for a moment, revealing a clear starry sky unexpectedly painted in emerald green. Then again, the blizzard closed the curtain and finally swept the motionless body. The ball, which was tightly pressed to the man’s corpse, slowly began to cool down and soon turned into a black, heavy rock.
One hundred and forty…
Meanwhile
Coast of the Chukchi Sea
«Hunting has become so bad here…»
«Another day or two of this blizzard, and you can forget about hunting.»
«Just look at how heavy this storm is! It’s been a while since something like this.»
Two Evenks2, in heavy, long-skirted reindeer suites, were talking inside a small dwelling quietly, as if afraid of frightening someone away. Their palms were reaching out to the hissing flames of the kudlik3. Their narrow eyes gleamed with each oscillation of the flame. In a hole near the ceiling the wind was singing like the howling of wolves. It was cold. The rare snowflakes that made it inside by flying through the ceiling-hole hissed in the fire.
Out of nowhere, a hollow voice behind the stretched-skin wall woke the reindeers. Two huskies in a corner pricked up their ears.
«What is it?» one of the hunters fretted. «There have never been bears or wolves here. I’ll go take a look.» He crept out, nearly getting his rifle tangled in the skins hanging in the shelter. Upon returning, he told to his companion: «In the morning, we must go. Have you seen the sky? It’s green… damn green! The storm is coming. The big storm.»
«Yes, this is a bad place…» said the second hunter while patting the scruffy huskies and squinting into the flames. «We’ll sleep now and take off in the morning. How are the animals?»
«Oh, what the hell can happen to them?»
Just a few dozen steps remained for the unfortunate traveler in order to reach the snow-covered tent of the native nomads from the village of Vumalka.
The howl of the husky resonated: Oooooo-aah-oo-oo-oo-oo!
CHAPTER 2
20° 40» 25» N
88° 34» 31» W
Chichen-Itza, Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico
October 2, 1520
Oooooo-aah-oo-oo-oo-oo… Her eyelids parted heavily. But the picture before her eyes was indistinct. There were yellow-green flashes of light through the milky haze of age. She did not immediately realize why she was awakened, whether it was because of the deaf groans from the depths of the hut or from ordinary kicks in the womb. The kicks have recently become more frequent. The child felt the lack of water in the mother’s womb and demanded liquid. This will be Tolana’s first childbirth, but she did not know how to soothe a fragile fruit. Her husband’s mother Ma-Is, was an old woman and could barely move a leg. Surprisingly, she was still on her feet! Almost all her peers were old women, who were teachers of the tribe and supervised the tribe’s younglings. One after another, these women simply dried up in the eyes of Tolana over the past three weeks. Each morning, they hung out coloured blankets at the doors of their huts, giving the sign that they were still alive. Then they went back inside and lay motionless in the dry vacuum until sunset. Where no signal was hoisted, the priest of the tribe of Vak Balama sent two warriors. Wrapped in blankets, the dead were carried past the Place of One Thousand Columns and past the Temple of Chtuloq to the end of the cornfield that had not harvested crops. The bodies were cast and covered by piles of stone to prevent wild animals, mad from heat, hunger, and thirst, from ripping apart the corpses. Every corpse lay on top of old graves, and again everything was buried by stones. A foul stench was all around. The warriors covered up their faces, leaving only a slit for the eyes.
At night, the burial mound was surrounded by burning torches, cries scared off animals, the trunks of dead trees were beaten by beetles, and drums were banged.
Tolana woke up every morning before dawn, carefully straightened her shoulders and clasped her hands at the waist, making steps like a duck to go to a thicket near the village surrounding the city wall to collect the dew drops on the broad leaves of ol-ka-hyo. Large drops were shaken off into the flat clay dish, while small drops were simply licked by the tongue. An hour later, her tongue swelled. And so – every morning for the past four moons was like this. There was no other water.
The child inside her demanded water and food. He wanted to live. According to the prediction of the old grandmother, not much time was left until its birth – only two moons. Walking became increasingly difficult for Tolana. Initially, she could reach the Sacred Cenote by carefully treading barefoot on stone-like scorched earth. She approached the edge of the sinkhole and stared intently into its depths. Has the water come – have the gods become kind? But the same sweet smell of rotting corpses hit her nostrils – the poor girls, among which was her little sister. Tolana was taken aback by disgust, felt sick, and in recent days threw off her trips to the dead cenote.
She wanted to immediately gather the morning moisture from the leaves, but the sun was already high and Tolana realized that she overslept. She felt her tongue being torn by sharp pain. Caressing her face with the palm of her hand, she felt the scab of dried blood. Two fingers reaching the swollen tongue, Tolana touched the scar in the middle. Although it had healed, each movement of the tongue caused pain. Pain was also present in her large stomach, already beginning to sink down – a sign of labour approaching. Tolana leaned her head, moving it side to side, trying to shake off the numbness and restore the events of yesterday. Pain anywhere else did not respond, as it lived only in the stomach and at the tip of her tongue.
Gentle rustling and moaning made her look around, and Tolana recognized the source of these sounds – in the corner of the hut, on old rags and covered with a striped blanket, her husband, Kuluangwa, was moaning. The entire lower part of the blanket was covered in spots of dried blood. Kuluangwa lay on his back and hazily whispered something. Tolana stooped below to parse the words of her husband.
«Tomorrow… everything will be fine! Vak Balama said that, remember? Tomorrow will rain… Chaak has already drank. We did it… He is now satisfied. He shall give us water. He should… our child.» The man’s voice broke and died.
«Yes, Kuluangwa,» said Tolana, barely moving her swollen tongue.
She put her head on her husband’s chest and closed her eyes. Memories of yesterday flashed in her head. She remembered the parable that the high priest Vak Balama told them yesterday in the temple.
The path chosen by the other tribes was one of defeat, giving away all that they had under their chests and armpits, so that it would blossom. Such a bloom meant that each tribe that was brought as sacrifice for Chaak had their hearts ripped out. But before that, Chaak conveyed his powers to the Balama clan – Balama-Quitzé, Balama-Aqaba and Iki-Balama… my glorious ancestors. He transmits this force to this day and this power has never deceived us. We are accustomed to abstaining from food while awaiting dawn. We are awake, waiting for sunrise. We guard the Great Star that rises first before the sun when the day is engaged. Our gaze is fixated on there – the sunrise. There, from whence came our gods.
But that was not where we got our power and sovereignty from. We conquered and subdued the large tribes and small tribes when we offered them as sacrifice
An indigenous people of the Russian North.
An oil lamp.
