Afraid to Fall (Ancient Passages Book 1) Read online

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  Zionsville, IN 46077

  Afraid to Fall, Ancient Passages, Book 1

  Copyright © 2018 Sutton Bishop

  ISBN: 978-0-9898816-4-7

  ISBN: 978-0-9898816-5-4 (e-book)

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places is used fictitiously. Other names, characters, events, and incidents are figments of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic/photocopied, recorded, or otherwise—without the express written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Printed in the USA

  For more information, contact: [email protected]

  Cover by Ally Hastings, Starcrossed Covers

  Edited by Quiethouse Editing and Victory Editing

  Dedication

  The Legend

  Migration

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Preparation

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Exploration

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Excavation

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Revelations

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Author

  For the Ari in all of us.

  In the beginning, there was the Great God. He was a thoughtful and efficient creator. After making all the other birds, he found he had leftover pieces, so he made a little bird. He called it the colibrí. Weak of legs, the bird would spend almost all its time flying. Because the bird was tiny and vulnerable, the Great God wished to do more, so he bestowed it with extraordinary abilities. He gave the colibrí the capacity to fly sideways, backward, upside down, and hover.

  The Great God liked the little bird very much, so he decided to present it with a mate from the last remaining bird parts. To celebrate, he told the couple that they would be married and have the first wedding on the planet.

  All the other animals of the forest were invited. The birds sang lovely songs. The spiders made a large spiderweb path and encouraged the female colibrí to use their webs for her future nest. Everything was beautiful, except the tiny colibrís. They were plain and dull. The other birds gifted the bride and groom some of their beautiful feathers, making them festive for their momentous day. The sun came out and announced them married and made it so their feathers would be colorful and shimmer with magic forever.

  —Tata

  Mayan Shaman

  Petén, Guatemala

  The tiny colibrí (hummingbird) is a common indigenous symbol of safe passage during a long journey, buoyed by hope, and embracing joy and the wonder of the world.

  When hovering, a hummingbird’s wings beat in a figure-eight pattern, the symbol of infinity—a reminder that we may regret or long for the past, but we need to reflect on it and let it go. What occurred in the past is not nearly as important as what is happening here and now, and we should allow ourselves to experience and savor the present.

  Upon the dawn of the present age, the Great God placed the life-giving Ceiba at the axis mundi of the cosmos, the Earth, the middle world. This was the navel of the world, where creation was birthed.

  The massive Ceiba grew and grew. Its roots reached deep into the earth and into Xibalba, the underworld realm of the dead. Its branches stretched up, up, up and supported Heaven, the highest world.

  Xibalba, Earth, and Heaven were now connected by the Ceiba.

  We, the Maya, believe the souls of the dead follow the Ceiba roots into Xibalba. Our ancestors ascend the same way to visit the living, then pass through the trunk to the tops of the tree and on to Heaven, if that is the journey they seek.

  The crown of the Ceiba spreads wide. Its branches grow in the four cardinal directions of East, West, South, and North, spreading life.

  —Tata

  Mayan Shaman

  Petén, Guatemala

  The wadded-up letter lay where Ari had tossed it, on her unmade bed. She ran her hands through her riot of coppery red curls, squinting into the blazing sunshine streaming through the large open window. The intimate courtyard, where she had often read or napped in one of the bright woven hammocks during the late afternoons of her two-week stay, was empty except for the ornate fountain. Its cascading water danced, shimmering and sparkling in the early-morning light. A stark contrast to what she felt right now.

  Eric had pretty much left her alone for the rest of the semester, yet the letter had been waiting for her at the front desk upon her arrival in Antigua. She had recognized the writing immediately but had avoided opening it. Her heart skittered, and tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over while her breath came in shallow, short cycles. How had Eric found her in Guatemala? Why was he contacting her? She’d ended it. Breathe, she told herself. Calm down.

  She glanced back over at the letter and massaged her temples, which pulsed with pain. Too much beer last night on the terrace. Ari took a long drink of water, accepting that she had stayed up well past when she’d intended, deep in conversation with other travelers and enjoying the mariachi.

  Surveying the room, Ari sighed. Clothes she had yet to stuff into her large duffel bag lay scattered around her small room—on the tile floor, the bed, and draped over the top of the desk and the lone chair in the corner. Her bulging toiletry bag hung from the bathroom door.

  She stepped back from the window after remembering she wore nothing other than panties. With resignation, she plopped onto the bed and picked the letter up by a ragged corner as if it were toxic, which in a sense it was. Full of liquid courage late last night, Ari had skimmed it—enough to realize she didn’t need to read more. Why read it when she could put it off? She rolled over and stuffed it into the nether reaches of her duffel. Eric was not going to ruin her day.

  Out of habit, Ari’s fingers migrated to the base of her throat. Her sterling necklace, a delicate chain with a hummingbird, a gift from her father before she’d left for Guatemala, was cool to the touch. Her father had included a message with the gift: “Tenacity and courage, Ari. But above all, safe passage. Your mom and I look forward to your safe return and hearing about your extraordinary adventure at the end of the summer. We love you, Papa.”

  Ari reached for a tank top and her loose-fitting travel pants. One all-terrain sandal peeked out from beneath her bed; the other was hiding. It was going to be a long day of travel. She’d slip them on after breakfast, as well as a scarf to cover and contain most of her bright locks.

  Dressed but shoeless, Ari headed upstairs to the terrace for breakfast—a meal she had skipped most of her life until she arrived in Ant
igua. She was a convert now. Breakfast here was her favorite meal. Each morning, Ari eagerly looked forward to some new combination of fresh, organic eggs and molé, fried sweet plantains, local cheese, warm handmade tortillas, pureed beans, cream, fruit, and avocado. And of course there was the divine Guatemalan coffee.

  The day promised to be another hot and humid one, like every day since she had arrived. A Canadian couple she’d met last night was finishing breakfast at one of the tables.

  “Good morning! What are you all doing today?”

  “Good morning, Ari!” said the man, putting down his coffee mug and rising. “We’re taking a local tour around the city. How are you feeling this morning? Sarah is a little hungover.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Sarah. I hope you feel better. I have a small headache, but I expect breakfast will get rid of it.”

  Sarah rested her fork on her empty plate and stood. “Thanks. You’re headed north this morning, right? How far are you traveling again?”

  “I’m going to Guatemala City and then on to Cobán. I’ll overnight there and then make another overnight stopover before I get to Flores.”

  “Ben and I will be thinking of you. You’re quite the adventurer, and it sounds so exciting, excavating ancient ruins.” She placed her hand on Ari’s wrist and gently squeezed. “Be safe.”

  Ari had forgotten their names since last night, so she was relieved when the couple mentioned them. “Thank you. It was nice to meet you, Sarah and Ben. Enjoy the rest of your vacation here.”

  Ari sat at another ceramic-topped metal table shaded by an umbrella and turned her attention to the panoramic vista over the terra-cotta tile roof to the west. The majestic peaks of Fuego, Agua, and Pacaya stood in the distance, overlooking Guatemala’s first capital. A plume of smoke blanketed the continually active Fuego. She was going to miss the beautiful view of the volcanoes and the charming colonial city and looked forward to coming back someday.

  A woman’s gentle voice next to her pulled Ari out of her musing. “Buenos días, señorita.” She mimed pouring coffee with the ceramic pitcher she held. “Café?”

  “Sí,” Ari replied, eager for her morning local coffee. “Gracias.” Ari smiled to herself as she acknowledged that good morning sounded so much more pleasant in Spanish.

  “Desayuno Chapin?”

  “Sí, por favor.” A Guatemalan-style breakfast was simply the best. Ari was confident it would help chase away the pain pounding in her temples. As she sipped the coffee and waited for her meal, Ari’s thoughts turned once again to Eric’s letter. Let it go. Focus on the moment.

  The smooth, rich roasted brew cleared the last remains of her sleepy fog. She toasted the view with her steaming ceramic cup, bidding her extraordinary time in Antigua goodbye. She had over three months to spend in Guatemala and so much more to experience ahead of her. Soft wings of excitement beat in Ari’s belly. She was truly on her way after breakfast. A huge smile lit her face.

  Ari leaned to the right. The heading above the front window read ANTIGUA GUATE CIUDAD VIEJA, confirming she was boarding the correct bus—the one to Guatemala City’s center. She opened her backpack once again as she stood waiting to board the bus, making sure her essentials were at the top: inflatable pillow, rain gear, snacks, full water bottles. Check.

  The sun was hours from reaching its peak, and yet the air was already terribly sticky. May was the beginning of the rainy season. Ari reflected on her rainy hike up Pacaya two days earlier. She’d arrived back at her hostel tired, damp, and sore yet thankful she had experienced the smoking Pacaya. The views, when briefly uncloaked by the clouds, had been spectacular. She was confident that few could say they had hiked and camped on an active volcano.

  Women, children, and men now surrounded her. Through her mirrored sunglasses, she watched a Mayan mother and her children sitting on the grass next to the group of people waiting to get on the bus to Guatemala City. The mother nursed her infant from the safety of a woven sling. Periodically, she spoke to her young daughter. The woman and her daughter wore traditional clothing—decorative brocaded blouses and colorful treadle-loomed skirts were held together by equally colorful and mismatched woven belts. Somehow the vibrant combinations were beautiful. The daughter was bareheaded except for white, red, and green cord braided through her thick black hair. Her mother wore a headdress woven with bright yellow, red, purple, and turquoise striped fabric. Ari found it difficult to stop staring.

  She wished she had allowed herself a bigger budget and more room in her luggage for textiles—they were gorgeous. She had shopped a few times in Antigua’s central mercado, as well as the Nim Po’t market within the long hall past Santa Catalina’s yellow arch. Indecision had plagued her, so she arrived back at the hostel with a few scarves and a belt. Her friends back home often teased Ari about her frugality. She planned to make some purchases before returning home at the end of the summer.

  Squeaky brakes and noisy hydraulics announced the arrival of a bus of many colors, a refitted American-manufactured school bus. Nothing was dull in Guatemala. The camioneta de pollo—chicken bus—had once been entirely yellow. Now its exterior was repainted cherry red and sported a turquoise-and-white grill—reminiscent of Guatemala’s flag. Yellow, black, turquoise, and green paint covered a good portion of the red exterior. The bus looked like a showgirl on steroids.

  Ari once again questioned her choice of transportation. Chicken buses, regularly used by the locals to transport their goods and livestock, were cheap, but their safety record wasn’t the best. She smiled to herself, looking forward to sharing her intrepid experience with family and friends.

  The group pushed forward, wanting in, unapologetic about invading personal space. Men shouted to each other in Spanish and Mayan tongues. Bags, packages, cages of small animals, and household items were lifted and passed from one person to another and up to the roof rack covering most of the bus’s length. Three men nimbly moved about, pushing the items and luggage closer together, making room for more, and hopefully, balancing the top-heavy vehicle. Ari waved her hand above her head.

  An earth-brown hand grabbed her duffel, grunting as he hoisted it up. “Muy pesado!” a man with merry dark brown eyes said and offered to help.

  She acknowledged it was heavy and nodded, her eyes full of apology.

  His eyes widened upon noticing the color of her hair. “Bonita.”

  “Gracias!” Ari responded. So many in Guatemala had said something to her about her hair, like this man, saying it was beautiful.

  The man tossed her duffel to one of the men on top of the bus, who in turn heaved it to another, whose knees bent when he caught its heavy weight. Grunting, he dropped the duffel onto the pile where it quickly disappeared, covered by a heavy-looking box. Thankfully, there was nothing breakable in her duffel. Maybe the letter would disintegrate. Maybe then she could forget about it. More and more items, including caged chickens, were passed up. The growing pile perched precariously on top of the roof rack, the bus swaying with each addition.

  One of the men scrambled off the roof and down the ladder, making his way to the door, yelling and motioning passengers to step back. He opened the door and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Women, children, men, and small animals began to pour in quickly behind him, filling the seats.

  Ari kept getting pushed aside. The bus appeared full, but the driver motioned her in. He pointed toward the chrome bar, raising his voice above the loud chatter. “Sostenga!”

  Ari reached up, grabbing hold. A man stood behind her, and another, more massive man, climbed up the steps and moved to stand in front of her. She was pinned in.

  Ari had planned on catching some shut-eye, but that was going to be impossible. Now she had to stand the hour-plus ride to Guatemala City, unless someone got off, and then she was going to have to beat these men to a seat. How she wished she had gone to bed early. She looked around at the passengers, praying someone might offer her a seat. Stoic faces met her silent plea.

  Ari he
ld on for dear life to the chrome bar extending from the ceiling. The bar, one of two that ran from the front of the bus to the back and parallel to either side of the aisle, had been added to the old US-manufactured bus when it was refitted with a bigger engine, a six-speed gearbox, a destination board, and longer seats. A metal plate above the steps indicated the Blue Bird bus had been made in Buena Vista, Virginia, in 1990. I’m sure the people who made this bus never envisioned it looking like this.

  Most of the interior had been painted the same colors as the bus’s exterior. However, DRUG-FREE ZONE showed through where the paint had worn above the driver’s seat, next to the wide rearview mirror. Christmas lights and a large gold cross hung from the top of the front window. Adhered to the driver’s side window was a large transparent decal of Mother Mary. Above it, LE DOY GRACIAS A DIOS POR BENDECIRNOS had been stenciled in red, in a crescent shape and enhanced by yellow hearts. I thank God for blessing me too.

  Tucked into the driver’s window visor was a photo of a woman and four young children. Ari felt some relief wash over her; the driver had deep faith and a lot to lose by being careless. An older man sat in the seat behind the driver. His soiled straw cowboy hat was pulled down over his brow. From his slumping, relaxed posture, he looked to be sleeping. Hopefully a relief driver. Just in case.

  Loosening her grip meant Ari would surely land on top of the young child slumbering in his dozing mother’s lap to the right of her, risking serious injury to the boy or his mother and incurring mother-wrath as the bus hurtled along its route. If the bus lurched the other way, she might be thrown into the lap of the wizened white-haired man to her left. Back in the US, standing in a moving bus was frowned upon. However, here, on her third bus ride in Guatemala and her first time on a chicken bus, standing-room-only seemed to be the norm, along with sharing a space with a host of animals.