Authors: Inara LaVey
“This is a very interesting building,” Balam said as we once again stood in front of the de Young Museum the next morning a little before nine. A heavy mist lay over the city, somewhere between rain and fog. Not so wet as to need an umbrella, but enough to dampen skin, clothes, and hair.
I nodded. “It’s supposed to be an architecturally significant building.” The de Young, since its remodel, reminded me of a twisted three-dimensional Tetris game in suspended animation. The shape of the building seemed to alter ever so subtly whenever the viewer changed vantage points. Made of copper, stone, wood, and glass, it blended in with the trees. During certain times of the year it would get covered with spider webs like something out of the old William Shatner classic,
Kingdom of the Spiders.
Pretty creepy in an architecturally significant way.
Balam glanced at his watch. “Still twenty minutes before it opens.”
“We could get some coffee.” I nodded across the street towards a row of mobile food and beverage kiosks, including a coffee cart. We’d had a quick breakfast (other activities had eaten up the rest of the time after we’d woken up) of espresso and fresh fruit before leaving my house, but I could always use another caffeine infusion.
We walked over to the kiosk, hands entwined. I savored the warmth of his touch, the heat that flowed from his skin into mine. I’d never felt so comfortable with anyone in my life, even given his intimidating male beauty. Sure, Jesse was good-looking, but nothing in comparison to the raw masculinity and sensuality that imbued Balam’s every move.
And he could cook. Dinner had been a mix of fresh seafood sautéed in wine, butter and herbs; grilled vegetables; a loaf of warm sourdough; and some really good Russian River chardonnay, one well beyond my usual price point. Jack had been knee deep in paint and sawdust when we’d gotten home, but had joined us for a glass of wine in the courtyard. It’d done my heart good to see how well Jack and Balam got along when testosterone overload was missing from the equation.
Right before Balam and I had gone back inside for the rest of the night, Jack had taken me aside to whisper, “He’s a good one, Maya.” High praise indeed from the man who’d had nothing good to say about any of the men I’d dated since I’d moved into his back cottage.
It was inevitable Balam would do something to take the shine off the glamour, like ask me to pull his finger or leave the toilet seat up, but so far he managed to stay almost annoyingly perfect.
Hmm. Maybe annoying perfection
was
his fatal flaw.
We got cappuccinos and sat on a bench to drink them. I rested my head against Balam’s shoulder, getting a whiff of sage from his shirt. He’d performed a cleansing ritual before we’d gone to bed last night, smudging the entire cottage in every corner with the smoke of a burning bundle of sage, chanting softly in the same unfamiliar language he’d used to restore me to human form. I’d sniffed the air as he lit up the sage.
“It smells like the stoner’s bathroom in high school in here.”
Balam grinned. “Yes, but it should keep Anani from invading our dreams,” he’d explained.
Whether it was the scent or Balam’s chanting, my dreams had remained horror free. I’d slept soundly through the night, waking up to Balam’s kisses and the lingering smell of burning sage that would most likely evoke a Pavlovian response every time I smelled it in the future.
I smiled and rubbed my face against his shoulder, taking another sip of my cappuccino and enjoying the feeling of playing hooky. Something about being out in the park when I should be at work just made me feel like a kid on summer vacation.
I’d called Sharon before we’d left, letting her know I was taking another sick day. Considering my attendance record was, up until yesterday, a hundred percent, I didn’t think she’d hold it against me, especially when I introduced her to Balam.
Balam checked his watch again.
“Eight fifty-eight.”
I grinned up at him. “If we walk
really
slowly, we’ll get there when it opens.”
He stood up, offering me his hand while smiling down with a look in his eyes that curled my toes.
Raowr
.
We reached the ticket office at deYoung at approximately one minute past nine, the first people in line. Good thing it wasn’t the weekly free admission day or we’d be wading through scads of schoolkids and tourists.
Balam paid for our tickets. We walked through the courtyard and the “benches” that looked like stone monoliths tipped on their sides, gave our tickets to a smiling docent, and went inside.
The interior of deYoung is all hardwood floors and big, open galleries. The word “spacious” comes to mind pretty much immediately. The aisles between the displays are wide, leaving plenty of room for those who want to stand and study a particular piece of art and those who prefer to keep moving. Right now as empty as it was, I had an urge to go skidding across the floors and pretend to be on ice skates.
I suppressed the urge, however, and followed Balam down a flight of stairs to the Ancient Gods exhibit on the lower floor. A huge stone head with broad flat features guarded the entrance to the first gallery.
“Olmec,” Balam commented, nodding at the head. “They are called colossals. “
The colossal’s impassive gaze stared off into the distance. But as we walked past it, I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that those blank eyes were suddenly alive and watching us. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know if I was right. We walked by a thin middle-aged woman in a skirt and jacket the color of eggplant. A name tag on a lanyard read “Margaret.” She reminded me of Margaret Hamilton, the actress who played the Wicked Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
. She gave us a nod as we entered the exhibit area.
The front gallery seemed smaller than the rest of the museum, less spacious. That might have been because of the dim lighting overhead. The ceiling was lost in deep shadows, giving the impression we were in a cave. The exhibit pieces themselves were lit with spotlights, placed to highlight each piece as well as the explanatory texts in their Plexiglas protective sleeves. The overall effect was a very effective way to showcase these ancient artifacts.
This first room, according to a handily placed informational placard, displayed significant discoveries from archeological digs done in Central America over the last fifty years: mostly basalt statues, steles (stone obelisks with carvings), masks, and some jadeite pieces depicting animals, humans, or a combination of the two. Mesoamerican cultures were big on the whole shapeshifting motif. The second gallery contained everyday items, such as knives, axe heads (called celts), baskets, jewelry, fishing hooks, and pottery. The third contained things related to religion and superstition: more colossal heads, statues, steles, altars, small totemic carvings, and the like.
Balam took a deep breath and turned slowly in a circle, taking everything in. His face was cast in shadows, his expression impenetrable as he looked around at the relics of his homeland’s past. Maybe he was homesick, perhaps wondering if he’d ever be able to return to Belize. Or if indeed there would be a home to return to, if crazy bitch Anani had her way.
I didn’t want to disturb him so I wandered over to the nearest exhibit, a weathered basalt statue tucked in the far corner. About three feet high and mounted on a pedestal, it was an anthropomorphic figure somewhere between a human infant and wild beast, squatting on haunches, arms folded around its knees, hands looking more like paws. It had the same blank eyes as the Colossal and a snarling maw. Something about it gave me the chills. Not in a bad ”oh, scary” way, but in a “something’s coming, something good” way, like the song from
West Side Story
.
“Transforming Jaguar Baby,” I read aloud. My voice echoed loudly in the near empty room, causing Margaret the docent to shoot me a look as if I’d shouted in a library or something. Bet she just loved tours of schoolkids, I thought snarkily. Still, I smiled apologetically and did the rest of my reading in silence.
According to the text, it was one of five companion statues found in a ruined temple deep in the jungles surrounding Chiapas. The statues depicted the various stages of transformation from human to jaguar undertaken by the shamans who protected the ancient people of the time—and hunted those who broke the laws of the gods and goddesses.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I turned, startled, to find Balam next to me, staring at the statue with barely suppressed excitement that validated the feeling it gave me.
“This is one of the statues you mentioned, right?”
Margaret the Docent chose that moment to join us, overhearing my last words and jumping in before Balam could answer. “Young lady, these statues are some of the most important archeological finds of the twentieth century.” Balam nodded in agreement, bringing a pleased smile to Margaret’s face. She continued with enthusiasm. “The origins are thought to be Olmec, if not older, even though they were found near Chiapas, which is further south than the Olmecs’ home at the Gulf of Mexico. As far as we know, it’s the only surviving set of its kind.”
Balam shook his head at that and Margaret glanced at him sharply.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this
is
the only set that’s ever been documented.”
“That may be true,” said Balam politely, “but it doesn’t mean it’s the only one in existence.”
I felt Margaret bristle, her energy getting all spiky. She was someone who put a lot of her identity into volunteering here and if someone in authority told her there was only one set of something in existence, to challenge that information was tantamount to challenging her reality.
I gave Balam a surreptitious poke in the ribs with an elbow. “Are the rest of them on display here as well?” I turned to Margaret with my best “I am so interested in what you’re saying” expression.
She nodded stiffly. “Yes.”
If Balam had been in jaguar form, his tail would have been lashing back and forth with excitement. This had to be good news.
“You’ll find them scattered throughout the exhibit halls. They’re in order of the stages of transformation, from the jaguar baby all the way to a fully transformed jaguar.” Her attention shifted as an older couple followed by a family with a toddler and a baby in a stroller entered the gallery.
“The next one, Jaguar Boy, is by the entrance to the next room. Please excuse me.” Margaret hurried over to greet the newcomers, probably to make sure the kid didn’t touch anything with his grimy little toddler hands.
I turned to Balam and indicated the Jaguar Baby. “This is good, right?”
“It is better than good, my Maya.” Balam grabbed my hand and led me further into the gallery, away from the newcomers. “This may be our salvation.”
I resisted the impulse to shout “hallelujah!” and followed him to the far side of the room where the Jaguar Boy statue stood. Like the Jaguar Baby, this was another stylized depiction of a creature part human and part jaguar, only this crouching figure was a boy in the first six or so years of life. Instead of having its arms folded around its knees, the arms were at its side with the clawed, paw-like hands hanging down.
Balam reached out to touch it, but I grabbed his hand before he made contact.
“That could get us thrown out of here,” I said in an undertone. I jerked my head towards Margaret. “Especially since you argued with her. Docents don’t like that much. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
We went into the next room, where two more of the statues, Jaguar Youth and Jaguar Warrior, guarded the two doorways leading in and out of the gallery.
Jaguar Youth was on one knee, as if poised to spring. Its face was fiercer than Jaguar Boy, more animalistic. Jaguar Warrior kicked it up a notch, a perfect melding of human and jaguar, its face, body, and limbs all caught in the moment of shifting between the two. One paw held a spear, sharp teeth bared in a snarl.
“Are you going to tell me why these statues are so important?” I asked as Balam ran a hand worshipfully over the contours of Jaguar Warrior.
“These statues are identical to the ones in Evaki’s temple in Belize,” replied Balam. “Each one has power on its own. But together they create a circuit of power when placed in the proper formation and linked together by ritual magic. Used with the proper ritual, I might be able to raise enough power to stop Anani.”
“Might?”
He didn’t answer, just pulled me into the last gallery of the exhibit where Jaguar Shaman greeted us. I recognized it as the one featured in the banners advertising the exhibit.
“Hello, old friend,” Balam murmured.
Jaguar Shaman was a fully transformed jaguar, with very little humanity left within it. It exuded raw power, much the same way Balam did. My skin prickled standing next to it, as if the statue was charged with static electricity.
I moved away from the statue further into the room, but found the prickling sensation increasing instead of diminishing. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rose as a crackling surge of energy surge up through the soles of my feet into my body. I felt a pull from the center of the room as if tugged by invisible rope, and followed it past more colossal heads, glass display cases of totemic carvings, and animalistic masks to what looked like a mammoth basalt pot. The thing practically throbbed with otherworldly power.
I looked at the placard in front of it, which read
Evaki’s Cauldron
.
Why was I not surprised?
The sides of the thing were almost as tall as me, the lip level with my head. It was thick with carvings of people, mouths and eyes gaping, limbs intertwined in a jumble. The entire effect was a shapeshifting, souls-of-the-damned Dante-esque nightmare.
I was drawn to it, overwhelmed by an urge to touch it. I knew if I crawled inside the cauldron, I would be safe. Safe from anyone or anything who would hurt me. I placed my hands against the side, feeling flesh writhe against my palms, hearing screams and moans of souls trapped in agony. Energy thrummed into my palms, the suffering of those trapped in the thing feeding its power. I would find power in there, more power than I’d ever dreamed of. All I had to do was crawl inside—