At the End of the World Read online

  At the end of the world

  By Mark Macpherson

  Copyright © Mark Macpherson 2010

  All rights reserved.

  www.markmacpherson.com

  V2.0

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, or in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without prior written permission from the author.

  The KulWinik are a fictitious Mayan people. Hachakyum is a "real" god of the Mayan pantheon. The t'o'ohil is the title for the community leader of the Lacandon Mayans, no correlation is assumed.

  Pronunciation. I've tried to keep the Mayan names to a minimum. However, X = sh, so Yaxchilan = Yash-chee-lan. Also, the apostrophe is a stop, simply put a tiny pause between syllables. e.g. Yax K'in = Yash-K-In.

  At the end of the world is the first in a series books.

  Part I

  Chapter I

  The two men, father and son, stood on the Peten lakeside, weary after weeks of journeying through dense jungle and difficult swamps. They had reached their destination, the island capital of the Itza Mayans. The lime-washed pyramids and stone structures of the royal residences gleamed in the hot morning sun. The city stood proud and untarnished, falsely suggesting it was the last unvanquished fortress of the Mayan empire because it was impregnable.

  The old man, the t’o’ohil, the spiritual leader of the Mayans, was pleased. His son would live long in a place like that, secure from the Conquistadors.

  The t’o’ohil was tired. He had resisted the first wave of the Spanish invasion and one hundred and sixty years later the Mayan culture and empire he had known had gone. One place remained untouched and the Itza island stronghold would give him time to complete the young man’s training. Over the t’o’ohil’s long life, all his male offspring had fallen at the hands of the invading Spanish. One remained and once Hachakyum accepted his last son as the next t’o’ohil, the old man could finally rest.

  The son, a seasoned warrior, crouched at the lake’s edge and tasted, then splashed water over his face. He was glad to leave the hot and humid jungle behind. He turned his head when he noticed movement along the water’s edge. A procession of ceremonially dressed and well armed men approached.

  ‘Father,’ he warned. His voice was calm, he was afraid of no man, but his body was tense and determined as he again regained his full height.

  The t’o’ohil had also noticed the forty men. They had begun moving solemnly and slowly after the two men had emerged from the jungle. The young man placed a hand on his weapons. The father noticed his son’s action and smiled grimly as he gently covered his son’s hand to prevent any rash action.

  The group halted when they were twenty paces from the t’o’ohil and his son. The man at the head of the group was the King of the Itza and the procession was a phalanx of nobles. The t’o’ohil cursed his luck. He and his son, dressed in rags, covered in sweat, mud and grime from their trek in the jungle, had blundered into a ceremony conducted by the kingdom’s elite. Their unwitting disrespect would be enough to have them killed.

  The t’o’ohil’s hand had remained in place, covering his son’s. He turned away from the King’s severe stare to whisper to his son that they should retreat. At that moment, his son’s face blossomed with wonder, as surprise highjacked the young man’s features, and a shuffling and rustling sound caused the t’o’ohil to quickly turn back towards the King.

  A suppliant voice addressed the Mayan spiritual leader.

  ‘The t’o’ohil and the son of the t’o’ohil are welcomed in the land of the Itza,’ the King said.

  The King and his retinue were on their knees, their heads bowed.

  The t’o’ohil’s astonishment was momentary. He quickly regained composure.

  ‘The t’o’ohil and his son are well received by the Itza. We thank you for your welcome.’

  The King smiled and stood. The nobles followed his lead. The King approached the t’o’ohil. It was the meeting of the two most powerful men left in the dwindling world of the Mayans in their last year of autonomy.

  ‘We have had news of your impending arrival,’ the King said when he stood before the t’o’ohil.

  ‘I hope,’ the t’o’ohil said, ‘that in your city I can find respite from my years of fighting the Conquistadors.’

  The King’s face fell, his smile faded into a sadness that melted through his body.

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed. ‘My hopes were unfounded. You have not heard?’

  The t’o’ohil shook his head.

  ‘Conquistadors and an army of the Xiu,’ the King’s anger was palpable as he mentioned the name of the Mayan traitors who had sided with the Spanish. ‘Are burning and cutting their way through the jungle. They are on their way here, they are intent on destroying us. I had hoped your journey was to be our salvation.’

  ‘One man cannot defeat the invaders,’ the t’o’ohil said.

  The King’s smile returned although it was diminished compared with his joy at greeting the t’o’ohil. ‘One man perhaps not, hundreds of Mayan warriors could not defeat them. But you are not one man. You are the t’o’ohil. The man who cannot die. Touched by Hachakyum. Direct descendant of the last of us to feel the breath of the King of gods. Surely, Hachakyum would not let the last city of the Mayans fall?’

  The King’s smile retreated, his voice pleaded.

  ‘Hachakyum does not help those that must help themselves,’ the t’o’ohil sadly replied.

  The King pointed across the lake to his beautiful stone city.

  ‘Then Hachakyum would be proud of us. This place will not fall to men and horses. I will not allow my city to fall,’ he said emphatically. ‘It cannot. There is the last library of our people. The knowledge of the gods would be lost.’

  The t’o’ohil placed his hand on the shoulder of the agitated King, the only man alive who could do such a thing.

  ‘We will do our best. It is all Hachakyum would ask of us.’

  The riled elements did not rouse with the destruction of the last Mayan city. The knowledge of the gods was lost and there was no great roar of indignation. The sounds of Mayan catastrophe were muted. The end of all things was orchestrated with the guttural grunts of men as they fought and died. Metal thudded against and pierced human flesh while Mayan weapons deflected from steel.

  The Spanish and their supporters had not overcome the island city by men and horses, the King had been right, but by men, artillery and boats. A fort had been erected on the lakeside, the city had been demeaned by artillery and had then been invaded using boats. The Itza provided little effective resistance.

  The t’o’ohil fought the invaders inside the city. His son struck their enemies by the side of his father as they were pushed back towards the city centre. The Itza King had fallen and his body had been hurried from battle by his retinue. Many Itza had fled after the death of their King and some were seen on the distant lake shore before the jungle swallowed them, providing short-term safety.

  At the end of Mayan civilization, the suppressed sounds of battle were engulfed by the roar of flames and the deep, tearing sound of the end of knowledge as Mayan books, made from beaten bark, embraced their extinction. The old man’s will gave out and he stopped fighting to stare in shock at the loss of Mayan knowledge. Thousands of years of accumulated learning, as well as the words spoken by Hachakyum on earth, were contained in the burning library. They would be known no more. The god’s plans were lost except within the memory of the t’o’ohil and his son.r />
  The battle passed the old man. He regained his senses. The last Mayan city had been lost. It was time to escape. He must save his son before it was too late.

  The t’o’ohil turned away from the flames and was greeted by the maniacal grimace of a Conquistador. The invader had been watching the old man, not knowing if he was an Itza or a Xiu helping with the attack. He decided he didn’t care. The old man was either the enemy or derelict in his duty. Death was required. The conquistador savored the moment before he plunged his sword through the old man’s body. He quickly withdrew his weapon and went on his way. There were many to kill that day and he did not linger over one old man.

  Blood gushed from the t’o’ohil’s wound. He placed his hand over the flowing blood and stared in amazement. He was dying. Incredible. It was not possible. How? Was that the end of Hachakyum’s plan for the end of the world?

  The t’o’ohil had minutes to live. He collapsed and was swaddled in an ever increasing pool of his own blood. He struggled against lost consciousness. He heard a voice. It was familiar. He strained to focus his attention and to remember.

  ‘Father, father,’ the t’o’ohil’s son said frantically. He was on his knees next to his father. He willed his father’s attention to return to the world of the living.

  The t’o’ohil opened his eyes and searched for the source of the voice that had brought him back from the edge of consciousness. He looked into his son’s eyes. He saw another presence there and he knew. He knew the end had not come. He grabbed hold of his son and brought his face close to his own. The last words of the t’o’ohil, the man who could not die, were breathless and urgent.

  ‘You have heard the voices? You have heard the voice of Hachakyum?’

  His son nodded.

  The t’o’ohil relaxed his grip on his son.

  ‘You did not tell me. But that is of no importance now. Hachakyum has chosen you.’

  The old man watched as an errant spear flew directly at his son. It was deflected and slid around the young man’s body and embedded in the ground next to them. He smiled at the demonstration of his son’s invincibility, as if it had been a show of reassurance for the dying old man. The t’o’ohil could not die. His son could not die.

  He grabbed his son again and held him for the last seconds of his long life.

  ‘You are the t’o’ohil,’ he whispered. ‘Retreat. Take the people you can find and return home. Return to Yaxchilan.’

  Part II

  Chapter I

  ‘You’re going to New York?’ Hamish asked, incredulous.

  He raised his head from reading the newspaper, while seated at the kitchen table, and asked the same question again, as if he had not heard or not believed what Kate had said.

  ‘New York?’ he repeated. He watched her over the top of his reading glasses, his eyes tight and critical.

  Kate knew how his face would have been transformed by the tone of his question. She had no need to look at her husband. There was little that was new after four decades together. She held her head high, her body at right angles to the kitchen table that she lightly touched with her hip, as if she intended to rest against it, before swaying away slightly then re-touching the table’s edge like she was unsure of it’s strength. Her hip danced gently as it repeatedly touched the table’s edge and withdrew.

  ‘Yes,’ Kate said forcefully.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to see her.’

  Kate’s mother lived in New York.

  ‘No you don’t. You can’t stand her.’

  ‘Hamish!’ She flashed angry eyes at him and then immediately looked away.

  ‘Well, it’s true. You see my family in New Zealand as often as you see her and she’s just in New York. You can drive there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said angrily. ‘I know that, Hamish.’ She said his name like it was an insult. Her voice changed. She was exasperated. ‘It shouldn’t bother you. It won’t change anything you’re doing if I’m here or not.’

  Kate moved, just her head, to stare at him.

  ‘No, it won’t,’ he said. ‘I’m just interested in why the change of heart.’

  She paused as if she was flicking through a range of possible answers before she chose one. Her eyes were dark.

  ‘We’re all getting old.’

  Kate’s hip bounced nervously against the table’s edge. She was determined that approval was irrelevant.

  Hamish stared at Kate’s hip. He still found it attractive, and arousing, although it was perhaps twenty years too old to be sexually exciting in its own right.

  Hamish was happy with his life, he was unprepared for the sadness he was about to suffer. He enjoyed no longer working full-time as an academic geologist. He dabbled, although he hated that word as a description of activity, in consultancy, offering his advice and services to Universities and private companies. He was not upset if his expertise was unused for extended periods of time.

  He and Kate had both retired and lived in Boston, not far from their son and his family. Their Boston home contained the kitchen table against which Kate’s hip hesitantly bounced.

  She stopped her nervous movement. Her stare intensified as she announced a decision already made.

  ‘I’m driving down today and I’ll be staying. For a few days. At least.’ She sounded angry as if allowing her to leave was his fault.

  After decades together a few days or a few weeks apart from Kate did not upset Hamish. Of course, that was when he thought she would return.

  Kate didn’t come back from New York.

  Chapter 2

  The telephone rang while Kate was busy packing and Hamish was in his study. He waited for her to answer it but she called his name angrily as the telephone continued to ring.

  Hamish reluctantly picked up the receiver. The reception was atrocious. The sound crackled like broken, sparking wires and a distant voice drifted like it was riding ocean waves up and down. Hamish eventually recognized the voice of his friend, Arthur Dawkins, an American archaeologist.

  Hamish had met Arthur when they were both young academics and Arthur had returned from Southern Mexico to write the definitive anthropological text on the KulWinik Mayans, the last, and recently re-discovered, remnant of the Mayan culture. Arthur had lived for years with the people who were the last link to the ancient Mayans, he had adopted their customs, learnt their language, worked their gardens slashed from the jungle, called milpas, and shared their ceremonies, religious rites and storytelling.

  Arthur spoke for a moment but Hamish could not understand what was being said. After asking Arthur to repeat himself, he understood he was being invited to join an archaeological team in Southern Mexico.

  Hamish thought he heard more in Arthur’s voice, through the white noise and crackles, like he was pleading for Hamish to come.

  ‘You don’t need me anyway,’ Hamish said, honestly to his friend. ‘It’s pretty much all limestone down there.’

  ‘True,’ Arthur said evasively. ‘But I’d like you to do a little mapping in the exact area. It shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘I could come down now if you like. I assume you’re there, from this phone connection,’ Hamish laughed. ‘I’m not that busy and Kate’s going to New York.’

  ‘Kate’s going to New York? Really?’ Arthur said and then added something Hamish could not understand through the noisy telephone.

  ‘Hold on a second,’ Hamish said. He thought he had heard the sound of the front door closing. He was sure when he heard Kate’s car start. He wondered why she had not waited to say goodbye. He did not know how he had upset her.

  ‘OK,’ Hamish said to Arthur. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘No, you can’t come down now,’ Arthur said quickly.

  Hamish asked why not.

  ‘I don’t know where,’ Arthur’s fuzzy, indistinct voice continued. ‘Exactly where we’ll be working.’

  Arthur sounded nervous, which was unlike him.


  ‘Is it that definite, is it?’ Hamish said. He added exaggerated irony to his voice over the top of the line noise.

  Arthur laughed. It sounded thin, raspy and distant.

  ‘It must be hard to get funding,’ Hamish laughed back. ‘If you don’t know where you’re going’.

  Arthur’s laughter stopped abruptly. Hamish thought the line had dropped out.

  ‘This is really important Hamish,’ Arthur said. ‘I need you here.’

  ‘So, does that mean I won’t get paid? Is this one for friendship?’ Hamish asked, adding exaggerated resignation to his voice. He knew Arthur’s passion for the KulWinik and would not expect payment if his friend wanted his help.