Phobos: Mayan Fear by Steve Alten

displayed to the world, that the world may be enlightened. There has been a beginning of strife, there has been a beginning of rivalry, when the priestly man shall come to bring the sign of God in the time to come. A quarter of a league, a league away he comes. You see the mut-bird surmounting the raised wooden standard. A new day shall dawn in the north, in the west. The bearded ones shall bring bloodshed and death to the sons of Itza, shattering the pottery jars into dust. I am Chilam Balam, the Jaguar Priest. I speak the divine truth.”
    The Council huddle together with Napuctun.
    After a few minutes, Balam’s archrival addresses the prophet. “Assemble the sons of Itza as the great teacher instructed.”
    The Jaguar Priest bows. “Napuctun is wise. It shall be done.”

    Dusk arrives in Chichen Itza, summoning tens of thousands of men, women, and children to the grand esplanade. They organize by status, filing in long procession lines before hundreds of clay pots filled with blue dye. The striking turquoise pigment is a combination of indigo and palygorskite, the ingredients heated at high temperatures. The color, known as Mayan blue, matches the intense color of the great teacher’s eyes.
    Now blue-skinned, Indians follow the sacbe north through the dense jungle. Torchbearers light the way, directing the masses to the sacred cenote—one of thousands of freshwater sinkholes created 65 million years ago when an asteroid struck the shallow sea that would eventually become the northern tip of the Yucatan Peninsula.
    Lunar light from a blood-orange moon illuminates layers of geological grooves sculpted along the interior of the chalky-white limestone pit. Vegetation has turned the cenote’s placid waters a pea-soup green. Four centuries earlier, desperate after the sudden departure of Kukulcan and in direct violation of their great teacher’s law, the Maya had turned to human sacrifice, hoping their acts would force the return of the Pale Prophet. Thousands of men, women, and children had been killed on the pyramid’s summit, their hearts torn from their chests by zealous priests, their lifeless bodies kicked down the temple steps.
    The cenote had been reserved for sacrificial virgins.
    Unblemished females were locked in a stone steam bath for purification, then led out to its rooftop platform by ceremonial priests. Stripping the young maidens naked, the death merchants would stretch them out upon the stone structure, then use obsidian blades to cut out their hearts or slice their throats. The virgin’s body, laden with jewelry, would then be ceremoniously tossed into the sacred well.
    Only at the urging of the Jaguar Priest had the rituals finally ceased.
    In the circular clearing that defines the sacred cenote, Chilam Balam stands atop the stone bath house and gazes upon the blue tide of humanity. The crowd occupies every square foot of surrounding jungle for as far as the eye can see.
    And they are grumbling.
    “Who is the great teacher to demand that we leave our homeland for the underworld?”
    “Why should we listen to a man who deserted our people more than twenty katuns ago?”
    “What if Chilam Balam is wrong? What if the bearded ones bring prosperity?”
    Council members huddle with Napuctan along the far rim of the sinkhole. The rival prophet gestures at the Jaguar Priest.
    Chilam Balam glances up at the heavens. The dark rift of the Milky Way slices north-south across the cosmos, its black road meeting the horizon.
    Midnight passes. Nothing happens.
    A stone flies past Chilam Balam’s ear. Another strikes his leg.
    The prophet’s loyal followers crowd around him, forming a protective wall. His soul mate, Blood Woman, moves to his side.
    Napuctun beckons from across the cenote, silencing the crowd. “The Itza have assembled, Chilam Balam. Midnight has come and gone. Why have you led us astray?”
    “Does Napuctun question our great teacher?”
    “I question you! Let us see if you are a worthy