=====o=====================================================o===== Title: "Xibalba" Author: Mary Ruth Keller E-mail: mrkeller@eclipse.net Rating: PG-13 for violence Category: X - An X-File Spoilers: "Syzygy" and assorted prior episodes; story follows on after "Sins of the Fathers" Keywords: Mulder/Scully Friendship Summary: While Mulder vacations with his Mother in Mexico, Scully commits then to solve the disappearance of two archaeologists. During the investigation, the X-team finds themselves prisoners of Zapatista rebels and targets of an assassin sent by the Consortium. Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program, "The X-Files" are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. They have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Any other characters or phrases the reader recognizes belong to their respective creators and owners, are also used without permission, and with no intent of copyright infringement. Readers are free to place this story on any web-page or archive as long as my approval is first obtained, and as long as my name and E-mail address remain attached. This work must not be used for profit. Short explanatory note: The world of the Maya is full of wonderful twists and turns, some historical, and some spiritual, perfectly suited for an X-file. Just a few comments before we get started so the terminology won't drive you away. First, most Maya consonants and vowels are pronounced as in English, with the biggest exceptions being 'x', 'ch', and 'tz'. The consonant 'x' is pronounced as a long 'sh', so my fictional Maya king's name, 'Ux Balam' would sound like 'Oosh Baa-LAAM'. The 'ch' is basically a shorter 'sh', and the 'tz' sounds much as it would in German, or like the zz in 'pizza', so the Maya city-state of 'Chichen Itza' should be pronounced as 'shee-SHEN eet-ZAH', if you care. The Maya concept of 'way' is much like the 'Force' in the Star Wars trilogy, in that it is everywhere and in everything. It can be controlled by Shamans to speak to those in the Otherworld, which is like an alternate reality coexisting with our own, that overlaps with the Maya underworld of 'Xibalba' (Shee-BAAHL-bah, lots of fun to say). =====o=====================================================o===== Part I - Conjuring the Way -----o-----------------------------------------------------o----- Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it; stay, and speak! The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark -----o-----------------------------------------------------o----- Seibal Ruins Border of Mexico and Guatemala Saturday July 6, 1996 12.19.2.6.18 4:30 pm "Send that pickaxe down here!" Dr. Steven Waters, the leader of the expedition, called from the bottom of a pit dug down through the center of the pyramid that was both tomb and temple. Originally a scholar of the Classical Greeks, he had been drawn to the Maya in graduate school, fascinated by the idea of ancient American astronomer-priests. Tall and lanky, his now-greying blonde hair and pale skin showed Viking blood somewhere in his Saxon past. These long, hot summers in the Central American rain forests were his favorite time of year, an escape from the tedium of faculty meetings and classes. He and an international team of archaeologists were excavating what they suspected to be the as- yet unplundered tomb of one of the kings of Seibal. Three-Jaguar were the original titles assigned the glyphs that formed the king's name, but it would have been spoken in ancient Cholan as Ux Balam. The pyramid raised over Ux Balam had cost his people dearly, taking five years to complete. It had diverted resources from the wars that were plaguing the Maya cities, contributing to the eventual fall of Seibal to its enemies. But to the archaeologists and ethnographers, if it was unopened, the tomb was a time capsule to the late Classic Maya of the Southern Lowlands. The pick struck at a visible crack, then a small block of stone was pried free from the tomb covering. Dr. Waters stuck a flashlight in the opening and flicked it on. The light reflected off five skeletons, laid out on top of an elaborately carved stone plate. So far, the grave was like that of the great king Pacal at Palenque. Dr. Robert Harris, co-leader of the expedition, stepped off the ladder at the bottom of the pit. In many ways, Bob Harris was a complete contrast to Steve Waters. Short and dark of skin and hair, trained in the new school of Maya scholarship, his idea of good research was not sweating in the jungle. He preferred sitting back in the lab with his graduate students, debating the nature of the Maya world-view while interpreting the glyphs. "How does it look, Steve?" Harris queried. Dr. Waters rose to hand the flashlight to his sweating colleague. "Take a look, Bob. I think you were right. But why, at this late date, the people of Seibal were taking all this care with Ux Balam, I still don't understand." Bob Harris took the flashlight and peered in. It was all that the glyphs on the tree stones lining the road to the pyramid had said. A great tomb, for a great king. "I'll send the Maya shaman down here. This is one of his ancestors, not just a puzzle for the great white thinkers to solve. It's good to be doing this right for once." The two scholars agreed, and had taught their students, that the Maya was a living culture, albeit one that had deliberately abandoned its literate past. The end had come when the sacrifices of the kings, the ritual ball-games, and the offerings of blood could not convince the gods of the Otherworld and in Xibalba to send them more rains and corn. That the cities had been the cause of the trouble was something the Maya could not have understood. They had built on the rivers that ran to the Gulf, covering up the best cropland, forcing the people to cultivate and heavily irrigate the poorer soils of the hills. Population pressures eventually overwhelmed the agriculture of the time, advanced though it was. Once the cities and the way of the kings was abandoned, the rivers reclaimed the land, and life could begin again. --o-0-o-- There was barely enough room in the pit for the Shaman to move around as he sought the blessings of the deities he was invoking. The scholars, graduate students, some of the Maya workers, and a few representatives of the nearby towns were in the pit. They had pushed back against the walls to let the ritual continue. Despite the consideration of his audience, Peter Torres found himself shuffling while rotating in one place, rather than circling the opening, as he would have preferred to do. He had laid out the sacred grains of corn, followed by a circle of black and white beans, then piled a few pieces of chicken on top. His teachers would have sacrificed a live chicken and let the blood run over the food, but these were new times, and one had to adjust. Just as one did not use one's Maya name with the whites anymore. These scholars had surprised him with the depth of the understanding of the old ways, claiming they could read what the ancestors had written. Glyphs, they had called the markings, and had told him the names of the stars as he had learned them, all hidden from the Catholic Priests. As a precaution, he began by invoking the names of the deities the Church had taught, calling on the Blessed Mother and her Son, before asking for those he believed truly controlled the fate of the Maya today. He stopped the ritual and was still. Torres frowned. He waited, but there were no further words to be had. He turned to the two archaeologists. "Dr. Waters, Dr. Harris, you should stop digging here." The silence in the pit was broken by a collective gasp. The two scholars exchanged glances. Bob Harris spoke. "Why is that, Peter? Should we have left the ceiling of the tomb sealed before you got here?" The Shaman shook his head. "No. He has told me to leave. Told us all to leave." Steve Waters took up the questioning. "Who told you we should leave?" It was all very well to respect Maya religion, but this was more than he could stand. There was knowledge in that tomb that belonged to all people, the Maya included, and they just couldn't walk away now. "He did. The ancestor lying here told me." The few Maya diggers and locals began to climb up the ladder and out of the tomb. The graduate students were concerned, confused. Would their professors' respect for the Maya ways actually overcome their scientific curiosity? Dr. Waters persisted in his questions. "Who is he, Peter? Ux Balam? Why would Ux Balam want us to stay away from his own tomb?" The Shaman shook his head again. Despite all their learning, they still did not understand. They knew each king crossed to the Otherworld in prayer and ritual to wrestle knowledge of the future for the spirits there, but they still did not believe. He could do nothing for them, so followed the other Maya up the ladder. --o-0-o-- Mt. Vernon Bike Trail Alexandria, VA Saturday August 3, 1996 12.19.2.8.6 8:30 am Fox Mulder was slogging along in the fifth mile of a ten mile Saturday morning run. He had started early to escape the heat and humidity he knew would rise up later in the day. Riding wheel to wheel, two cyclists slipped silently past him. Why anyone would push themselves like that he couldn't understand, and he was very familiar with many forms of self torture. Normally he only ran eight miles, but today he had some thinking to do, and a tough decision to make. He wanted to use the exercise to drain his emotions and clear his head. He heard the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of a roller-blader coming up behind him. "Passing on your left." It was a woman's voice, set deep in her throat, attempting to sound like a man as a rudimentary measure of self defense. He waved the woman around. She passed him and slid back to the right on the narrow strip of pavement. The trail crossed over several inlets as it wound from the Lincoln Memorial down to George Washington's home along the Potomac River. When it did, the surface switched from pavement to wooden planking on flat walkways. The woman had reached one of these low bridges, and as she rolled onto it, her in-line skates started rattling. Mulder snorted. Rollerbladers were as weird-looking as cyclists, since both wore similar gaudy helmets and tight lycra outfits. The serious cyclists wore those strange cleated shoes that made them walk like ducks, but the bladers were worse, with the black elbow and knee pads. He watched the woman pull away from him. Well, the tight lycras had certain benefits. They certainly showed off the figure of the short woman in front of him to advantage. Wait, that short woman had shoulder length red hair. That woman was... "Scully! Wait up!" She flashed a teasing smile over her shoulder. "Catch me, Mulder!" She pumped her arms faster, pulling further away. Mulder started running, flat out. --o-0-o-- Dana Scully was enjoying herself. She knew her partner, even with his longer legs, couldn't keep up with her once she took off. She had begun rollerblading on Memorial Day weekend, after borrowing a pair from a old friend from Medical School. Her knees and ankles had been hurting from all the jogging, but she didn't want to purchase and maintain a bicycle for exercise. Besides, these she could throw in a bag for trips in the field with Mulder, and occasionally, Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Skinner's presence on field missions had been the string the Smoking Man had attached to the reinstatement of the X-Files. None of the three of them could figure out why that had mattered so much, but they had all sought to make the best of it, even her normally uncooperative partner. Walter Skinner appeared to enjoy being out in the field again and away from the politics of Washington. She checked back over her shoulder. Mulder was about a quarter of a mile behind, running with a look of grim determination on his face. But she didn't care. Today, and for only today, she would beat Fox Mulder on foot, unlike all those chases where his long legs quickly out paced hers. But, then she would feel about as tall as her Pomeranian, and would get about as much respect. Noticing she had reached Belle Haven Park, she looked to her car, sitting in the lot to her right. She rolled to a stop, happy to have finished her eight miles for the day, so early. Her partner had fallen back some, and she hoped his leg hadn't started to hurt him again. She tried to pick out the emotions playing on the distant face, but he was too far away for her to see anything other than intense concentration. Scully pulled a bag out of the back of the car and sat on the left end of one of the benches off the trail. Mulder finally caught up to her after she had removed the skates and was tying the laces on her street shoes. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees. At least his mind was free of worry, but at this moment, he never wanted to move again. He staggered over to collapse on the bench, still out of breath. She held out a water bottle. "You okay, Mulder?" He shot her a look of pure fury as he took the water. He took the bottle, shot some liquid in his mouth, and smirked. Staring intently at the river, he aimed out of the corner of his eye, and squirted water on his partner. She let out a 'Mulder!,' then laughed as the cool fluid hit her hot skin. Mulder grinned as he set the tube on the bench. "Feel great, Scully." He picked up one of the skates and made a great show of examining it carefully. "Okay, I give up, you take them off already?" "Take what off, Mulder?" He looked up at her, delighting in her confusion. "The jet engines you had clipped on here." She laughed again, a good long belly laugh. Months ago, a comment like that would have been passed over without a smirk, but then she hadn't been sure she would have stopped to talk to him on the trail, so bad had things been between them. Now, however, their partnership had settled back into its old groove, and they felt completely at ease around each other. Before Mulder had received the digital tape with the Roswell data, she would have reacted with a tight-lipped smile, then stalked to her car. If anything, they were closer now than before. She knew his quirks, his flaws, and his strengths, as did he, hers. It made their partnership better, even though they still argued fiercely about the X-Files cases they solved together. She sobered, reading his pensive face as he slouched, staring out over the water. "Mulder, you okay?" she asked a second time. When he didn't respond, she reached over to poke his arm. "Earth to Agent Mulder. Come in please." Running had cleared his head, his decision was made, so he turned to face her. "Scully, would you and your Mom like to come down to Mexico with my Mom and me in a couple of weeks?" He let out a whoosh of air. She grunted and tucked her right calf up under her left thigh, angling to face him. "What are you talking about? I thought you were having trouble getting your Mom to speak with you." He was staring back at the river again. "Mulder?" Sitting up, he swiveled on the bench to rest his arm on the back. "She called me last night. She wants to take me down to the Yucatan for a week at the end of this month. Alone. She says it's really cheap down there this time of year." He focused on her face. "I told her I needed to think about it. I have." He lifted both eyebrows, silently waiting for her answer. "Mulder! That's great!" She tipped her head to one side. "But my Mom and I would just be intruding. You and she need to talk. We couldn't, and my Mom would back me up. You two go." He frowned, then looked back at her car. "That's part of the problem. I don't know where to start with my Mom. It would help if there were other people there. Just ask your Mom for me, okay?" He was pleading with her now, so she nodded, knowing it would be easier to let him down gently, even though her mother would agree with her. Since his mood was beginning to darken, she thought quickly. "How about some breakfast?" His hazel eyes glittered. "Breakfast and what else?" "Breakfast and a flea dip for the Fuzzy Wonder are all I have on my schedule this morning." He groaned. --o-0-o-- Delta Flight 537 Friday, August 23, 1996 12.19.2.9.6 10:30 am "You okay, Mom? Would you like some water?" Caroline Mulder nodded. The dry recirculated air on the plane had set her coughing, so her son was looking down at her, worried. At her silent request, he unclipped his seat belt to head for the back galley of the airplane, where the flight attendants had congregated between take-off and serving lunch. She thought back over the past twenty-four hours. He had been so very pleasant since she had arrived yesterday evening. First, a light dinner at a lovely French restaurant in Chevy Chase, then a quick trip to Nordstrom's in Pentagon City on the way home. She had not traveled for any length of time in years, and she was not prepared. He suggested that they replace her old luggage with something lighter, and she had agreed. He had even waited patiently while she fussed over matching colors. But, by 10:30 yesterday evening, she was finally all packed. He had one bag to her five, and seeing them, she thought back to the one beaten leather case that had contained all her worldly possessions when she left Europe, a refugee, so many years ago. She had slept in his bed, rather than at a hotel, after he reassured her that he didn't mind, the futon was fine. She smiled, thinking of one of her many conversations with Margaret Scully about her son and Margaret's daughter, Dana. --o-0-o-- "Caroline, when did Fox stop sleeping on beds?" Caroline's face darkened, thinking of those grim, sad years right after Samantha's "disappearance". Margaret, seeing her expression shift, simply nodded. She knew. But she wanted to raise her friend's spirits, so leaning over the little cafe table, she caught Caroline's attention by touching her arm. "I ask, because he wouldn't use the extra room I offered him, except to store his clothes and change." Caroline's curiosity was piqued. "When did he stay with you?" "Over the weekend of the Fourth. He had wanted to get out of the city before all the tourists got in, so he and Dana drove over for those four days. Those two would stay up talking, late, every night. I would come down in the morning, after seeing Dana in her old room, and there he'd be, zonked out on the sofa, with the remote control on his chest. Never once, could I get Fox upstairs if it was dark. Dana told me not to fuss at him about it, so after the second night, I gave up." "You don't suppose they're...?" Margaret laughed at the shared motherly thought. "Caroline! You should know better. Can't you hear them now?" The two women spoke together the words they had heard their children say so often. "Mom! We're *partners*!" Both of them broke out in giggles like gossiping schoolgirls. "Well, Margaret, the more we push, the harder they'll push back." "And Dana can be the stubbornest child, if she wants." Caroline shook her head. "No, your girl has nothing, and I mean nothing, on my son." --o-0-o-- Deedee Miller looked up at the passenger standing at the galley door. She recognized the man from a Phoenix to La Guardia overnighter in March, and he looked healthier and calm. When she saw him last, his eyes had been so haunted. "May I help you, sir?" He smiled at her. "I'd like to get a glass of water." She stood to reach into a refrigerator below the counter. "Would you like a bottle to take back to your seat?" He nodded, so she began to dip a plastic cup into a bucket of ice, but he shook his head. "No, no ice. My mom doesn't like ice in her drinks." Her friend Sarah Rogers had teased her mercilessly about the ease with which she gave her heart to strangers. But someone who was this good-looking, this gracious, should be able to have any woman in the world. She held out the cup and the bottle separately. He took them, smiled again, and left. Sarah and she were going to have a long talk tonight, once they met in Houston. --o-0-o-- Mulder poured the spring water for his mother. "Fox? What's wrong?" Caroline had seen him frown. "Nothing, Mom. The flight attendant kept looking at me funny." Caroline shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Well, you do fly often, dear. She may have seen you on another flight. Do you remember her?" He shook his head. "Mom?" "Yes, dear?" "Are you sure you're up for this trip? It's not only a stay on the beach, we have a four day cruise upriver to look at ruins, too." He remembered his mother as having been bed-ridden for much of the first years of his life. Even now, she seemed so tiny, smaller even, than his partner had been last March when she had nearly died. His mother brightened. "Why, yes, Fox. I've been looking forward to this trip with you for a month now." She remembered the dark time when she had been afraid that if she saw Fox, she would break her promise to the man in the smoke-filled room, and she would lose him for good. She had canceled Mother's Day, her birthday, and that same Fourth of July he had been with Margaret. Then she had worked up the courage for this. She had to know how her son had turned out. Was he a spy, like his father, all sweet words and dark deeds? Or was he still the silly, clever boy he had been before Sam had been taken and the family had broken under her loss? They had talked so little since then. She smiled up at him, trying to reassure him, as much as herself. --o-0-o-- Seibal Ruins Saturday, August 24, 1996 12.19.2.9.7 12:00 pm Progress had been very slow. After the Shaman's warning, none of the Maya would participate in the dig, so the scholars and graduate students were doing all the work, not just sorting and cataloging the materials found. But they were finally ready to lift the great tomb cover off the last remains of Ux Balam. Drs. Harris and Waters had respected the proprieties of the dead king, digging out the side chambers first, removing the bones of the attendants buried alongside their ruler. They were there for their champion as he played the great Ballgame with the Lords of the Dead. "Okay, just a little more slack, Jerry!" Bob Harris called up to the biggest of their graduate students. Jerry Collins was that rarest of birds these days, a scholar- athlete. He was an offensive lineman on the school's football team, with the makings of a fine archaeologist, if only he could stay out of the Pro draft long enough to finish his dissertation on late Maya temple architecture. The two men slid the straps under the stone lid, using guide strings to keep the straps from disturbing the contents of the grave. This was dangerous work. They didn't want the graduate students injured raising the lid out of the shaft, so the project leaders had taken this final responsibility themselves. "There's that smell again, Steve. Like blood." Steve Waters looked over at his colleague as they adjusted for a final fit and tightened the lifting straps. "You just put too much faith in the Maya legends, Bob. I don't smell anything. There's no way there could be fresh blood anywhere down here. Okay, Jerry, pull'er up!" The great stone plate lifted, slowly at first, only a few inches, then more rapidly. The power wench on the scaffolding erected above the pit was more effective as the added weight of the coiled chains on the wench counterbalanced the force of gravity on the tomb cover. But the recent rains, signaling a late end to the Canicula, had made the ground soft. Soil slipped under the additional load as the plate was halfway up the shaft. Jerry stopped the motor. "Dr. Harris, are you still there?" "Yes, Jerry, it's not as bad as it sounds. The walls of the pit should hold. Keep lifting!" The motor whined as Jerry started the wench up again. Bob Harris had a clear view of the contents of the sarcophagus and felt his face flush with excitement. It was intact. A mosaic mask of jade, shell, and obsidian lay on Ux Balam's face. The face was not real, but a clay mask placed on the skull so the King's features would live on after his death. Jade glowed in the light from the king's collar, hands, waist and feet, indicating his divine status. Excited, the two archaeologists stepped into the tomb. Neither of them heard the soil finally give way, and the plate fell, down, down, until it rested, intact, where it had been for over a millennium. --o-0-o-- Jerry Collins was the first down the ladder, but the other students were right on his heels, or, more accurately, his hands. They worked quickly, prying up the slab, sliding it over, then tipping it against the wall. He had not seen limbs sticking out of the grave as he descended, so he hoped they were alive, but unconscious. Once the lid was out of the way, the students were dumbfounded. Only the jade-covered bones of the long-dead Maya king were in the grave. --o-0-o-- Maya Lands Resort Ciudad del Carmen Saturday 7:30 pm Caroline Mulder leaned back from the table as the dessert plates were cleared away. Her son had been quiet at dinner, probably lost in his thoughts, again. Margaret had warned her that he could enter an almost trance, with very little warning. But not tonight. He lifted his face toward her, then sighed, having run out of safe conversational topics. "Mom?" "Yes, Fox?" "Would you tell me some of the things you remember of Vienna before the war?" When her face lit, he settled back to listen. "Oh, son. I wish you could have seen the lights for New Year's Eve in 1935." The back of the wicker chair creaked as she lifted one hand to rest on the table, tapping along to the waltz she could still hear in her head. "That was the year your uncle Isaac and I met Richard Strauss. What an insane old man! He danced with me, a fifteen year old girl, but he nearly had a heart attack trying to play the gallant." Her eyes were far away. As she went on, Fox Mulder heard stories of people long dead, synagogues that no longer existed, and houses full of warmth and laughter. The Podhowitzes had been wealthy merchants in the brief period between the wars. Their home had been full of friends, artists and musicians that flocked to the city of Mozart and Haydn. Not like the cold, silent house in Massachusetts that he remembered, especially after Sam was taken. Mulder let his mother's words flow over him, connecting him to his past. The thought occurred simultaneously to both of them. But, each had been trapped in their respective hells then. The little girl who was gone was the keeper of the keys that would free them both, when she was returned. However, each had a shaft of light into their torments that had allowed them to take these first steps, shafts of light named Scully. Margaret Scully had helped Caroline understand that she need not spend the rest of her life alone. Dana Scully had given Caroline's son back a part of his soul. She had taught him the importance of listening to someone else, rather than always trying to take the floor, be the center of attention. When she would argue with him, or, as he had dreaded early in their partnership, explain complex technical points to him, he no longer interrupted her with a jest. Or cut her off with a glare. Once he understood that she saw communication as connection, rather than competition, he began to discover facets of his partner he never knew existed. Just as he was learning with his mother now. "Your great-uncle Daniel's house was five stories. During the summer, it was always full of people." She stopped for a drink of water. "Mom?" She looked over at her son, observing the all too familiar haunted, hollow cast to his face. "Why didn't you ever go back? I mean after the war?" She looked down at her hand, now motionless on the table, before responding. "Your father said it wasn't safe, and that we couldn't afford for me to go. The government would pay his way, but I..." He frowned. "But you had money of your own, Mom. You worked with Dad during the war before you were married..." He stopped, puzzled at the horror on her face. "Fox! How did you know I worked with your father?" "Dad told me. Last year." He leaned over to rest his hand on hers. "Mom? what's wrong?" She was shaking, almost at the point of tears. "Fox, promise me something." He nodded. She was gripping his hand as if she were about to be carried away in a gale. "Promise me that you'll never, ever, tell anyone that you know I worked with your Father. Please, son. Promise!" "Sure, Mom, whatever. I promise. Okay?" She nodded, finally, and released his hand. "Fox?" "Yes?" "I think I'd like to go up to my room. We'll be getting started early, and I need to take care of a few things." Mulder stood and escorted his mother to her room, fearing he would never understand her. --o-0-o-- Xibalba No place No time Ux Balam heard the Shaman calling him, but he was concentrating on the game. Itzam-Balam, his opponent, the Shield-Jaguar, had just struck a good blow to the great ball. It bounced off one of the side walls, and Ux Balam had to slide to get his hip under the ball to keep it in the air. He sent it against the far wall, past the Spirit who was the way of the Kings of Seibal and out of the Court. Another score. Now, to the message he had for the Shaman. But, he could say no more, since Itzam-Yeh had called for the game to begin again, and he had to focus. His people on the stone benches called encouragement, as well they should. He, Ux Balam, had been captured in battle by the king of Dos Pilas, with his warriors. Normally, they would have been sacrificed to the gods, but he had played the Game of Death with his rival king, and had won, even after a week of fasting and forced confinement. That had earned his freedom, and the freedom of all his men. --o-0-o-- Ux Balam scored again. The Lords of the Otherworld never tired, but he was the shade of a mortal man. He did not know how long he had played the game, only that while he did, his people would be safe. So, he continued, never forgetting he was a great king. Then, to the surprise of the assembled spirits and deities, Itzam-Yeh called an end to the game. "New players!" Ux Balam turned to the Great Lord. He saw two men approach the court, their faces pale with fear. No, the paleness was all over their bodies, and they had flat noses, not the strong features of his people. He walked over to them, they touched, and he passed his secrets to them. In no time, speaking as between shades, he told them the strengths of his opponents, and their weaknesses. They told him who they were, and how much time had passed since Ux Balam had descended to Xibalba. He needed to speak with the Shaman who had called to him. --o-0-o-- Maya Village Chiapas, Mexico Sunday, August 25, 1996 12.19.2.9.8 Sundown In the center of a circle of alternating white stones and red maize kernels, Peter Torres placed the stingray spine. He wanted to speak to the ancestor who had called out the warning to him, but the rituals he had learned would not work. The missing archaeologists had showed him these older rites, ones the ancestor knew and had used. He wanted to try them, to see if they would open him to the way of the Otherworld, but not to the way of the kings. He would touch the spine to his tongue, hoping to draw enough blood to dissolve the boundaries between matter and the spirits. After finishing his incantations, he lifted the sacred guide high over his head, then plunged it down. As he swayed in prayer, the spirit world appeared, and he faced Ux Balam. "Great ancestor! Speak to me!" The shade of the king nodded, the parrot feathers in his headdress exaggerating the movement. "Holy man, hear my words." The shaman concentrated on the shade before him. "The earth will shake; my people must be protected. Have them leave the mountain, and go into the Mother-forest." The king looked down at the shaman's body, that had fallen to the ground. "K'awil, it is time for your helpers to take you back. You should have fasted and prayed more before starting down this path." "Mighty king, I have no helpers." Ux Balam stepped back, deep in sorrow. "It is so late in Time. You and your people do not know the full ritual. You only know some of this, and only what the two pale men told you. How could you have started what you could not finish?" He touched the Shaman's shade. "This will help you in Xibalba. Play well, K'awil. I must go and help my people, somehow." --o-0-o-- Along the Usumacinta River Chiapas, Mexico Monday August 26, 1996 12.19.2.9.9 5:30 pm The two Mulders were stretched out on sun bleached wooden deck chairs, enjoying the cooling river breezes. Mulder was barefoot, wearing a black tank top and a pair of khaki Dockers shorts. Caroline, in contrast, had donned a broad-brimmed floppy green hat, a brightly colored cotton dress, and white sandals. They were on the flat roof of a riverboat, surrounded by rows of other vacationers, all out in the fine clear weather. It was supposed to rain on Tuesday, but be dry for the trip to Palenque. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear your stories to your son last night." Caroline Mulder opened her eyes. The stout woman of middling height bending over them was white-haired, like herself, but the wrinkles on her face were deep lines around her mouth. Caroline's were on her forehead and around her eyes, not from laughing as much as this woman obviously had. Mother and son focused on her. The woman extended her hand. "I'm Miriam Jenkins. That's my husband, Benjamin, over there." She pointed at a bald wiry man with sparkling eyes, who waved at his wife. "Are you Jacob and Deborah Podhowitz's daughter?" "Yes, I am." Caroline sat up, intrigued. "Are you from Austria yourselves?" Mulder half-listened to the conversation. His mother had resumed telling him about Vienna in the morning after they had boarded the flat river boat. His head was swimming with stories of parties, concerts, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and trips to the Opera. It was no wonder his mother had been so quiet in Chilmark. After having a life like that stripped away by the horror of war, she must have spent years in deep depression. "Oh, yes. I remember that house of your Uncle's." She turned to Mulder. "Before we two old ladies start boring you again, young man, I must remember my manners and ask. My husband is a real estate agent. What do you do?" Mulder sat up, considering. Two trains of thought were running in his head: and He extended his hand, and she shook it. "I'm an Federal Agent, Ma'am. I work for the FBI." Miriam's eyes widened. "Doesn't the FBI require a college degree to join?" He shrugged. "I have a degree in Psychology from Oxford University. I used my training to do profiles of serial killers. Now I investigate cases that are of a unique or exceptional nature." Miriam was inspecting him closely, noting the scars on his shoulder and legs, and it was more than he could take. He swung his legs off the lounge. "Would either of you ladies like something to drink before dinner?" They were due to pull ashore in an hour at a small resort, where they would take the evening meal and spend the night. Caroline understood her son's need for privacy. "Why, yes, Fox. A small glass of white wine would be lovely. Miriam?" "No, I'm fine, thanks." Mulder stood to walk to the stairs down to the bar on the lower level of the boat. Miriam Jenkins watched him go. "He's a fine young man. But Fox?" Caroline shook her head. "That was his father's choice. I was so happy to have him at forty I almost didn't care what we named him. It should have been for his great-uncle Daniel. They share the same long body and graceful hands." Caroline smiled at Miriam. "I left Vienna in 1941. When did you get out?" Miriam's face darkened. "We almost didn't. We were on the train with your family. But there was a fire in our car, and we escaped into Switzerland with only the clothes on our backs. We had friends in North Carolina who acted as our sponsors so we could emigrate to America." Mulder returned with the wine for Caroline. "Mom?" She took a sip and smiled up at him. "Yes, Fox?" "I need to go make a phone call. I'll be back, okay?" She nodded her consent. Walking quickly to the front of the boat, he took the stairs off the upper deck two at a time. Miriam used the distraction to change the topic of conversation to a more pleasant subject than the dark days before the war. "I noticed he wasn't wearing a ring. Is he...?" Caroline laughed, remembering many similar conversations. "No, he's not married. Never has been. He had one serious relationship at Oxford, then nothing, as far as I can tell." She thought of Dana Scully. "He works with a wonderful Catholic woman at the FBI. She's a medical doctor, a pathologist. They seem to adore each other, but I have been told, more times than I care to count, that they are *just* *partners*." The two women rolled their eyes. "Well, in that case, Caroline, you should have him meet my cousin Esther's girl..." --o-0-o-- Basement J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday 3:30 pm Scully stood in the center of the basement office she shared with Mulder. He had been gone two working days on vacation with his mother, and, with no autopsies or open X-files cases to handle, she was contemplating reorganizing the office in Mulder's absence. She hated his filing system. With his photographic memory, all he needed to do was read something once and lay it aside. She had long since adjusted to riffling through the stacks of paper on his desk, ignoring those magazines of his when they turned up. But, now that they were working with Walter Skinner on a semi-regular basis, they had to be more organized. She had, as she promised her partner she would, asked her mother about the trip. The two Scully women, upon comparing stories, realized that Caroline Mulder and her son were terrified of this week, but too proud discuss the problem with each other. Her grand plan for chronological filing and alphabetical color codings on locations, victim's names, and perpetrator's identities was disrupted by the phone ringing. She crossed back to her desk to answer it. "Scully." She was surprised, disappointed, and pleased, all at once, by the voice from the phone. "Hey partner, catch any mutant alien killers without me?" "Mulder! Are you okay? Is your Mom all right?" She sat down, hoping it wasn't bad news. "Yeah, we're fine. I just wanted to keep in touch. You rearranging the office or something forbidden like that?" "Thinking about it. Gloria swears words my father didn't even know every time Director Skinner sends her down to find something here." She could hear glass clinking in the background. "Where are you calling from, a kitchen?" "No, more like a bar. We're cruising up the Usumacinta River to see the ruins at Palenque on Wednesday." He leaned against the booth and dropped his voice. "She's found someone who knew her family back in Austria. Thanks to you, partner, I've heard more about lovely Vienna than I ever thought I needed to know." He tried to send his gratitude to her in the lightness of his voice. "I had to leave. I was being cased as husband material, Scully." They both smiled. As long-time singles, each had endured their share of 'I have a wonderful cousin who's just dying to meet someone like you.' discussions. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "How are you doing, really?" The relaxed tone disappeared, then the serious thinker who was her partner replied. "She knows something about the war. I think she knows some of the stuff we found out. She's scared." He fell silent, unwilling to risk any information over the phone. She silently promised them both. He sighed, wishing his partner and Margaret Scully come along on this trip, so he wouldn't feel like he had to be on his best behavior all the time. Despite her outward shows of stoic patience, he knew Scully enjoyed their banter and Margaret would look on whatever he did with fondness. After Sam was taken, none of them had much to say to the other, that he wanted to remember, anyway. Squinting at the reflections off the water, he answered her question. "But other than that, fine, actually. We saw some river porpoises yesterday. It's been kind of nice, not having to worry about ducking bullets, handling hostage negotiations, or being possessed by ghosts for a few days. But I wouldn't want to make a habit of this lifestyle. I'd go soft in a month if I wasn't constantly arguing with a certain stubborn red-headed doctor I know." "Mulder, this must be costing you a fortune. Either give me your number there and let me call you back, or go talk to your Mom." "Ah, they're probably naming the grandkids right now." He scuffed his foot lightly on the carpet. "Well, if you weren't such prime husband material..." He smirked, then frowned as the voice on the line was drowned out by a waiter shouting an order by his elbow. "You offering to take me off the market?" "Mulder! Go rescue your mother!" They smiled and hung up. Scully looked at the piles of paper. Mulder walked back to the stairs, shaking his head. --o-0-o-- American Embassy Villa Hermosa, Mexico Tuesday, August 27, 1996 12.19.2.9.10 11:45 am "Come in, it's open." CIA Special Operative Tom Rubins put down the file on the Zapatista rebels he was reviewing. His secretary, Maria Santina, poked her head in the door, smiling at the tall agent, whose brown hair was just a bit too long for regulations. Not that this small embassy concerned itself much with the rules, otherwise, she, as Tom's sister-in-law, would never have been hired. Tom smiled back, constantly amazed that two women of such different personalities as his wife and Maria were so alike, both so petite they were often mistaken for children. This sister's black hair almost touched the floor when she bent over, as she was now, and as she often did when chatting busily with the other Mexicans here. His serious artist-wife, Greta, usually kept hers tied back or up on her head, to keep it out of her oils. "That group of graduate students from the Seibal dig is here, Tom. Shall I send them in?" "Sure, Maria." She stepped back to close the door. "Oh, and Maria?" The hair flipped in before the head reappeared. "Hold my calls, if you please." He slipped the folders with the CIA logo back in his upper left drawer. There was no need to spook these poor kids. If the rumor circulating in the building was true, then they had seen quite enough in the past week. Five young men and women, looking worn and dirty, filed into his office. They had emerged out of the forest this morning with a tale of disappearing professors. He needed to get the story straight from their mouths, before the shock wore off, and they were turned over to their anxious parents back in Texas. He busied himself with arranging seats for them all by removing the chairs from around his small, cluttered conference table and lining them up in front of his desk. When they were settled, filling the tiny office, they looked to the robust young man in the center. "Mr. Rubins, I'm Jerry Collins." The others introduced themselves and Rubins nodded a greeting to each. "I was told by the ambassador that you need to hear our story in full detail, so let me begin." Tom Rubins liked directness, so he waved his assent. "It all started when we finally cleared off the roof over Ux Balam's tomb and Dr. Harris called in the Shaman..." --o-0-o-- Tom Rubins sat alone in his office, thinking. He had initially attributed the disappearance of the archaeologists to an attack by the Zapatistas, who might have considered the dig desecration of an ancestor's grave. Now, after hearing the students' story, he wasn't so sure. And, when added to the apparent suicide of the same Shaman involved in the Seibal dig, something just wasn't right. He cast about in his mind for a name. Yes, that was it, Mulder, the FBI agent who had been involved in a scandal back in March. He remembered the whole matter blowing up very quickly and disappearing from the news during the week he was in DC reporting to headquarters. He wanted to contact headquarters in DC, but whom? Stuart Peters still had copies of Mulder's 'recreational viewing matter'. Stu, his old college buddy, could fill him in on the scuttlebutt behind the headlines, so he punched in a familiar number. --o-0-o-- Along the Usumacinta River Chiapas, Mexico Tuesday, 1:30 pm Miriam Jenkins fanned herself. "You know, Caroline, if you really want to find out what happened to your parents, you should talk to Max. He was there, poor man." Mulder listened intently through half-closed eyes. The expected rains were falling in sheets, so the tourists had gathered on the main level of the boat. The largest portion of this deck was a dining room with a dozen or so brightly painted wooden tables, and cluttered with chairs. As seemed typical, the air conditioner was sporadic, at best. Caroline Mulder and her son, lean people both, had no trouble with the humidity, but Miriam's rounded shoulders were glistening with perspiration. Caroline leaned forward. "Do you have an address, or phone number for him?" Benjamin chuckled. "Won't need one. See that fellow over there, staring out at the rain?" He pointed to a tall spare white-haired man with a bushy white moustache. "That's Max Lowenberg. He was liberated from Dachau by the Allies. He lives in Miami, now, where we met him when we relocated in March of 1995." Benjamin turned to Mulder, who had tuned in to the discussion about Max, before he continued. "We had to get out of Manhattan after the blizzards swept up the coast. He's a wonderful fellow, if a little morose for my taste." Benjamin looked back to the two women. "He'd love a visit with you, Caroline. Didn't have any real friends between the time his wife died in 1991 and when we struck up a conversation at the cinema." Miriam took Caroline's hand. "Let me introduce you." The two women walked over to the man, who was sitting by himself at a small table. Benjamin saw a smirk pass briefly over Mulder's face. "Yes, young man. My wife is an inveterate matchmaker. Mark my words, if you don't get busy yourself, she'll have six eligible girls lined up for you by Thanksgiving." Mulder let out a snort. But her mother's new friend had sobered. "You're the FBI agent with those D'Amato papers, aren't you?" The hunter in Mulder snapped to attention and he sat up, focusing on the little man's face. "Yes, sir, I am. How do you know about them?" Benjamin smiled back. "The Internet isn't the province of only the young, you know. Did you know that the Mafia route through Italy was supposed to move our people out of Europe to Palestine?" The younger man was absolutely still, poised on the edge of his chair. "I thought not. But very few of them got out that way. Thanks to you and your partner, now we know why." He looked up as his wife returned. "We'll talk later, son." Mulder caught Benjamin's mischievous wink in his direction as Miriam sat beside her husband. She slid the chair in. "Now, Fox Mulder, FBI Agent, I can talk to you without your mother around to protect you. I noticed you aren't married, and my cousin Jerry has a lovely daughter..." Benjamin's amusement doubled as the hunter turned to the hunted in the blink of an eye. --o-0-o-- Max Lowenberg regarded Caroline Mulder cautiously. Caroline touched the numbers tattooed on his arm. "I won't ask if my parents survived the camp. I've been to the Holocaust Museum in DC. I saw their pictures. I know they are gone. But my brother, Isaac, he was not there in the faces. Did you see him? When did he die?" Max appeared hypnotized by a narrow stream of rainwater flowing off the overhanging upper deck. Resigned, he focused on her and was relieved to see not hope, just curiosity, in her features. "He didn't. We had to share a bed, you know. I hid him when they came for your parents." He covered her hand with his own. "He was one of those liberated with me. He said he was going to Russia to try to find your uncle Daniel." He bent down to look into her face, seeing the silent tears. "He knew you were safe, and he had to try to find the rest of your family. Did he never contact you?" She shook her head, afraid to speak. But right now, she believed that the one by whom she had two children was almost as much of a monster as the Smoking Man in the dark room. "Mom?" Her son's hand was on her shoulder, Mulder having used her distress as an escape from Miriam. "You okay?" She shook her head, needing to be alone for a few minutes. But, first. "Thank you, Mr. Lowenberg. You are a good man." She squeezed his hand in gratitude. "Please, call me Max." Mulder looked up at his face, then at his mother's bowed head. "Fox?" "Yes?" "I'd like to step outside for a little bit." "But, Mom, the rain." Standing to contain the younger man, Max took his arm. "Let her go, son." Caroline left, hovering just outside the door, but not in the full downpour. Mulder spun on his heel, his eyes blazing. "What did you tell her?" His voice was a low growl. Max shook his head. --o-0-o-- J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Wednesday, August 28, 1996 12.19.2.9.11 3:30 pm Walter Skinner took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as the two CIA agents seated across from him waited. He replaced his wire rims, then punched in the number for the basement. When the call was answered on the third ring, he said simply, "Agent Scully, I'd like to see you in my office immediately, please." Tom Rubins and Stuart Peters exchanged significant glances. Finally, they were meeting the famous Dr. Dana Scully, one of the pair of FBI agents whose yellowed newspaper photos still dotted CIA headquarters. Skinner caught the exchange, and the slight smirk on Peters' face. --o-0-o-- Smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt and pulling down on her suit jacket, Scully prepared to enter the inner door to Skinner's office. She had been sorting files on the floor when Skinner had called, trying to decide whether Eugene Victor Tooms belonged under mentally deranged mass murderers or genetically manipulated mutants. AD Skinner rose to his feet when she entered, sweeping his arm towards his visitors to initiate the introductions. "Agent Scully, these are Agent Rubins and Agent Peters from the Central Intelligence Agency." She shook hands with the two men, then sat in a third chair. "How can the FBI help you, gentlemen?" Dana Scully listened while Tom Rubins relayed the details of the past few days to her. When he finished, she looked from one to the other. "And you think there is some connection between the two events?" Rubins nodded. She leaned back in her seat, working through possibilities before pursuing the matter further. Once Scully had her thoughts composed, she straightened, prepared to respond as one of the FBI's best and brightest. "I agree, the death of the Maya Shaman is strange, but the punctured tongue isn't. Scholarly research over the past thirty years has revealed much about the ancient Maya way of life. The kings and their families often punctured various parts of their anatomies to release blood. They believed it helped them achieve a trance state so they could 'pass to the other side', as it were. It might be that Peter Torres heard of the ritual from the archaeologists and decided to try it for himself. His death simply may be an unfortunate accident." She shrugged at the astonished CIA agents. Walter Skinner smiled at his guests' discomfort. Over the past few months, he had watched Dana Scully devastate rooms of officers with similar reasoning, occasionally turning the tables on her partner. Scully looked over to the empty chair beside hers. Ready to speak again, she tapped the arm of her chair. "You say that it had just rained the day before the professors disappeared, and that the students left almost immediately to get help?" Peters responded affirmatively. "They may have been buried under the floor of the grave by mud, although that's unlikely. Someone should probably go back to the dig site and check it out." Agent Rubins smiled, beginning to like this woman, who seemed rational and down to earth. She was someone he could work with, and totally unlike the reputation she had acquired. "Well, Agent Scully, that's more or less what I was hoping you would say." Walter Skinner decided to intervene. This wasn't an FBI matter, and smelled distinctly of trouble. A specific smell, if he thought about it. "Gentlemen, would you step outside for a moment, please?" The CIA agents exited, closing the door quietly. Skinner walked around to sit on the front of his desk. "Agent Scully, you realize you would be operating outside the scope of the FBI's jurisdiction once you leave the country? "Yes, I do, Sir." Their eyes locked, both well aware that the Smoking Man was looking for an opportunity to set the X-files up for failure or worse. Suspicious that Skinner's office was bugged, they would not speak of such matters here. "But, Sir, I don't think this has anything to do with our other problems. And I don't think the archaeologists' disappearance was a simple matter of mistaken loss by shocked graduate students, either. There's something going on. I'd like to check it out." Skinner stood over her. "Do you know how to get in touch with Agent Mulder, Scully?" She nodded. "He left me an itinerary, Sir. Today he is visiting the ruins at Palenque, and he said to call if anything came up." Assistant Director Skinner knew he had done more than that. He remembered Fox Mulder standing in his office last Thursday, looking like he was a six year old, wanting a favor from his older brother. --o-0-o-- "Yes, Agent Mulder?" Skinner had been filling out evaluation forms when Mulder walked in, unbidden and unexpected. "I thought you were leaving to meet your Mother an hour ago." Mulder had looked at his feet, then spoke quietly, "About Agent Scully, Sir." Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Yes, Agent Mulder?" The agent's voice dropped even softer. "Don't let her work too hard while I'm gone." The two men had locked eyes. "Will that be all, Agent Mulder?" The tall agent nodded, then left. --o-0-o-- "Besides, Sir - " her words interrupted his reverie, " - if I know Agent Mulder, he's heard about this through some strange channel he knows, and is already on the case, in one way or another." She smiled at her AD, who returned the expression. He had come to appreciate how strange Agent Mulder's channels were when he visited the Lone Gunmen's office in June. "Very well, Agent Scully. Contact Agent Mulder if you can and prepare to fly down with Agent Rubins tomorrow." She rose to let the CIA men back in. "Oh, and watch yourself. The place is crawling with Zapatista rebels. I'm surprised they're still running tour groups around down there." --o-0-o-- Dana Scully quickly assembled the papers on the floor in their original order and refiled them according to Mulder's 'system'. When she was finished, she looked around the room. It looked as if nothing had changed after all her hard work and planning. Scully wondered if he would notice if she had misplaced a few papers and found herself hoping he would, so she could tease him about his habits. Her partner had been gone for six days, during which she had stopped herself several times before she began speaking to his unoccupied desk. --o-0-o-- END - XIBALBA - CONJURING THE WAY