I wouldn't," Robin said. "I don't see why anyone would." I noticed that my mother had stopped in the act of slicing off a bite of chicken. She leaned forward. "Tell me, Robin, do you believe in ghosts?" Robin shook her head.
"Then why does it bother you that people have died in the cenote?"
Robin looked very uncomfortable. My mother watched her, waiting patiently for an answer.
"It just makes me uncomfortable."
"You're uncomfortable because you believe in the power of the dead," my mother said calmly. "If you didn't, the bones wouldn't bother you. The Maya who lived here also believed in the power of the dead.
They tried to use that power to make rain, to placate the gods, to change evil prophecies to good. They felt that those people who had passed near death were changed—they knew more than ordinary people."
I watched my mother's face as she talked of death. Her voice was low and earnest, the confident tone of a person who knows her subject. One of her hands rubbed at a bandage on her wrist. I wondered what it would feel like to slash the thin skin of my wrists and watch the blood flow. How would it change me?
"Have you read the Books of Chilam Balam?” my mother was asking Robin. When Robin shook her head, my mother continued, "When you do, you'll find a fairly extensive description of the sacrifices at Chichén Itzá. Each year, a few chosen people were thrown into the cenote. As John said, most of them died when they hit the water. But some survived. The survivors were hauled out of the well and treated as messengers who had returned from the world of the gods, bringing the prophecy of the coming year. Those who had come near death and survived had a new strength that set them apart from ordinary people." My mother regarded Robin steadily across the table. "You should make an effort to learn about the people you are digging up."
"I have a good translation of that account," Tony said quickly. "You are welcome to borrow it."
Robin nodded.
"Don't mind all this talk of death and dying," Tony said to me. "We're a little preoccupied with death around here. The dead teach us things."
"Speaking of dead people," Barbara said to my mother, "Tony says you may have found a burial site this morning."
"Looks likely," my mother said. "Won't know what we've got for sure until we get the brush cleared away. With any luck, we'll find a burial or two. We could use a few good burials." She used a piece of tortilla to mop her plate. "So far, our success has been severely limited."
"It's only the third week," Tony said. "You're too impatient."
My mother shrugged. "True enough."
Twilight faded to darkness. Tony lit two Coleman lanterns, which cast bright white light,
A Mexican woman brought out the food—stewed chicken, tortillas, beans—and the conversation went on while everyone ate.
"I'd really rather not talk about this over dinner," Maggie said.
"Oh, come on," Carlos was saying. "Everyone likes to talk about human sacrifice. It's a great topic. All the tourist brochures talk about the young virgins who died so horribly."
"I hadn't realized that anyone had determined the victims were nubile young virgins," Barbara said dryly.
"I always thought it was difficult to tell how virginal a person was from an old thighbone."
"Now, Barbara," Tony said expansively. "You know we always assume that they were nubile young virgins until someone proves otherwise. It makes much better news copy. Who cares if they flung old men and women to the fishes?"
"The old women probably cared," Barbara observed. "I won't speak for the old men."
"Personally, I'd sooner be flung to the fishes than have my heart torn out with an obsidian blade," Carlos was saying. "If I had my choice, I—"
"Can we talk about something else?" Robin asked. Her request was ignored.
"So," Tony said. "Why would you toss someone in a sacred well?"
"I wouldn't," Robin said. "I don't see why anyone would." I noticed that my mother had stopped in the act of slicing off a bite of chicken. She leaned forward. "Tell me, Robin, do you believe in ghosts?" Robin shook her head.
"Then why does it bother you that people have died in the cenote?"
Robin looked very uncomfortable. My mother watched her, waiting patiently for an answer.
"It just makes me uncomfortable."
"You're uncomfortable because you believe in the power of the dead," my mother said calmly. "If you didn't, the bones wouldn't bother you. The Maya who lived here also believed in the power of the dead.
They tried to use that power to make rain, to placate the gods, to change evil prophecies to good. They felt that those people who had passed near death were changed—they knew more than ordinary people."
I watched my mother's face as she talked of death. Her voice was low and earnest, the confident tone of a person who knows her subject. One of her hands rubbed at a bandage on her wrist. I wondered what it would feel like to slash the thin skin of my wrists and watch the blood flow. How would it change me?
"Have you read the Books of Chilam Balam?” my mother was asking Robin. When Robin shook her head, my mother continued, "When you do, you'll find a fairly extensive description of the sacrifices at Chichén Itzá. Each year, a few chosen people were thrown into the cenote. As John said, most of them died when they hit the water. But some survived. The survivors were hauled out of the well and treated as messengers who had returned from the world of the gods, bringing the prophecy of the coming year. Those who had come near death and survived had a new strength that set them apart from ordinary people." My mother regarded Robin steadily across the table. "You should make an effort to learn about the people you are digging up."
"I have a good translation of that account," Tony said quickly. "You are welcome to borrow it."
Robin nodded.
"Don't mind all this talk of death and dying," Tony said to me. "We're a little preoccupied with death around here. The dead teach us things."
"Speaking of dead people," Barbara said to my mother, "Tony says you may have found a burial site this morning."
"Looks likely," my mother said. "Won't know what we've got for sure until we get the brush cleared away. With any luck, we'll find a burial or two. We could use a few good burials." She used a piece of tortilla to mop her plate. "So far, our success has been severely limited."
"It's only the third week," Tony said. "You're too impatient."
My mother shrugged. "True enough."
Twilight faded to darkness. Tony lit two Coleman lanterns, which cast bright white light,
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