Miracle of Trithemius

By Max Delano Beers

“Yes, we the Maya are the slaves. It’s been that way since the days of the conquistadors, since Cortez stepped onto our soil with the great Adelantado Montejo and his title to conquer and colonize for the crown.”
But now, two teenage boys will change the course of history and lead the Maya to the greatness of their golden age, one milpah at a time.
In MIRACLE OF TRITHEMIUS, Max and his Mayan host, Pacal, entangle with historical and mythical figures and events to discover the path to Maya liberation and greatness. Max learns that even a nobody snot-nosed kid can help accomplish God‘s purposes. He and Pacal triumph over the true enemy of the Maya, the mythical Lords of the Underworld, but only after the miracle, the miracle of Trithemius.
Study generates knowledge; knowledge prepares love; love, similarity; similarity, communion; communion, virtue; virtue, dignity; dignity, power; and power performs the miracle.”
Johannes Trithemius 1462-1516.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Delano Beers
• Release date: Jul 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476034928

Max Delano Beers

I was born in 1937 to a poor family. I know. There were a lot of poor people in the days of the Great Depression. But we were of the poorest of the poor: moving from place to place, working as migrant farm workers, etc, etc., etc.; just like you read about in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. I didn’t even know I could go to college when I graduated from High School. It took my older brother coming out of the Air Force with the GI bill to convince me. Then I met Jeannie. I had no thought of getting married or settling down. But when I met her, I was doomed. I started my thirty-five-year Boeing career hugging the company tree with tenacious steadfastness--especially after the kids started coming. Seven children and several grandchildren later, I retired at fifty-seven to start a new life: two years in mainland China; two years in Australia; four years working with the Marshallese; travels around the world to far-away places in Europe, Malaysia, the Pacific, the Philippines, Mexico; learning and loving different and diverse peoples and cultures of the world. I started my story telling at the bedsides of my children, and evolved to writing poems and stories, and now novels. I love to write. It’s my hobby, my passion, my satisfaction, my deliverance from old age gloom and boredom. If you really want to know about me, read my books, my stories, my poems. They come from me, the inner-me: the real Max Delano Beers.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: PROLOGUE:

With the sun setting behind the jungle, all I could see of the Caribbean waters was the white of the breaking surf. The dwarfed coconut palm trees scattered along the beach swayed with a warm breeze. It was peaceful. And that’s what I needed more than anything: peace and calm. A time to stop. A time to think.

The shadow of my two little friends dancing together in the sand was almost comical: holding hands, jumping around to corner a small sand crab scurrying in all directions to get past the dancing bare feet. And their giggles. These two best friends here for me. My friends--she about half my size, and he about half hers--Jungle Boy the green Faerie, and Beejay the pretty Gnome girl, everybody’s friends, and my ticket to the world.

How could I ask for any better than these two during this time of triumph, this time of sorrow, this time of reflection?

My eyes were drawn to a girl moving up the beach toward us, barely visible in the twilight. The closer she got the more familiar: her easy stride, the back and forth swing of her body, the sureness of her head.

It’s Jeannie. It’s really Jeannie. Thank you Beejay. Thank you Jungle Boy.

How’d you get here? I asked, rising from my hollowed-out seat in the sand below a little coconut palm.

Isaenam told me I should come, she said in her familiar, cheerful way. This is really a nice place. Where are we?

Didn’t they tell you?

No. They just brought me through the caves then on some underground rivers.

Well this is Yucatan country, the land of the wild turkey and of the deer, u luum ceh yetel cutz, the land of the wonderful Maya, I proclaimed.

And this is?

This is the Caribbean sea.

It’s really warm, she said as we walked ankle deep in the slapping surf.

Everything is warm here.

We walked in silence, two young teenagers–best of friends–far, far from home in the peaceful world of post-World War II.

Did you find it? Did you find Atlantis? she burst from the pent-up silence.

Yes, I found it, I answered softly.

Was it wonderful? she asked even more excited.

Yes, it was wonderful, even softer.

Beejay. Jungle Boy. Who is this guy? He looks like Max, but he sure doesn’t sound like him.

Turning to me she asked, Are you okay? You should be talking a mile a minute, telling me everything about your adventures all at once. You don’t sound like the Max I know.

I turned and faced her, locking her eyes to mine.

I paid a terrible price.

Tenderly sweeping the hair across my forehead, looking at me with the compassion of a doting grandmother and the twinkling curiosity of a child she asked, What kind of price? You have to tell me the whole story right from the beginning.

She led me to my seat under the coconut palm, hollowed out the sand and wiggled into a comfortable position with her back against a palm trunk looking expectantly for me to begin.

It’s a long story. It’ll take a long time to tell, probably all night.

All your stories take a long time. Just tell me.

CHAPTER 2: DROWNING

My eyes throbbed after endless days being unnaturally stretched open and my pupils fully dilated. There was no natural light, not even a glimmer. My head was ready to explode. We had been traveling for two days on the underground river in a hand-crafted raft after several days hiking through the caves. I’d lost count.

I watched the dim torch light reflecting off the flowing waters amid the bouncing shadows of the guardian stalagmites and stalactites as the river disappeared into the cavity of the rocks, the cavern ending in solid rock.

We have to go under water? I asked.

Not far. You can swim. Yes, I know you can swim, Beejay assured me.

How long will we be under water?

Oh, not long at all. Just a little while, Jungle Boy answered.

Wanting to trust, but knowing I needed more specific answers, I continued to pursue until Jungle Boy finally told me it would be only fifteen minutes.

Only fifteen minutes! I cried. I can’t swim underwater for fifteen minutes. Do you want to drown me?

Confused, they moved to another part of the cave. After several minutes of flailing arms and elevated voices, Jungle Boy marched past me and dove into the pool, disappearing into the dark waters. He was gone for at least half an hour. I kept watching for signs from Beejay that she might be at least a little worried, as I was. But she stayed calm sitting alone, singing quietly a Celtic sounding song, her pointed hat swaying with the rhythm.

Finally Jungle Boy emerged glistening like a freshly washed green olive, calm and not even a little out of breath. I wiped my face from the splash of his tiny fluttering wings.

It’s all settled, he called across to Beejay. Now we can go.

They walked to the pool, extinguished the torch and dove in, motioning for me to follow. No explanation. No instructions. Just trust and follow. I stood in the pitch black, not knowing what to do. I really did want to trust them. I’d always been able to trust them. But to dive in a dark pool not knowing what would happen was far beyond trust.

Then I heard a splash. Come! You must come now. It’s all set. No worries, Jungle Boy’s sing-song voice rang out in the darkness.

So putting on my pack and taking several deep breaths to oxygenate my body--that’s what my brothers and I always did when we had under water swimming contests--I dove into the cold dark water and started swimming. I couldn’t see anything, so I just went with the current, hoping to follow the others.

Letting the air out slowly I kept swimming easily. With my air nearly gone, I swam up to find a place to breathe. When my head hit the rocks I knew. Now I started to panic. On and on in the pitch black I swam. I’d always bragged about how long I could swim underwater, but I had never gone this long before.

This was the end, I was sure. I’ve heard people tell how their whole life flashed before their eyes at times near death. I never believed it really happened that way. Now I know.

As if watching a movie, I saw the airplanes flying over, signaling the end of the Second World War, and I heard the cheers from the workers in the cucumber fields. Next I saw me and my brothers working on the farm, playing games with the work to take away the monotony of weeding row after row of beans. In the next scene we were working in the woods, trimming and bucking logs to take to the mill. And then Jeannie and I were running from the Pleasurites who were trying to take us back to the wicked lake monster; then singing and playing with the little Gnomes in the peaceful village at the base of the two thousand foot cliffs.

All my life’s details flashed as a news reel at the movie theater. I even thought I heard the turning reel, humming and clicking.

And Isaenam, my wise old mentor, tall and stooped with long white hair and beard, was telling me about my next adventure as we sat by the Lake of Purity, my special place of peace and serenity--the mysterious starting and ending place for all my adventures.

Find Atlantis? I asked excitedly.

That’s what he told me, he answered as I absorbed the thought of traveling to visit with the Mayan boy who had invited me to help him.

Then the invite from Beejay, my sweet little Gnome friend. I never knew why they called her the Traveller before. Now she and her little Faerie friend were taking me to the land of the Maya, Yucatan country, through the earth’s corridors.

With this thought I was jerked back to my distressing situation--my life’s last few seconds. Near unconsciousness I saw a glimmer, a shapely body approaching. In delirium, sweet and dreamy, I saw Jeannie with her warm, cheerful smile swimming toward me.

Then blackness.

Oxygen. Delicious sweet oxygen. I never realized how good it tasted.

Breathe it in. Feel the warm gentle flow through the body; first in the lungs, then reaching outward through the arms and legs and onward to the toes and fingers.

Slowly my senses returned. I was still in the river, flowing with the current, still immersed, but something was in my mouth, like a seaweed bulb, and I was breathing--a glorious feeling.

The shapely body near mine glowed a florescent green, sharply evident in the blackness. Scales covered her lower body, ending with a large fish fin which propelled her smoothly through the water. She was definitely a girl, a beautiful girl, with long dark hair and a long tube extended from a cavity under her arm, ending in my mouth with the lifesaving oxygen. It wasn’t Jeannie, but I thanked the merciful Lord for my miraculous rescue.

Several more of the creatures swam with us, mermaids, all glowing in the blackness, each beautiful in her own individual way. And they sang eerie music, flowing and swelling with the currents. I never knew mermaids were real. This was proof. After all I’ve seen I shouldn’t be surprised.

Several minutes later we came to an opening. The mermaids assisted, pushing me from the water onto a rock ledge.

I tried to thank them as they slithered back into the water and swam away. Nothing came, only my dumb, stupefied look. I fell back totally exhausted.

Feeling the warm sun, I looked up and saw I was about twenty feet down in a hole below the earth’s surface. Long roots hung down, reaching to the water for nourishment. Scurrying down the roots, were Beejay and Jungle Boy.

Thank you for sending the mermaids, I said when they reached the bottom.

Yes, the mermaids. I told you all was set. No need to worry.

I almost drowned.

Not fifteen minutes, only three, Beejay responded, dropping from a dangling root.

Only three minutes! I shouted. I’ve never gone any longer than one minute under water. I went three minutes? I thought I was dead.

All is well now, Jungle Boy responded turning away.

Yes, the mermaids were wonderful. Thank you. I did survive. I knew I should be thankful.

Where are we? I asked.

Cenote. Beejay answered.

Sink hole, she explained, seeing my confusion. Many cenotes in Yucatan. All rivers underground. Many cenotes.

So this was the Yucatan. I tried to study about it after I found out I was going there. I didn’t have much time. I knew the Maya were once a great civilization before the Spanish conquerors came. I didn’t know much more.

Beejay and Jungle Boy guided me up the roots. After all those days underground, I was relieved to stand on the surface again.

Pacal here soon, Beejay said in her pithy Gnome talk. He promised. Keeps promises.

We must return, Jungle Boy added as they started down the roots.

What do I do now? I shouted down into the cenote.

Wait, he’ll come soon, he answered.

Just trust again? I sure do a lot of trusting. I don’t think they heard me. They dived back into the dark waters without further ado.

CHAPTER 3: LORD PACAL

Exhausted from near drowning, I lay back on the forest floor wiggling my body to make a comfortable spot in the thick leaf-litter from the trees. I looked up to the sky through the dense greenery. At first I saw just a jumble of leaves and branches. Soon I saw the individual leaves swaying with the breeze, reflecting the different shades of greens and yellows, each crawly bug hanging on in its always moving world, determined to accomplish whatever its purpose.

And the birds--beautiful tropical parrots, and parakeets, and little humming birds, and doves, and jays in all the colors of the rainbow--were flitting from branch to branch, singing all different parts of a great symphony. A beautiful bird with green head, a bright red breast, and long green tail feathers flew to a branch near me, squawked a couple times and tipped his head back and forth as if trying to figure out what I was. A smaller bird, just as beautiful, but much less confidant, flew from the cenote entrance joining the other bird. His two long green and blue feathers swayed back and forth as he glanced nervously at me.

I awoke with a thunderous sound and the ground shaking under me, like a herd of cattle, and it got louder and louder. I jumped to my feet not knowing where to go. Then I saw them. It was a herd alright, but not of cows. They were boars, wild pigs. Hundreds of them. And they came straight at me. I don’t remember choosing a tree, I was just instantly high in the branches hanging on, watching them bat the tree with their heads over and over.

A tiny wild man, waving his arms and shouting in a strange language, was obviously encouraging the pigs to knock me out of the tree. Starting up the tree toward me he recited an eerie chant, over and over. My head became clouded, all the sounds far off with the little pigs moving in slow motion. Luckily the battering pigs knocked the tiny man from the tree. I shook my head to clear my mind.

A loud roar echoed above the battering commotion. The boars instantly chased around in circles, falling over each other, plowing into the thick underbrush, trampling the tiny man under their panicking hoofs as he screamed in his sub-human babble. In a flash, a large yellow cat with black dots had a small boar in his mouth and was immediately up in the tree: the same tree as me. I knew what this was; I’d seen pictures. This was the king of the jungle in the Americas, the Jaguar.

He nestled into the hollow of a large branch and proceeded to eat the little pig. The boars went into a hyper-frenzy. Frantic, I climbed higher to get away from the Jaguar. He paid no attention to me or to the boars. He just casually ate his dinner. With my eyes burning from the streaming flow of unchecked sweat, I clung to the branches, watching and praying as the boars gave their all to rescue or revenge their companion. After squealing and ramming for hours, the boars finally left. The weird little man was gone too. I didn’t see when he escaped.

The Jaguar stayed still and quiet, apparently sleeping, for at least another hour. My muscles shaking, I knew I couldn’t hang on much longer. As if this wasn’t enough, I looked up to the branches above and saw a huge brown and white geometrically-patterned snake crawling toward me. As I let out an involuntary gasp, the Jaguar looked up, sprang to the ground, stood on his hind legs, and shook the tree.

Contemplating letting go, thinking it much more favorable to be torn to pieces by a Jaguar than to be swallowed live by a snake–I really hate snakes--the snake fell to the ground from the shaking tree. The Jaguar snatched him by the back of the neck shaking him violently. After discarding the dead snake in the thick underbrush, the Jaguar came back to the tree, lay down and continued his nap, paying no heed to me still clinging and shaking.

Seeing that the Jaguar was not immediately going to pursue me, I worked myself into a cluster of limbs to relax. I couldn’t do anything to get me out of this. I knew this was one of those wait-and-trust times.

So I did just that. I waited and trusted all night long. It was a long, long night.

When I awoke a native teenage boy was talking with the Jaguar. He looked up as if the Jaguar had told him where I was.

Come down, he called out. It’s safe down here.

What about the Jaguar?

He won’t hurt you. He’s my friend, he answered.

Your friend? He tried to eat me.

No, he didn’t try to eat you. He saved you from the peccaries and the snake.

Of course! He chased the wild pigs away and shook the snake from the tree. He protected me. I sure wish I knew that before, maybe I could’ve slept.

On the ground facing the boy I boldly held out my hand and said, I’m Max. Are you Lord Pacal?

I am Pacal, and you are Master Max, he said taking my hand.

His handshake wasn’t powerful, just firm enough to show his confidence. And his look was sure, not lordly or domineering. He looked and acted like a normal Indian kid who knew who he was. I think I sent the opposite message.

I’m just Max. I don’t know why my friends started calling me Master.

And I’m just Pacal. And I do know why they call you Master. That’s why I asked Isaenam to send you to help. His eyes penetrated a little mischievously.

I started looking for my back pack I had removed while lying on the jungle floor. The Jaguar stood holding it in his teeth, offering it to me. I cautiously took it from him.

Where do we go now? I asked putting the pack on my back.

First we will go get some breakfast. Then I want you to meet my family. You will like them, I know.

I knew I would too, if they were anything like Pacal.

Come, Balam, he said to the Jaguar. Come Quetzie, come Jutjut, he called the two birds who had been my first greeters to the Yucatan.

We traveled mostly on a cleared trail through the scrub jungle. Sometimes Pacal had to clear overgrown brush with his machete. And I started asking questions, even though Balam set a fast pace.

Do wild boars eat people?

No, but they can be dangerous, especially the white lipped ones. The other peccaries are not as dangerous. They don’t run in herds.

Well these were definitely white lipped, I said, remembering the white on the lower part of the mouth and neck. If they didn’t want to eat me, why did they chase me?

They don’t like people much. I guess if people hunted me and cooked me over a fire, I wouldn’t like them much either.

I understood that.

What about the crazy little man? Does he live with the peccaries?

Crazy little man? Did he have a beard and wear a broad-brimmed hat?

Yes. He made me feel really weird.

The Duende, he reflected. So he’s still around?

Then to me, It’s a good thing Balam came. Sometimes it takes weeks to escape the trance from a Duende. One man never recovered. He was under the spell until he died.

I shuttered thinking of my narrow escape.

I continued questioning, Was the snake poisonous?

Yes, it’s poisonous, the most dangerous. Yellow Beard.

My questions went on and on.

I learned that Yellow Beard hunted by sensing the heat of his prey, but he was helpless in the water. I don’t know if that helped. The only time I remember swimming with a snake it took me about three seconds to land my feet securely on the bank. My brothers thought I must’ve seen an alligator.

I learned there were many snakes, some poisonous, some not; but most Maya treat them all as poisonous just to be sure. I decided to follow their example. I learned that they called the green bird the Quetzal Bird, and that his long green feathers were valuable; and Jutjut was the Maya name for the shy, blue-crowned motmot.

Pacal patiently answered my questions the best he could until I asked him about why he had asked me to come.

You shall learn soon enough, he told me, asking me to be patient, to let him tell me in his own way. I agreed, but I couldn’t resist asking for hints. He just smiled, repeating again and again, You will learn soon enough.

We continued, following animal trails, sometimes breaking through the brush with Pacal’s machete with me asking questions. We were soon on a main trail.

Wow, I said as we turned the corner. This is really something.

Pacal smiled.

Deep in the scrub forest jungle we stood at the edge of a small community. Children everywhere played and did there chores while smiling, talking, and laughing. Pigs, chickens, a couple donkeys, and several colorful turkeys lazily ate and drank. The women busily cooked in a central rectangular plaza area. Six round huts with thatched roofs and walls made from skinny vertical poles lashed together, surrounded the plaza. Lashed poles also formed the doors and windows, now open with everyone up and busily starting the day.

A little rectangular church with a cross above the door, built with the same materials as the houses, stood at one end of the plaza.

In the middle of the plaza stood a small building nicely decorated with flowers. The shrine, Pacal said, seeing me studying it. Where the family honors their grandfathers and grandmothers.

One family lives here? I asked.

Yes, the sons, when they are grown, usually start their family in the village with their parents. Some villages have many chozas.

He pointed to a round hut, repeating, Choza.

Even with all the bustling, it was peaceful. And with all the clutter of buildings and stables, it was neat and clean: no garbage left around, no tools left lying, everything in its place ready for use when needed. I’ve always liked things this way. You don’t have to have fancy stuff to be neat and clean.

Won’t Balam frighten them? I asked as we approached the plaza.

Usually the men would try to kill him. Here they know he is mine. The Quetzal bird also. His feathers are priceless.

The children surrounded us in a peaceful pandemonium. The birds flew to the trees and Balam purred with the children crawling all over him, some staying on for a free ride. The children cautiously reached out, touching me and feeling my hair.

Why is he so white? Is he your friend? Where is his home? Will you stay with us? Do you want to help with our new milpa? Do you want to see my new baby sister? Can Balam stay with us? We need him to chase away the coyotes.

Questions kept coming, one after another, with no pause for answers. Some whistled, trying to coax Quetzie and Jutjut down from the trees, with no success.

When a bell rang, the children immediately scurried to the far end of the plaza, sat down on the ground in curved rows in front of the church, and folded their arms, reverently waiting. We followed, sitting behind them with the village adults.

A white haired man dressed in white came from the church, stood in front of the group, spoke some words, bowed his head, and prayed. I didn’t understand any of the words. I did understand the feelings, though. After less than five minutes everyone quietly arose and moved to their homes.

We rose to our feet as the white haired man approached. With a broad smile and sparkling eyes he swooped Pacal into his arms. Then before I could resist, I found myself up in his arms. No introduction. He knew who I was. This was my welcome. He motioned for us to follow him.

His wife, just as happy and showing much more emotion, took us in her arms, first Pacal and then me. Her tears dampened my face as she pressed her cheek to mine.

I’m happy to meet you Master Max. I know you will be a good friend to our young Lord, she said.

I am just Pacal and he is just Max, Pacal said with a grin.

I know, I know, she replied, But in this house we know who you really are.

Pacal looked at me shrugging his shoulders.

I went along with the shrug.

This is Ben and his wife Hun, Pacal said to me. They are my good friends. My mentors. It is always safe to come here.

You are always welcome here Master Max. Ben said.

I nodded my head knowing how important good friends are. It was good to know there was a safe place in this far-away land.

Breakfast was as good as I’ve eaten anywhere, including at home, though different from what I normally eat for breakfast. They kept offering more and more until I was stuffed. Actually it was more forcing.

It started with pineapple.

Hospitality, Pacal whispered. I nodded.

Wah hay pak’ach, our hostess, Hun, said proudly, presenting a stack of tortillas from a metal grill on the fire.

Thin tortilla, Pacal whispered.

Then came the black beans and lots of peppers to make things hot. Not elaborate, just good and tasty; stuff that sticks to the ribs, my father used to say.

I liked Pacal’s attitude about getting a free breakfast. We always pay our way, he responded, when Ben suggested we get on with our journey to Pacal’s home.

And that’s exactly what we did. We invited ourselves to their new milpa site to help with the clearing.

It’s important to get the land ready before the rains come, Pacal explained. "Need time for the brush to dry so it can be burned and the

Reviews for Miracle of Trithemius

[Ryan White · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Synchronicity . Great book fantastic storytelling and very insightful . Check it out