Izamal

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Yaxche`

My reverie was broken by the joyous sounds made by three young girls. As they walked by, the smallest of the three tilted her head and smiled a radiant smile in my direction. I found out later she was named Yaxche`. It was the first glance at my future. Throughout my youth, she was there, always just out of reach. Somehow never part of my circle of friends, Yaxche` smiled her wonderful smile and stayed far away enough to make it impossible to speak with her. And close enough for me to be reminded that anything is possible in Izamal.

Yaxche` was a quiet child. She was small, as are many Mayans, but she did not have the facial features so common in the Yucatan. Her beautiful face was accentuated by a fine, thin nose and pale blue eyes, which gave a clue to her ancestry. European blood ran in her veins. That day was a Sunday. After mass at Mission San Antonio, the girls were on their way to Parque Zamna for “Izamal en Domingo,” the weekly festival of food, music and art. They wore such beautiful outfits. Yaxche` had on a white, sleeveless tunic-length embroidered blouse, belted with a sash of dark varied colors. Her skirt, floor-length, was a multi-colored red, yellow, and green. It had blue flowers overlaying all and cascading to the hem. Her hair was pulled back and braided into one ponytail. In each ear was a tiny gold earring, gifts made on the day of her birth. All of this is burned in my memory. More striking, though, was the way in which she carried herself.  If any young girl had “presence” — a sense of calmly knowing who she was and what she was about, then surely it was Yaxche`. That aura would open doors for her. That aura was also a little intimidating, and it was the reason I kept my distance for so long.

“Did you see that boy way up on the pyramid?” one of Yaxche’s companions asked. She only smiled and nodded.

 Yaxche` was the daughter of a potter. Her father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all made pottery, so quite naturally, all the children had tried their hands at the potter’s wheel. Only Yaxche` had produced objects that elicited an excited “Ahhh, que hermosa!” from her father. The gift of talent had clearly been bestowed upon her. Such a compliment, especially from her father, made her beam with pride. Somehow, she knew the secret ingredient for the finest pieces was not in the clay, nor in the wheel, but within herself.

As time went by, she became well-known for her work. She would set up a table at festivals, and always, the people would seek her out and buy whatever she had that day. In time, owning a “Yaxche`” piece would pay a handsome return to those lucky enough to have bought her early work. Most early mornings found her busy at the wheel in her father’s small factory: She had to finish her projects before the men came to start their day’s work. Their families depended on them to provide a living, and she was only playing. In this way she learned to go swiftly about the task. She cleaned up after herself and tried to leave no trace of having been there. While working, she chanted the traditional Mayan song that she had been hearing all of her life: a Winter song, a prayer to the sun to come back in the Spring.

Conex, conex palanxen, xicubin, xicubin yocolquin.
Conex, conex palanxen, xicubin, xicubin yocolquin.
Xola mayola, xola mayol, ea, ea, ea, o.
Conex, conex palanxen, xicubin, xicubin yocolquin.

Let’s go, let’s hurry boys, for the sun is coming out.
Let’s go, let’s hurry boys, for the sun is coming out.
Sho-la ma-yo-la, sho-la ma-yol, Ay-ah, ay-ah, ay-ah oh.
Let’s go, let’s hurry boys, for the sun is coming out.

She sang very lowly to herself and only for her own joy, as do those birds of Izamal who are the first to show themselves after the long night.

Merida

 Our years of childhood passed so quickly. I had become a strong young man. My little Mamacita always said, “Luca! Ay, que guapo!” when talk turned to me. But all mothers think their children are beautiful. In truth, I was just one of many who had very average looks. My eyes were a bit large, and I had these arching eyebrows, very thick and dark, which somehow made me appear impish. I learned early in life to use those eyebrows. With very little talk, I usually could get whatever I wanted with just a look. Maybe that’s why the old men Kawil and Bitol had let me stay with them on that day so long ago.

Since the day of learning about Kanyeb and his act of rebellion, I had begun to thirst for more. You must understand that we, the Maya, do not really know who we are. So much has been taken from us. There is no written history of us. Much of what we do know has been passed from one generation to the next. But, of course, much has been forgotten. Many things have been lost. We cannot even read the inscriptions left on the pyramids and found objects of this place. My devout childhood had been gradually changed. I had lots of questions and no answers.

Surely, the church could help. I went to Brother Ignacio and explained my doubts and feelings. He was a good man who seemed always ready to spend time with me. He said, “Luca, trust in the Lord. I know He will help any just cause.” I wanted to believe him. “Now, you must pray. Go to the  second floor where the statue of Our Lady of Izamal, Queen and Patron Saint of Yucatán is located.” And so, I did as he said.

The gold leaf, the crystal chandeliers and the beautifully painted walls around that statue signaled the importance of Our Lady. I looked in her eyes, but I saw no sign that she knew I was there. I knelt before her, and I prayed fervently for answers. But the answers I sought were not forthcoming. I rose and hurried down the stairs and out the door. To my surprise, there stood Brother Ignacio. Speaking in a low voice and glancing around furtively, he said, “You are not the only one to have questions. When you go to Merida follow these instructions.” He pushed a piece of paper into my hand. “Someone is there who can help.” And he turned on his heel and slipped back into the church.

When I go to Merida! How was I supposed to get to Merida? I folded up that scrap of paper and put it in my pocket. It is a hard two-day walk to the city of Merida. I had never been there, and I felt intimidated by the prospect of being alone in such a big town. I put the matter out of my mind for the time being.

As I walked home, my head filled with all sorts of notions, there came a faint sound on the breeze, “oooocah, ooocah.” It seemed to move ahead of me, so that it  was always just around the next bend. And then it was clearer. “Luca, Luca.” Somebody was calling my name! Peeking out from behind a huge Ceiba tree, was that girl, that Yaxche`! I was delighted to see her.

“Come with me into the forest,” she said. I didn’t question why; I just followed her. We walked on and on, deeper into that impossible jungle . Yet, she seemed to find unmarked trails and paths. It was as though we both glided on invisible wheels. Did our feet even touch the ground? At last we came to a small clearing. At the far edge, we found a wooden hut. A tiny campfire smoldered in front of that hut.

“Where are we ?” I asked.

“Shh, shh,” Yaxche` whispered. “This is a shaman’s hut. Here, wonderful things can happen. He knows things before they come about. He can heal anything. He is part of this place.” She was silhouetted against the rising smoke behind her, and once again I was taken by her beauty. She had become a stunning young woman. I found it hard to breathe and I had to look away.

“Why did you bring me here?” I demanded. 

“I wanted to share this with you. The shaman is getting old. There is no one to carry on his traditional ways. There is no one to learn from him. His time is short, and he knows that his vast knowledge will be lost.”

“She’s right, you know; listen to her,” Itzam`na whispered in my ear. And then, as quickly as the eye can blink, a small man appeared in front of us.

“Have you ever had a sip of balche‘?” he asked. “It’s honey from xtabentún — the vining morning glory and water, and the bark of a tree.” We sat and sipped the mysterious liquid. I felt my tongue go numb, and I grasped Yaxche’s hand. She didn’t pull away.

A warmth rose in me as our host continued. “My name is Edgar Ekahau. You seek answers to questions that you should not ask. Go home and mind your business. You can only come to grief if you do not heed me. The knowing of something will only make you sad and angry. Go home and be happy.” Only later did Yaxche tell me that no words were spoken between the shaman and me.

The next thing I remembered was a tight embrace by Yaxche`. It seemed to go on and on. Some dreams should never end, I was sure now that I loved her and that she loved me. Before we parted, Yaxche` asked me a favor. Her father needed some help moving a large shipment of pottery.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Where is it going?”

“Merida,” said Yaxche`. The folded paper in my pocket suddenly became heavy. Tomorrow I would be in Merida!

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