Whom the Gods Made from Corn

By A. L. Malcom

With a wide assortment of characters, some noble and others nefarious, Whom the Gods Made from Corn brings a fast-paced story that will keep the reader guessing and asking questions throughout. Including a background of actual Mexican history, the novel weaves its tale through the eyes of Ix’mal, a Maya nagual (shaman) who witnesses key proceedings and is instrumental in bringing resolution to a series of disparate events that fulminate into chaos. The subplots maneuver themselves through time manipulation, murder, Maya deities, sabotage, kidnapping, betrayal and revenge, all set against the background of a category 5 hurricane and the equally disastrous effects history has had on the indigenous population of Mexico.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Malcom
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310660351

A. L. Malcom

A. L. Malcom, a grizzled reprobate who hails from so many parts that his origins at first might seem obscure, was actually born in Washington, DC, where he lived out the first nine months of what was to become an extraordinary life. The son of an Air Force officer, he and his family wound up living in Guam, Ohio, Wisconsin, Japan, New York, and Wisconsin again, all before he was eleven years old.He fell in love with writing while completing a literature assignment in junior high school, but had to put his devotion on hold for the next several years.Majoring in anthropology in college, he developed a fascination with the mythologies of the world. He also managed to live in or visit 49 states and 17 countries. All of these travels—including those of his childhood—instilled in him a love for other peoples and cultures, and reinforced his interest in their legends.Becoming a teacher, he taught in Arizona, and later in Wisconsin. Now retired, he lives in Wisconsin, where he comfortably labors over his first passion — writing — crafting his novels, the settings and characters of which reflect his lifelong interest in the world’s fables and myths.

Book preview

Introduction

I have taken few liberties with this novel, but those few that do exist are, I suppose, worth noting here, as doing so hopefully will dissuade purists from writing me or calling me at all hours of the night with corrections.

The first and foremost one is that of the year in which the action begins in the Prologue, which states 5000 Years Ago. Scholars of the Maya will tell us that the earliest tracings of this culture did not arrive on the continent until some 1500 years later, in what is known as the Preclassic Period, and that it was actually during the Classic Period, beginning approximately 250 CE, that their monumentally accurate calendar was developed. This is all the substance of what archaeology has to tell us.

However, this story is not based upon archaeology so much as it is based upon Mayan mythology, a tapestry so rich in its pantheon of gods and goddesses that it rivals any given to us by the ancient Greeks or Romans. And, more to the point, it is a mythology that sets the beginning of this era at a date more than 5000 years ago, with the creation of the first eight people from the dust of ground corn.

Of a secondary concern is the location for the majority of the action, the archaeological site of Dzibilchaltún. This is an actual location, famed for its Temple of the Seven Dolls, so named because of seven small stone figures that were found inside. There is, of course, no massive construction project going on at, or anywhere near, this site.

Third, fictitious members of the very real EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional), the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, figure prominently in this novel. There is no connection between any of them and any real person, whether living or dead. I have included some history of the movement, which includes the historic Emiliano Zapata and individuals who lived concurrently with him. Beyond that account, all other persons in this book are fictitious. The EZLN is centered in Chiapas, and is not, to my knowledge, particularly active in the Yucatán area. After the armed takeover of San Cristobal de las Casas in 1994, at which time the desired effect of being noticed and heard by the world was achieved, the EZLN has used primarily peaceful means to promote their causes, which include fair treatment for indigenous peoples and equality for women.

That being said, the description of the fictitious character El Tígre is based upon the appearance of the real Subcomandante Marcos of the EZLN, whose image appears below, and whose activities elicit nothing but the deepest respect from this author.

Additionally, I wish to give my most heartfelt thanks to poet, singer-songwriter and playwright Cristina Lipp, who helped me monumentally in my clumsy attempts at Spanish.

Prologue

5000 Years Ago

Night Jaguar stepped back from his work. It had been an arduous task, this carving out of stone the very words of the Gods, but the commission had been well worth the effort.

He thought about his relationship with the Gods, even from before his birth, when his mother had been told in a vision that he was to be named after the second of all created men. And so it had come to pass. She had obediently named him B’alam Agab — Night Jaguar — signifying that he was to live a life of servitude to the Gods, consigning him to the priesthood.

Now, at the age of only 27, he had completed an assignment from those gods that would magnify their power, not only through his lifetime, not only through this age, but long into the future — beyond the end-time of this, the Fourth World. At their divine direction, he had carved a singular series of petroglyphs, one that would bridge ages. For though the Maya calendar already foretold the end date of this era, this sequence of stone carvings spoke eloquently of what lay beyond that date so far into the future.

It spoke of the beginning years of the Fifth World.

Nothing had ever been written about the next era — an era that was certain to bring about monumental changes to the earth and its inhabitants. He thought about the previous worlds that had been created by the Gods — about the mud people that had been created in the Second World, which had been destroyed by a flood, wiping away all trace of that civilization; about the wood people who had inhabited the Third World, a world which had succumbed to fire, out of which only a few of the wood people had survived, only to become the chattering monkeys of this, the Fourth World.

Yes, each new era brought about incredible changes and tremendous improvements to the creation process.

And now, according to the will of those very Creators, Night Jaguar had recorded information that would relate the Gods’ dynamic plan for that next, incomparable era. The series of stone-carved faces and symbols spoke volumes, and yet — in the inestimable wisdom of the Gods — did not tell all.

It was, of course, pure genius. The Gods had wisely given this same assignment to Night Jaguar’s contemporaries scattered in the four directions from the center of the earth. Night Jaguar’s carvings were the westernmost. But other pieces of this revelation were being carved in three other locations far from here. So, in constructing their apocalypse, the Gods made certain that the complete information would never fall into the wrong hands — or anyone’s hands, for that matter — until it was the time that the Creators had predetermined.

A rustle in the jungle leaves behind him made Night Jaguar turn sharply. He had taken such elaborate precautions going about his divine business, slipping unnoticed — he thought — into the jungle night after night, that it startled him to see his childhood friend, Frog Lightning, standing there.

What do you say, young brother? he asked in a familiar form of greeting, trying to shield from his companion any knowledge of both the stone carvings and how unnerved this encounter was making him feel.

What do you say? Frog Lightning parroted with a macabre blandness, his face absolutely expressionless.

A chill ran through Night Jaguar’s spine. This was not the friend he had known so well for so many years. He realized that he must be speaking with an apparition, a night spirit that often takes the form of a known associate in order to fool one into an unwise course of action — a Trickster God. He was immediately thankful that his entire life had been devoted to the study of and service to the Gods, so that this recognition had come so quickly to him.

Still, he realized, he was yet in danger. The Trickster would know that he was a priest — aware of and alert to the god’s machinations. Therefore, its presence meant that something far more sinister than mere chicanery was taking place here. Some force was using the specific talents of this Trickster to accomplish a larger purpose — one that was more highly portentous — one that very likely put Night Jaguar’s life in danger.

One of the first possibilities that crossed his mind was that the uxul — the carving — was not satisfactory, that the Gods were displeased with his rendering.

I can make corrections if you so desire, he said contritely. No one else has seen it yet.

"Ch’ab’, the apparition that had taken the form of Frog Lightning said. Sacrifice."

Night Jaguar allowed himself to breathe easier. Of course! A sacrifice! The Gods would want a sacrifice to make the petroglyphs tzikal — sanctified. He felt foolish for not having brought a net in which to catch a sacred quetzal bird and present the Gods with a tail feather.

"Ch’ab’," the figure before him repeated, more urgently this time.

Night Jaguar felt his earlier apprehension returning. He had nothing to offer, and the Gods were getting insistent.

"Ch’ab’!" Frog Lightning bellowed, his face turning red with the flush of anger. A war club appeared in his hand.

Night Jaguar had not seen the club earlier, not having looked down at the hands of this being he had originally taken to be his best friend. He felt the damp warmth of urine running down his inner thighs.

No! He protested. I have done as you commanded. I have carved the message exactly as you have commissioned me to do. Do you now require my death as well?

He turned and began to run.

"Ch’ab’!" Frog Lightning shouted, sprinting after him with uncanny speed, taking only a few strides to overtake his quarry, swinging the cudgel with equal proficiency, finding the temple of Night Jaguar and crushing his skull.

Night Jaguar slumped to the ground, unconscious long before he stopped moving.

Frog Lightning sedately laid down the club and picked up the torpid priest, exhibiting strength to match his speed, carrying the limp body over to the freshly carved glyphs and laying it face up. Using a knife that had been skillfully carved from obsidian, he split open Night Jaguar’s chest, plunging the weapon clean through the sternum without disturbing the organs below. Then, with an expertise that would have rivaled any modern surgeon’s, he sliced through veins, arteries and connective tissue, deftly placed his hand around the still-beating heart and removed it with one adroit movement.

He placed the living organ at the base of what was now an altar. Then, taking his hand to gather blood from the gaping wound in Night Jaguar’s chest, he smeared the warm liquid over the carvings.

He threw the body into an unceremonious heap at the base of the hill below the petroglyphs, and nodded in satisfaction at his handiwork. "Ch’ab’," he whispered approvingly.

For the next several minutes, he strode around the scene of the grisly murder, picking up impossibly large boulders and placing them over the blood-washed glyphs. In less that half an hour, the entire deed had been obfuscated, and Frog Lightning was finished.

Negotiating time, the same technique he had used to arrive so suddenly, he placed himself back in the village. Without thinking any further on the matters that had transpired, he went to bed.

In the morning, he awoke to find dried blood on his hands. But since Manik — the god of human sacrifice — was through with the use of his mind and body, Frog Lightning had no idea how it had gotten there.

He never saw his friend Night Jaguar again.

HO KIMI KAN YAXK’IN

FRIDAY

All my possessions for a moment of time.

— Elizabeth I

Chapter 1

Travis Dillman lay sprawled across the musty cot, sweating profusely, smelling little beyond the stench of pig manure that wafted through the open tent flap to blend with the essence of ever-present mildew and perspiration. Tiny, beaded rivulets of sweat ran through a crusty accretion of dust on his skin, an accumulation that had long since, along with the regional aromas, been succumbed to — but never quite accepted — as an occupational hazard.

The heat wasn't so bad today, he thought. If it weren't for the flies, he could probably get some sleep. But then, if it weren’t for the flies, there'd be nothing to take his mind off the mosquitoes! He slapped wearily — almost as if by habit — at a nonspecific itch on his shoulder, and then rolled over onto his side.

Besides the olfactory assault and the minuscule aerial onslaught, there was the noise — the constant drone of heavy machinery and trucks running day and night, supervisors shouting instructions to workers over the omnipresent din. How was anyone supposed to sleep through all of that?

There was no doubt about it, this was not turning out to be the fun-filled Mexican vacation he had imagined when he had been first approached in Gainesville by Professor Avery to join him on an archaeological dig in the Yucatán. Oh, to be sure, Avery had never promised him a rose garden; but then he hadn't mentioned chemical warfare and sleep deprivation either!

This was to be adventure and excitement! Their names were going to go down in history — well, Avery's name anyway, although he had promised academic acknowledgment to all assistants when he published his findings.

Still, Dillman wasn't here for the glory. He just loved archaeology, and he burned for the thrill of discovery.

As far back as he could remember, he had felt an intense curiosity regarding the Maya. A great percentage of the flame of this enthusiasm had been fanned by the natural interest — if not gleeful excitement — that he had experienced as a child after encountering one of his father's National Geographic magazines that included an article on the meticulously enigmatic stone carvings that dotted the Yucatán Peninsula, as well as portions of Belize, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador.

Actually, of course, the world's scientific interest had far preceded this article. Tales of stone houses buried deep in the jungles of Mexico and Central America had emerged as early as the mid-18th Century.

By 1839, a New York lawyer turned travel writer named John Lloyd Stephens, along with his British colleague, artist Frederick Catherwood, were standing in the midst of fantastic ruins at Copan, in Honduras.

Subsequently, after two more arduous expeditions in 1842, Stephens would write, we have discovered the crumbling remains of forty-four ancient cities... lost, buried and unknown, never before visited by a stranger....

This was the grist to Dillman's mill. He too longed for that thrill of discovering something never before visited by a stranger. He yearned for the prospect of being the first to set foot on soil and stone that had been most recently trod by the ancient Maya themselves.

And, initially at least, it had seemed that Avery shared Dillman's passion. Avery had been certain that this expedition would incontrovertibly prove why the Maya had abandoned their magnificent cities so long ago, and — of even greater interest to Dillman — what would happen in the years following December 2012, the end-date on the incredibly complex Maya calendar.

Dillman had been completely captivated by the charismatic Dr. Avery — buying into the adventure hook, line and sinker — and had readily agreed to join the project.

The addition of Gallagher to the formula had come completely unexpected.

Shortly after their arriving in the Yucatán, Avery's passion, if not his total direction, had suddenly changed. And it had all coincided with a sudden influx of money, funding for his research from an undisclosed source.

There was, of course, rampant speculation in the press that the endowments had come from a pair of billionaire brothers, who, after an unsuccessful bid to buy the presidency, had repented and turned their attentions to more philanthropic endeavors. This, of course, was denied by all parties concerned, and rather heatedly by the brothers in particular.

One thing was certain, however: someone had suddenly supplied a great deal of money. Dollars flowed into Avery's project that summer like the rain-swollen waters of Lake Pontchartrain had poured over the ruptured earthen levees of New Orleans years earlier.

The pueblo locals could only watch in amazement as enormous quantities of earth were relocated, a massive scientific facility was constructed, and the most up-to-date equipment was purchased and moved in.

Apparently, it had been some sort of package deal, because she had come down with the first planeload of equipment.

Sarah Louise Gallagher, PhD, was a physicist from Syracuse who, in Dillman's humble opinion, had no conceivable role to play at an archaeological site, no matter how highly decorated. She was into string theory and multiple dimensions, and heady stuff like that. How this in any way dovetailed with the study of ancient stone buildings was completely beyond him.

But then, given the abrupt divergence of the project as a whole, perhaps it was he himself who no longer meshed with whatever this new juggernaut was destined to become.

Additionally, there was the fact that Dr. Gallagher's assignment seemed to encompass a great deal more than strictly scientific support. It was rumored among the construction workers that she had been drafted by the aforementioned anonymous benefactor, and given the task of keeping an eye on Avery's project, if not taking it over completely.

One fact was certainly true: from the moment of her arrival, she had made her presence known. At first suggesting, but ultimately insisting upon certain changes in the facility's construction — and in the direction of Avery's research — she had insinuated herself into every facet of the project.

Whatever the power was that she wielded over Avery, it had become obvious to everyone that it was more than adequate. The changes, with an ever-diminishing amount of protest, had been made. Equally obvious, at least to Dillman, was the fact that Avery had hated this intrusion.

The breeze shifted slightly, mingling the scent of fresh chicken guano in with the original brew. Too much! And definitely not the discovery Dillman had had in mind. Defeated, he dragged his legs over the side of the cot and sat up. Time for a beer, he thought. Maybe three or four. Sleep will come later. He waved his arm in the general direction of a mosquito and stood, allowing his brain time to catch up with the change in blood flow. Then he ducked under the tent flap and stepped into the russet intensity of the setting sun.

The site was a constant vibration of activity. If they could be seen from the sir, Dillman thought, the workers would look like an enormous colony of ants — some carrying cartons with undisclosed contents, some repositioning larger crates with forklifts, and still others busily engaged in the seemingly unending task of moving dirt from one place to another.

Archaeological dig indeed! This was like no dig Dillman had ever heard of; and he had already participated in several, and read of and studied hundreds more. In a true archaeological dig, great care had to be taken in the removal of dirt, lest anything important be disturbed, broken — or lost!

Here, no such care was being taken. The hole that was being dug at Dzibilchaltún had all the markings of a full-scale strip mining operation. No, not what he had envisioned — not at all!

A choking concentration of dust laden with diesel fumes drifted through the atmosphere to mingle with the earlier bouquet, and Dillman remembered his beer. He commandeered a jeep and drove the few miles to the neighboring town of Chicxulub, famed for its association with the meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs.

Once there, he parked in front of the pueblo's only original taberna and went in. He always used the native term rather than the Americanized cantina. It never hurt to be in good with the locals.

"¡Señor Deelman!" the tabernero greeted him as he had been doing for months, not quite getting the name right. "¿Cómo estás? — how are you?"

Dillman responded — as he had been doing for months — telling the bartender that he was thirsty, and requesting a beer. "Tengo sed, Margolito. Una cerveza por favor."

"¡Bueno! Your español ees getting mucho bueno," Margolito replied.

"Lo hablo mal y necesito practicar — I speak poorly and need practice, he protested. Which is why I come here," he added, mostly to himself. Nothing like a few cervezas to get the tongue rolling out the words in Mexican, he thought.

When he had first arrived at the Dzibilchaltún site, Dillman had attempted the local tequila — paint thinner with a Cracker Jack surprise curled up at the bottom of the bottle! No thank you! As soon as he had recovered from the incident, he had ceremonially tipped his hat in the general direction of the bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting in the cabinet of his apartment back in Florida, and had vowed to stick to beer for the duration of his visit.

After the site had been infused with hundreds of construction workers and additional archaeological assistants, additional drinking establishments had sprung up almost overnight — facilities that offered their patrons the finest in top-shelf liquors. But by then Dillman had become accustomed to Margolito's lowly taberna, which lay up the road in Chicxulub; and so he had chosen to remain a faithful customer — the only one from the project to do so. In the months since their first meeting, customer and proprietor had allowed themselves to develop a cautious friendship.

***

In Dillman's case, the friendship had been founded on a very tangible beginning.

The first time he had gone to Chicxulub, he had not opted for the jeep, choosing instead to ride a bicycle, as so many of the native population did. On the way back home from the taberna, he had been stopped dead in his tracks by a looming, gigantic figure blocking the road, partially obscured by the evening fog. He had thought at first that it was a small group of men, and he had remembered all the cautions related to bandits that the State Department briefing had contained before he had left the States. He had begun telling himself that he was about to lose all his money — if not his life.

As it had turned out, however, the shadowy visage had not been banditos at all. It had been a lone bull, escaped from some pasture in the region, now feral. As the animal had begun scraping the dirt with one of its massive hooves, Dillman abruptly had determined that his money was not what he had to worry about.

Just then, a pickup truck had driven up, headlights flashing and horn blaring, startling the bull and causing it to retreat into the bushes beside the road.

"¡Señor! Are you alright?" It had been the bartender from the taberna Dillman had left a short while earlier.

Before Dillman recovered enough to comprehend what was going on, the tabernero had hopped out of his vehicle, thrown the bike into the truck bed, and ushered him into the passenger seat. Getting back in behind the steering wheel, he had said with much gravity, "It ees not safe to ride these roads at night with only the bicycle. There are too many wild animals. Toros — bulls, perros — dogs, perhaps even El Tígre — the jaguar."

He had introduced himself as Margolito, using the familiar name usually reserved for family and friends. And, not only because he had undoubtedly saved his life, had Dillman taken an instant liking to this man.

Over time, their relationship had taken on its own life. It had developed its own routine.

***

"Well, ¿qué hay de nuevo, Margolito — what's new?" Dillman asked as he was served his beer, anticipating the familiar answer.

"Poca cosa, mi amigo, his host answered as always — Not much, my friend."

Yeah, he has that right, thought Dillman, as he brought the bottle to his lips and took a slow drink. There was never anything new around here. Every day — the same. Every night — the same. If monotony could be packaged and sold, Margolito could make a fortune!

How do you stand it, amigo? he asked his host. "Poca cosa yesterday, poca cosa today, poca cosa tomorrow! Always poca cosa!"

Margolito shrugged and smiled. So it was going to be one of those nights. Deelman was going to get melancholy and drunk. Then he was going to get more melancholy. Then more drunk. Margolito had witnessed the pattern many times. Ironically, the unfortunate man who sat before him drinking cervezas and complaining about the monotony of his life was going to create still more monotony for himself.

Finally, as always, Margolito would have to take him home to sleep it off before his next morning's work.

It was always the same.

Margolito brought Dillman his second cerveza, and quietly went back to his other customers. He felt sorry for his friend. Here was a man who was, he had observed, tremendously proficient at his job — extremely knowledgeable in las Mayas. Yet what good was it doing him? Here he was, languishing, deteriorating — his talents atrophying instead of being used and strengthened, as had been promised. He had been recruited for a project, which had, seemingly overnight, transformed itself into one that made no visible sense — neither to him nor to any of the citizens of Chicxulub.

They had all been told of the great and importante archaeological study that was to take place here. Permission had been granted by the Mexican government, permits had been issued, and payments — generous ones, it had seemed at the time — had been made to all landowners whose properties would be effected.

Nothing had been given to the local indígenas, of course; but it had been assumed that at least employment would be offered through such a magnificent project.

At first, everything seemed to be exactly as it had been promised to be — a small team of profesores digging in small sections of the local soil — an occasional package being shipped back to los Estados Unidos — nothing more.

Then, she had come — "La Pelirroja — the redhead." After that, things had not been the same. She had been here less than a month when it had already become obvious that she had all but emasculated el doctor Avery. This was something abominable to Margolito — as it was to all the men. It violated their sense of machismo — their manhood. It was she who had brought in the others — the workers — the especialistas. Specialists! Bah! — thought Margolito. What need did they have of specialists? Were there not enough able-bodied and unemployed men right here? Men who did not need to be called specialists to have enough knowledge to be able to dig a hole?

Outside, a gentle rain began to fall. It would settle some of the dust, thought Margolito. The dust. The other fine present that had been brought to their doorstep! The dust had never been so bad before she had come. The first ones, el profesor and Deelman, had never dug more than a little bit at a time — carefully — like a man shaves his face with a razor — watching out that he doesn't take too much with one stroke. Now, the digging went on all day and all night — the enormity of the project was astounding.

Margolito walked back over to Dillman, bringing him his third beer and carrying one for himself. "A toast, mi amigo — a toast to La Pelirroja: may she come to appreciate the true meaning of where she is."

Dillman raised his bottle to his friend, and then drank. It would be only after the disaster that he would remember that the true meaning of Chicxulub, in the original Mayan, was Tail of the Devil.

Chapter 2

The office of Sarah Gallagher, PhD., was Spartan, and it suited her. More than that, it reflected her. With the exception of a pseudo-native geometric pattern in the floor tiles, the room was completely without ornamentation.

There were no paintings of sleek racing yachts, stately great blue herons, or prancing Andalusian stallions on the walls; no charmingly framed family portraits softened the decidedly austere oak desk; no vibrantly colored designer scarf draped over the back of the equally commonplace wooden chair. No plants. No fish. No sign of life whatsoever, save for the slight riffle of one page of a book of Mayan glyphs that lay opened on the desk,