The Diving God

By Brian Ray Brewer

No information provided as of this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369405895

Brian Ray Brewer

Brian Ray Brewer was once a merchant seaman. He is an award-winning author and inventor who is a graduate of the United States Merchant Marine Academy, Harvard University and other institutions. Brian lives with his wife and daughters on water in Brazil.

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THE

Diving God

BRIAN RAY BREWER

Copyright © 2023 by Brian Ray Brewer.

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 Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/24/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

855351

For those like Bob Baker

May they find home

And for Silviane, always

Contents

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-One-

The Nunnery, a stunning example of Maya-Puuc architecture of the Late-Classic Period, is one of the older extant buildings in Chichén Itzá and is thought to have been a palace for Mayan royalty. Its name derives not from the Mayan but rather from the Spanish, ‘Las Monjas,’ the name given by the conquistadors because, to them, its many tiny rooms were reminiscent of a convent. This palace, which may have been started as early as the seventh century, was built through a series of seven expansions over a period of two centuries, probably coinciding with the growing fortunes of its owners. In its day it was brightly painted inside and out with large murals depicting warriors in combat, of which a few traces remain on some of the interior walls as shown on the above diagram. The east wing was a later addition in the Chenes style, the only example so far excavated at the site, which is distinct from the rest of the building with its resplendent masks of mosaic stonework that represent the rain god, Chac.

H e looked up from their copy of Willard’s New Guide to Old Mexico to the structure that loomed around them. They stood on a green, clipped sward amid twin galleries built of seamless, ancient limestone blocks intricately carved in relief with beplumed, bare-chested warriors playing a strange game of lacrosse. Centered high on the opposing walls were carved stone hoops set above grotesque scenes of decapitation, and at each end of the structure rose a small te mple.

This doesn’t look like a convent to me, Kathy said, as she fanned herself and wiped back the wilting strands of hair that stuck to her pink, sunburned forehead.

Bob delved back into their Willard’s, turning it back and forth, trying to orient the map to the scene laid out before them.

It should be the Nunnery, according to the map. Look…

He pointed to the glossy page.

The gate is right here. We walked in, took a left, and this is the first big building we came to.

He scanned the walls around them.

This doesn’t look much like a palace though. Where are all the tiny rooms? They must be on the other side of these walls. This must be a courtyard or something.

I told you we should have stayed with the tour. We can’t just go traipsing about on our own. What will we do if we get lost? The bus might leave without us!

As she spoke, a large group of sweaty Japanese came in behind them, led by a young Japanese woman who rushed into a quick and bobbing monologue, accompanied now and then by occasional low grunts and sounds of sucked air from the men in her group, by giggles from the women and by the incessant whir of many cameras. They shuffled slowly down the grass, stopping momentarily at both the hoops and the far temple before passing out of view.

She watched the group longingly while Bob poured over the map, flipping backward and forward in the book. After he gave up on his study, he snapped it shut, and they ambled on in the direction of the Japanese. They stopped and waited at the arrival of another group, hoping for insight, but as its guide spoke a language unfamiliar, they moved on, passing out into the open where they encountered a low-slung platform carved with hundreds of grinning skulls.

My God, she said, repulsed. What in the world is this supposed to be?

He poured through the guidebook for a clue, until he looked up in triumph and said, It’s a T-Zompa-N-T-Li!

A what?

He peered again at Willard’s and said, A Tzompa-N-Tli...a skull rack, then read a passage from the guidebook:

The Tzompantli, or ‘skull rack,’ is a low platform of the Terminal Classic Period of definite Toltec influence. It is decorated with bas-relief panels in four different motifs—skulls skewered on poles, some of which still show traces of the original paint; sacrificial decapitation; eagles devouring human hearts; and panels that depict a skeletal, deified warrior with shield and arrows standing before a background of serpents. The Tzompantli, as its panels suggest, was probably used to display the skulls of sacrificial victims.

How awful! she exclaimed.

It is pretty gruesome, isn’t it, but the carvings are well done, aren’t they? Just look at them...I had no idea that their artwork was so advanced, and look at those eagles. They’re like the one on the Mexican flag. I wonder if this is what gave them the idea for it?

Probably so, as dangerous as it is down here. I think we should start looking for our group.

Don’t worry, I know where we are now. That’s not the Nunnery. He pointed back to the structure behind them. That’s a ball court.

I thought you said that it had to be the Nunnery because of the map.

I know I did, but I was looking at it wrong. There are two entrances. Look…

He showed her the map, marking the gates with his finger.

We came in here instead of here, he said. I guess I must have missed the other entrance. It says that this ball court is the largest, most elaborate ball court of all the sites in Meso-America. The games were somehow connected to a religious rite and the captain of the losing team was sacrificed. His head probably ended up right here.

He patted one of the carved skulls on the Tzompantli. It felt cool and clammy, like the inside of a mossy cave or like something long buried.

What’s that over there? she asked, pointing to the large, central pyramid gleaming in the sun. It dwarfed the other ruins.

He looked at the guidebook, then answered, El Castillo.

Let’s go take a look at it.

She moved out from under the trees toward the plaza at its base.

Let’s save it for later, Kathy, he called after her. I think we should see the sacred C-note first.

She turned back.

The what?

The sacred C-note, he said. "It’s a little ways on down that path. Let’s look at it first while we’re over on this side. If we follow Willard’s walking tour, we should be able to have a look at everything before we have to be back at the bus. Come on."

He took her hand and led her down the wide worn path that cut into the scrub thicket.

I don’t know if we should be walking away from the ruins, Bob. What if we get lost again? We’re supposed to leave in two hours.

It’s okay. I know where we are now, and this is one of the most important sights—three stars in the guidebook. Look at all the other people ahead of us on the trail. This is something we don’t want to miss!

The sight of the other tourists seemed to soothe her and she walked on, slightly breathless, trying to match his hurried pace. Even under the trees out of the sun, the heat was oppressive, welling sweat up in wide rings below his armpits and melting the out the spray in her hair.

They moved on through the thicket past a stela carved with rows and rows of strange glyphs depicting stern-faced warriors, vultures, eagles and serpents contorted into rough squares of meaning now lost. They stopped to examine it, but as it wasn’t in Willard’s they moved on. Soon they arrived at a sheer, limestone precipice lined with other tourists and fit with antique dredging gear. They edged over carefully and peered into the abyss. It was a huge, silent pool of dark water, marked here and there by blankets of fallen leaves and by passing flights of flycatchers and swallows, which cruised above its waters feeding on the insects that it bore.

It looks like a quarry, she said flatly. I used to swim in one just like it out near Deer Park when I was a teenager.

No, I don’t think it’s a quarry. It looks natural, like a sink hole or something. I guess C-note is Spanish for sinkhole. Apparently, it was a sacred pool of great ritual importance to the Maya. He read from their Willard’s guide:

Due north of the Tzompantli and the temple of Venus, you will find a dirt path of about 1/5th of a mile, which leads to the Sacred Cenote or the Well of Sacrifice. This well, which covers nearly an acre and is over ninety feet deep, was used to conduct ritual sacrifice for a period of over five hundred years. Legend has it that dozens of young living virgins were cast into the well to determine the will of the gods. The degree that the answer was positive could be determined by the number, if any, of the girls still living the following day. Archeological expeditions carried out by Harvard University professor Edward Thompson in the 1920s and later by the National Geographic Society in the 1960s have recovered skeletal remains both male and female that cloud this myth, but the recovery of so many skeletal remains does indicate that the cenote was used for purely ritual purposes and not for a water supply. Other artifacts were also recovered in bulk, including jade beads from the sixth century and gold discs, which were either shredded or crumpled before being thrown into the well, depending on their quality. The repousse relief on these discs is quite remarkable. These pieces are of obvious Toltec manufacture and date from after the 10th century. Since gold is not native to the Yucatán and since the closest available gold in quantity comes from either Panama or Costa Rica, these pieces lend an idea of the broad reach of Mayan-Toltec trade during the Late Classic Period. They are now on display at the Peabody Museum and at the National Museum of Anthropology and History in Mexico City.

Bob shut the book and peered down into the well, which was as quiet and lifeless as the grave that it was.

The National Geographic Society, he mulled. Jacques Cousteau must have dived here. Imagine that...I used to be a diver when I was in college.

Well, if I were him, I would have stuck to Tahiti. Gold or no gold, can you imagine swimming in that muck with all those rotting corpses?

They’re just bones by now. Just like diving on a shipwreck. Think of finding all that treasure...

Come on, Bob. Let’s get back to the rest of the ruins. I want to go see something that’s a little more upbeat, something that wasn’t used for human sacrifice, maybe that convent you were talking about or something. Let’s go see that big pyramid. This place gives me the creeps.

Sure.

He took a long glance at the site of Cousteau’s triumph before stepping away from the edge and walking back with Kathy toward the main plaza. The sun, though obscure above the trees, had reached its zenith and glared its heat straight down on their sweat-soaked backs and collars. Their tongues were swollen and dry and their legs grew tired, unused to anything but their air-conditioned lives to the north.

An older couple in bright shirts, white shorts and baseball caps approached from the other direction. The man was thin and short, walking with long strides while his wife plodded alongside him, bulging and pale at her hems and sleeves like a basted, plucked chicken trussed and ready for the oven. Though by her expression, she seemed to have already been set to broil.

Is it very much farther to the Well of Sacrifice? the woman asked, as she puffed to a stop to catch her breath.

Another couple of hundred yards, answered Kathy. You’re about half-way.

Half-way! she exclaimed, and gave her husband an evil look. I told you it was too far. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you, not after you dragged me into that awful temple. I could have fallen down those stairs and broken my neck.

"But the Willard’s guide said it was one of the must-see parts of the ruins," he said.

Must-see if you’re a mountain climber or a miner.

She turned back to Kathy and asked, Have you been to the inner temple at El Cas-till-o?

No, not yet.

Well, then don’t bother. You’ll just sweat yourself to death on those steep, narrow steps for nothing. All there is to see is some dumb ol’ jaguar statue. There are plenty more just like it in the market stalls out in the parking lot.

The woman glanced at her watch and looked down the path to where it disappeared in a bend. She heaved in a deep breath then said, Well, come on Henry, let’s go see this well of yours. After that, I’m through. I’m going to pick up a few souvenirs for Vern and Angie, then it’s back to the bus where I’m going to put my feet up until we stop for lunch.

They moved on, and Bob and Kathy started again in the other direction. They soon came to the trailhead where a group of young vendors had gathered, hawking a variety of artifacts, handicrafts, fruits and sandwiches. A small boy, not more than nine, was carrying a dirty Styrofoam cooler as big as he was. He asked Bob in broken English, You wanna a cerveza, mister? Coca Cola?

How much for the beer?

17 pesos.

17 pesos? That’s too much!

Please, mister. It’s cold!

You shouldn’t buy anything from them, Bob. There was a sign posted in the visitors’ center that said not to buy anything from anybody in the park. They’re not authorized to sell here.

But I’m parched. Aren’t you?

I’m dying for a drink, but it’s not safe. You know how things are. You remember Page Ingram’s story about her vacation down here, don’t you? She had some bad ice in a tropical drink the first night, and she was stuck in the bathroom for the rest of her trip. She came back looking worse than when she left. You read the leaflet the travel agency gave us.

How could you possibly get sick drinking beer? he asked, as he dug for the coins in his pocket.

"I’ve heard about people going blind drinking bad tequila. Nothing’s safe in these countries, unless you buy it in an authorized store. Page got sick off of bad ice in her hotel restaurant in Cancún! It wasn’t as nice a place as ours, but still."

He paid the boy, who then fished two beers from the cooler.

Moocho grassias, Bob said, as he rubbed a hand through the boy’s hair. The boy smiled briefly, then trotted off after another customer, shouting, Hey lady, you wanna cerveza? Coca cola?

Here.

Bob handed Kathy a can.

Not on your life, Bob. I told you I’m not drinking that.

How could beer be bad?

I don’t know—maybe that’s sewer water dripping off the can. That’s how you catch cholera, you know.

He wiped it off, then offered it again, but again she said no.

He shrugged his shoulders, popped the top and drank from it. The cool beer burned his dry throat and felt good going down. He drained it in two gulps, then offered her the other can one final time, but she shook her head. He finished the second almost as quickly as the first, then looked around for a garbage can. Seeing none, he resigned himself to carry them. They walked out from under the trees into the bright, grassy plaza, working their way through the crowds and stopping at the Platform of Venus and the Temple of the Warriors before walking to the base of the great pyramid, where they stopped at its broad, steep stairs to admire the huge stone head of a feathered serpent.

It’s beautiful, exclaimed Kathy. It kind of looks like that hotel just down the beach from ours—what’s the name of it? The Melia, the Malaysia, something like that.

I don’t know...would you look at the joinery in these stone slabs? It’s as good as any in Manhattan, and this is over a thousand years old. How did they do that? I can understand work like this happening in Europe back then, but these people didn’t have iron tools. They didn’t even have the wheel.

"I don’t know, Bob, but it is something. I’ll give you that. It’s beautiful.

What is it?"

El Castillo, a temple of some sort.

He read again from the book:

El Castillo (Spanish for The Castle), a magnificent Late Classic pyramid, stands 79 feet high, an awe-inspiring sight that may be viewed for many miles as one approaches Chichén Itzá on the highway from Merida. Though it is but a third the height of the colossal Pyramid IV at Tikal, its ingenious design of concentric platforms decreasing in ever smaller sizes as they approach the top, gives it the illusion of being much taller than it is. The main stairway is oriented to the north and is directly in line with the path leading to the Sacred Cenote. The exquisite carved heads of the feathered serpent, Kukulkan, at the base are obviously Toltec in origin as is the merloned temple roof. The architects of the temple ingeniously oriented it so that during the spring and autumn equinoxes, shadows form on the stairways, lending the appearance of a serpent in motion, one that ascends in March and descends in September. The view from atop the pyramid is well worth the climb, for it gives one an uninterrupted, panoramic view of Chichén Itzá. This vista, though, as spectacular as it is, is not the chief attraction of El Castillo: the present pyramid was built over an existing pyramid, which houses an inner temple that contains a crimson jaguar throne with eyes and spots of glimmering jade. Though the climb up the narrow passageway is steep and not for the faint-of-heart, this magnificent artifact merits the effort, in this author’s opinion.

Bob and Kathy looked up at the marvelous structure that rose before them and almost glimmered in the roiling heat. The great stair crawled with ascendant and descendant tourists, some of whom seemed to be negotiating the steep grade with difficulty.

Bob crushed the beer cans so they fit in one palm, then took Kathy’s arm in his free hand and began to lead her up. The stairs were cut high, too sheer for modern man to walk easily and certainly a climb for shorter ancients, seemingly built for the snaking god that crept them twice a year. When they reached the top, they turned to gaze out over the scene laid out below.

The ruined city spilled in every direction until lost in the encroaching trees. The high walls of the ball court rose to the west, and ranks and ranks of stone columns marched to the east at the base of the Temple of the Warriors. Other buildings lay in ruin farther on. To the south lay another section of the city beyond a low thicket centered on what looked every bit like a modern, domed observatory but carved in weathered stone. The Sacred Cenote gaped to the north like a mouth of hell before the flat and bearded horizon. Closer, herds of tourists roamed the grassy plaza in numbers large enough to hearken visions of feathered pilgrims from the past, journeying long to feel the mystery and to seek the will of the gods. Mot-mots and parakeets warbled in the sacred wood, and dragon flies buzzed the air. If not for the rumble of tour buses turning in the parking lot and for shrill voices in their own language, the spell would have been intense.

Bob walked in through the pillars of the main portico and stood amid the whispers of a thousand years. The temple was simple and empty, and much smaller than one would expect for something set upon such a grand pedestal, but still it held vague memories like the surf held in a conch, calling back to sea.

Kathy followed him in, after a moment, seeking shade. She came up behind him, wiping her brow, and leaned into a hug as he studied the warriors carved beneath the lintel. Their hard faces seemed set with purpose and desire. Bob absently bent one of the cans in his hands back and forth until the metal ripped free, sharp and shiny on the inside, as sharp as their obsidian-tipped daggers. Drops of beer were warm and sticky on his hands. He looked around for something to dry them on, and then, for lack of anything better, he knelt down and wiped them on his socks, checking afterward to see that he hadn’t stained the guidebook. He thumbed through it for a description of the warriors, but there was nothing on them; bones long lost below the tangled thicket in the shallow earth. Only their images remained.

How are you holding out? he asked at last, turning and kissing Kathy on the cheek.

I’m okay. A little tired, I guess. The sundown here really drains me. I’m all right sunning on the beach, but walking around in it today wore me out.

"Let’s