Blood Tears: Lagrimas De Sangre

By Michael Shall

Many of us have had dj vu experiences during our lifetime, that inexplicable feeling that we have lived these moments before. I have had many moments like this while in the Yucatan and have read that several others have experienced the same feelings there. I have experienced these dj vu moments at Boca Paila, Quintana Roo. Certain events unfolded there that were extraordinary. I am convinced that there is an entity or spirit at the Boca that is very friendly to me. I was reading Forest of Kings (Schelle and Friedel) one day and when I read a passage that mentioned a vicious war between Chichen Itza and Coba. The hair on my neck stood up. Of course, I instinctively already knew this.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503518131

Michael Shall

Born in Richmond, VA the author he returned to Virginia at age 20. He graduated from Centre College of Kentucky. At Centre he had the good fortune to meet Dr. Roberta White, a faculty member of the English department. When told that her former student would be entering the insurance business, she broke down and cried in front of him. He hopes that Professor White is smiling down upon him. He is finally making an attempt explore his potential in this area at age 65.

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Copyright © 2014 by Michael Shall.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014920603

ISBN:   Hardcover  978-1-5035-1812-4

             Softcover     978-1-5035-1814-8

             eBook          978-1-5035-1813-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/20/2014

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CONTENTS

Preface

Of Quaking Porticos & Sand Castles

Bien Viaje Mi Amor

From the Fire into the Frying Pan

Turning the Tables

Joy Stained in Regret

Two Worlds Passing in the Dark

Groping in the Shadows

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DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY TWIN BROTHER MARK

I never saw him more content and serene than the day he climbed the steps of a Coba pyramid. On the way home from Cozumel his eyes were filled with tears as the plane left the Yucatan far behind. Why did he feel such powerful emotions? Why did he care at all? He was of Slavic and Anglo Southern American ancestry. Was it a distant memory clouded by an improbable ancient past? After all, it was just a vacation. Most only go there to party, drink and get laid. A month later they have forgotten it all.

All three of us; my sister Patsy, Mark and myself have been to the Yucatan, all mysteriously drawn there. I have visited that peninsula three times and will go again someday, returning always with a profound sense of having been there before and the nagging belief that I had lost something of incalculable value there! Like Royce I hope to return victorious this time, dancing on the beach at the Boca. I know Mark will be watching me with a broad smile as my hips swivel to that Salsa beat! Shall boys, we were brothers to the end. We are allies in life and in death

PREFACE

There is no one reality. Each of us lives in a separate universe. That’s not speaking metaphorically. This is the hypothesis of the stark nature of reality suggested by recent developments in quantum physics. Reality in a dynamic universe is non-objective. Consciousness is the only reality.

M.R. Franks – The Universe and Multiple Reality

How far would you go to rectify a grievous error?

What price would you pay to make amends?

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Darling, I still remember you from long ago.

It was another Friday night at Club Espejo Dos Caras¹. He had gotten into the habit of going there for more than two years. This was Royce Wicker’s way of rebelling against mundane routine and his way of displaying his middle finger to a conformist society that demanded that everyone fit into nice, neat little compartments. At the tender age of 36, Royce had risen up the ranks to become president of Ascendant Corporation whose dominion extended over 14 states. Despite his youth, he had demonstrated uncanny leadership and hard-nosed business savvy that had earned him the respect of both co-workers and competitors. But success for Royce was not enough to quell his restless spirit. There was a hazy void in his life that needed to be filled. He was drawn to the Club like metal to a magnet.

One day each week he made this pilgrimage to break the chains of this oppression. The rest of the week he had to make his concession to the norm by grasping at the coat tails of conventionality. But Royce was like that. A battle always raged within him, pulling him in two directions at the same time. At times he felt that he was on a torture rack with a phantom adversary trying to pull his body in half. After all, didn’t his parents say he didn’t resemble either one of them and that there must have been a mistake at the hospital? And his father always quipped The milk man must have gotten loose in the hen house! followed by his parents’ uproarious laughter. But by now Royce was used to that sort of thing.

Royce didn’t look like a dancer either. In fact, he looked more like a smallish linebacker that always went into the game when the outcome was no longer in doubt. Short, barrel-chested with thick powerful legs, he stood out like a sore thumb in the crowd of Latinos with his deep blue eyes and blonde-tinged hair. None-the-less, there was a certain softness to his facial features, a smooth quality that was almost feminine. Women did not find him unattractive but were often uneasy around him except when he hit the dance floor. Then the stampede was on.

It wasn’t always that way. Royce remembered when he stumbled into a Latin club in his late teens. Some adventurous Latina had asked him to dance and he somehow found enough courage to walk out onto the floor without knowing a step. His movements were uncertain and awkward but the intoxicating, exotic rhythm captured his imagination and bolstered his resolve in the face of derisive laughter. Two years later, he was one of the top salseros in the region and the cynical laughter had turned to gleaming smiles. It seemed that they were always smiling at him, making him feel self-conscious. They were mannequins holding a road sign leading to who knows where? And the bold Latina that had asked the wayward Gringo boy to dance was rewarded many times over. Each time they walked off the floor admiring crowds were left spellbound and gasping with excitement in their wake.

Into this imaginary world of Club Espejo that he had created either by force of his will or by his morbid curiosity Royce now strode with a shallow sense of confidence. But it was a thin glaze of self-assurance that had been fractured by a shattered dream. Royce remembered the day when he first kissed her. Her soft lips were so sweet and full of promise, but now so cold and distant. Royce knew for some time that they were two planets revolving in different orbits with divergent destinies. Still, his extreme idealism and firm belief that he could make any ending a joyous one persisted despite being jabbed by his conscious mind that it was over. With a conflicted mind and a troubled spirit, he entered the club. The crowd was waiting for him and one person in particular.

Hey Gringo boy, ven aca!². Let’s see if you can keep up with an old man! Rodrigo Barnes was a 65 year old Cuban exile with a youthful, toned body that belied his age. Barnes had known few serious moments in his life with a handful of exceptions. In his late teens he had left Cuba right after the revolution in a dilapidated, old boat that was subjected to a hail of Fidelista automatic weapons fire as he fled the island. Barnes was also all business on the dance floor which was the only thing that resembled religion in his life. Royce caught a brief glimpse of Barnes’ face that was a study in contradiction. The flickering, revolving lights revealed traces of African, Arawak and Spanish ancestry depending on which angle and shade of colored lights illuminated Barnes’ visage. Wicker gulped down half a Mojito³ to calm his unsettled spirit then accepted the old man’s challenge. A big crowd had gathered around the two men while the DJ started playing an old Salsa standard, Castellano Que Bueno Baila Usted.⁴"

Ok old man, catch my behind getting smaller on the horizon if you can! Royce began a series of tight spins followed by alternating syncopated movements, all perfectly timed and smooth as glass. Now beat my time old man! Wicker strolled over to the bar and, uncharacteristically, engulfed another Mojito.

Not bad! Let’s put a little whipped cream on top! replied Barnes. The old man deftly repeated every one of Wicker’s moves after which he added an exceptionally complex variation to a denouement that evoked loud applause from the onlookers. The contest continued on for several cycles, each man adding more complexity to his routine like dueling pugilists moving to a Latin beat.

Suddenly Wicker walked off the dance floor and sat down in a dimly lit side room with another glass of booze in his hand. The alcohol had numbed his body to the point where he could no longer perform. He slumped over the table with his hands over his face, a butterfly retrograding into a cocoon.

What the hell happened? I usually have to reach deep into my bag of tricks to beat you boy!"

Barnes had a quizzical look on his face. His eyebrows wrinkled with concern. Royce was unable to respond, even though he desperately wanted to reach out to someone. Old Rodrigo intuitively knew what was wrong. He had seen that lost, far-away look many times before. An attractive Anglo, blond woman in her mid 30s walked forward and approached the old man.

Hey, you guys were awesome! What’s the matter with him? The winsome blond pointed towards Wicker then placed her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of compassion.

"El corazon esta roto in mil pedazos⁵ replied the old man. It’s just another love affair gone wrong. He’ll be OK!"

Wicker lifted his head up just for a moment. From the corner of his eye he caught the blurred image of a group of men that had just entered the club. Dressed in silk shirts and cowboy hats, they spoke Spanish but remained aloof from the crowd. They didn’t fit in. Royce faintly heard the DJ begin to play Cumbia and accordion-polka rhythms as a loud sarcastic chorus of They’re catering to the Mexicans again arose from the predominantly Puerto Rican and Dominican crowd. Wicker’s body and mind began to tire even more. As he closed his eyes for just a moment the vision of the men in cowboy hats and silk party shirts was momentarily metamorphosed into warriors with cylindrical helmets adorned with brilliantly colored feathers, head bands ornamented with frightening down-flying birds and battle armor flaunting the gleaming insignias of fierce, uncouth deities. Wicker felt a cold shudder of fear and animosity race through his body before the unsettling phantasms faded from his consciousness.

Royce finally collapsed in a heap on top of the table. Barnes then motioned towards two burly Latinos who came forward and assisted the old man in lifting Wicker into his automobile. After stuffing a five dollar bill in the pocket of one of the men, Rodrigo drove towards his one room, studio apartment while Royce lay motionless in the back seat.

I’ll be back Barnes assured a small band of people that had gathered to investigate the commotion.

The old man’s apartment was threadbare, reflecting the philosophy of its occupant who required little from life other than to pursue his one passion and aspire to a simple, but profound code of humanity. On the wall facing the bed hung the only decorative article in the otherwise drab habitation. In the semi-dark room, the luminous mask of a long-forgotten Pre-Columbian god beamed down on the bed with an unrelenting, grim vigilance. A cut-rate copy of the god Tlaloc⁶, the strange artifact was given to the old man decades ago as a token of affection, a futile attempt to consummate a love affair that was doomed from the onset. For a brief moment the old man’s face creased with sadness when he recalled that fateful night in Vera Cruz. He waited for her to return on a deserted, windswept harbor wharf. She and a cousin had gone sailing in the Gulf earlier that afternoon and had failed to arrive by sundown. Barnes and his beloved Drina had planned a romantic evening together and it was to culminate in a marriage proposal. Instead, his all night vigil was in vain. Drina and her cousin were never found. Dispensing these bittersweet thoughts from his mind, Barnes gently lifted Royce’s inert body onto the bed, then turned out the lights and returned to the Club.

Sweet Dreams, Gringo Boy. I’ll see you in the morning.

Royce rested alone in a tranquil slumber for several hours. About 4 O’clock in the morning, his panic-stricken eyes opened and began moving rapidly from side to side. He could see through his mind’s eye, but most unusual for a dream-like trance, his muscles remained limber and reactive to stimulus as though he was still wide awake. Wicker’s heart began to race as cold sweat trickled down from his forehead. The blinding light from the mask gave him a pounding migraine. As he stared at the mask, trapped in a stupefying spell, a vision began to form. At first, Royce could hear the voices of strangely dressed men speaking an unknown language that accented the last syllable of almost every word. Gradually, an image of a man kneeling at a small stone altar with a ceramic vessel placed between his knees began to come into focus. A small fire flickered a few feet away revealing his face in the darkness and the smell of incense permeated the air. The man was decked in thick cloth body armor. His head piece was crested with radiant azure-blue and turquoise Quetzal⁷ feathers; the emblem of Tlaloc was embossed on his breast protector. In the background, one man began to hammer out a mournful rhythm on an animal skin -covered, mahogany drum while another began to play a slow, doleful melody on a primitive flute. Rat-Tat. Rat-Tat, Boom, Boom. The primeval percussion was ceaseless and the blood in Royce’s arteries pursed to its archaic cadence. Although Royce had never heard this idiom before, inexplicably, he could absorb every word. With a forlorn and grisly expression, the man in the vision began to pray out loud.

"The pain of loneliness is never greater than in the still of night when the deafening silence descends one’s soul