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Copyright © 2015 Jo Lynn Curry

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

www.jolynncurry.com

ISBN: 978-1-63192-693-8

ISBN: 9781483551937

First printing: February 2015

Printed in the United States of America

MAYAN WORD PRONUNCIATIONS

CHAPTER 1

Saturday, June 8, 2012. Ann Arbor, Michigan

I dreamt again last night, the same dream of darkness and blood—of whispers and caresses. They were so incongruous, these dreams of cruel violence and unfathomable fear, softened by tender touches and soothing whispers. I didn’t understand them, but they terrified me nonetheless.

The dreams begin happy enough. We’re laughing in the sun at first, but the sunshine fades, along with our smiles, until we are enveloped in darkness, cold and complete. The “we” being myself, Laura Freeman, and my two beautiful teenage daughters, Rachel and Becca. As the darkness descends, I reach out frantically to grab my girls, but my arms flail helplessly through nothing. I try to scream—to call them to me—but the words catch in my throat, sticky as warm taffy.

A dank, musty odor rolls over me, suffocating in its pungency. It conjures up a primitive instinct that screams through my veins. Fear! Fire! Foes! Something evil is lurking in the dark, quietly stalking my daughters, and I am immobilized by terror with a frustratingly silent scream stuck in my throat.

“Mom! Help me, Mom!” The sound of Rachel’s panicked plea breaks the invisible bonds that clutch me, and I turn toward her voice. Before I can take a step, a high-pitched cackle pierces the thick blackness, and a bony hand shoves me hard from behind. I careen over an unseen precipice and hurtle head over heels, the wind whistling in my ears. My body folds into a tight ball, braced for the inevitable crash, and here is where the dream goes all weird on me, as if it wasn’t weird enough: a soft yet formless presence slips beside me and envelopes me in warmth and love. Its whispers are unintelligible, but the embrace is soft and soothing, like a warm salve to calm the terror within. This presence is hauntingly familiar as it pulls me up toward a spreading, muted light. The darkness fades away, and whispers from this gentle formless being become louder, more urgent, and frighteningly clear.

Save Rachel! Save Rachel! Save Rachel!

I awaken with hot bile in my throat and a cold band of panic crushing my body.

The first dream occurred two weeks ago, on the third anniversary of my husband, Mark’s, fiery death. They have happened almost nightly since, and in the beginning, I was only vaguely disturbed. At first, I thought they were just vestiges of the utter loss and desolation I had felt when Mark died. Now I wasn’t so sure. The intensity of the dreams was increasing, and that vague sense of foreboding was growing daily. I could no longer rationalize them away any more than I could squelch the lingering feeling that my daughters were somehow in danger.

I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of my lonely bed, shivering as the ceiling fan whipped cold air over my damp and clammy body. A hiss startled me, drawing my attention to the foot of the bed. Our normally docile cat, Maggie, was standing rigidly at the edge, all puffed and arched, her luminescent yellow eyes dilated and staring intently at me. She was such a good-natured cat, and her uncharacteristic behavior spooked me. Instinctively, I reached for her, and she hissed harder and crab-walked fearfully away from me. I jerked my hand back as the memory of the dream crashed through me, a single distinct whisper vibrating in my ears.

Save Rachel!

An intense shiver snaked down my body, and it wasn’t from the ceiling fan this time. I was frightened. What was going on? The dreams seemed to be affecting even my waking life, and I didn’t like it at all.

Tentatively, I patted the bed next to me and talked quietly to Maggie, the effort calming both of us. My familiar voice soothed her, and she hesitantly stretched her neck to sniff my hand. I could see her tense body visibly relax, but I waited until she was mostly de-puffed before I attempted to pet her. With her soft gray body relaxed and pliable again, she sidled next to me and pressed against my side, head-butting my hand in her familiar love-on-me gesture. Breath I didn’t even know I was holding sighed out of me, and I scooped her up to cradle in my arms.

Thoughts and emotions jumbled around in my head as I stroked and cuddled Maggie, trying to reason away the fear that still pressed into me. My reactions were reasonable, considering I had just awakened from a nightmare. But Maggie? Her reaction frightened me more than the nightmares themselves. Did her keen animal sense detect something I couldn’t, or was she just reacting to my emotions?

Absently, I stroked her soft, furry head and thought about our silly little hellion cat. Maggie had crawled into our lives shortly after Mark died. She wasn’t more than five or six weeks old and as scrabbly and sickly-looking as any kitten I had ever seen when, early one morning, we found her mewling pitifully on our front porch. It was love at first sight, though, especially for Becca. Maybe it was Maggie’s helplessness that tugged so hard at our hearts, but I suspect it had more to do with the healing process from a death that still clutched at us with a ragged, raw pain. Maggie quickly and inextricably entrenched herself into our little family, so no matter how much of a hellion she was, and make no mistake, she was a hellion cat, all she ever got was a squirt from a water bottle and then lots of hugs. Lucky cat. Damn lucky cat most days.

But why would our normally playful, lovable cat hiss and act frightened of me after the nightmare? I’d never been plagued with bad dreams, and this new phenomenon of my nights was getting to me. At first I could shake off the feeling of disquiet, but the repeating dreams left me with an unsettling sense of foreboding that lasted well into my day.

“Maggie, what in the world is going on?” I mused out loud to her. My only answer was a contented purr that rumbled against my arm. I smiled as I hugged her close, thankful for the comfort she gave. It was too tight for Maggie though, and she squirmed out of my arms and stretched at the end of the bed, her tail flicking playfully.

My sigh was still a little shaky as I pushed myself up and trudged into the bathroom to brush the last clinging bits of fear from my mouth. A soft tap on my bedroom door stopped me.

“Mom? Are you up yet?” It was Becca, whispering loudly through the door.

“Yes, and what in the world are you doing up so early? It’s a Saturday, for heaven’s sake,” I answered, pleased my voice did not quaver. I forced a smile onto my face.

Becca, my youngest daughter at fourteen years, was up at the crack of dawn for nearly a week now, fairly bursting with excitement in anticipation of our very first real vacation since her dad died. If truth be known, it was really our very first “real” anything since that fiery day.

The past three years had been a nightmare for all of us; a dark, bleak blackness permeated every aspect of our lives. It wasn’t until six months ago that I could even contemplate doing the fun things that Mark and I used to do with the girls, like vacations. Once the plans were finalized though, the three of us had been like excited, giddy schoolgirls, but not quite as much as Becca. She was excitement incarnate.

My fixed smile faded as Becca quietly opened the door and sat heavily on my bed.

“What’s the matter, honey?” I asked worriedly as I brushed her sleep-tangled blonde hair away from her face. She looked up at me, her big blue eyes soulful and glistening with tears. Two thin scratches marred her otherwise smooth, tanned cheeks.

“And what happened to your face? Those scratches weren’t there last night.”

“Mom, I had an awful dream last night. I don’t really remember a lot, but it was still creepy because the feeling that something awful was going to happen was so strong and…I don’t know…real feeling. Someone was chasing me, and it was so hard to breathe, like I was breathing through a plugged mask or something. I kept trying to wake up, but I couldn’t. Just when I thought I was going to suffocate, I felt something…I don’t know…good touch me.

“I think that thing that felt kinda good was coming to help me, but then Maggie woke me up, Mom, when she scratched my face. She was hissing at me too. I don’t know if I accidently hit her in my sleep and it made her mad or what. She’s never acted like that before, and it scared me.”

A cold, piercing stab of fear shot through my gut. I wanted to reach out to Becca—hold her—but my muscles would not respond. Becca didn’t notice.

“Do you think, Mom, that the dream means something bad is going to happen? That’s what I felt all through the dream, and I even have that terrible feeling now. Do you think something is going to happen to Maggie while we’re gone?” Her voice was dull and sad, and when she looked up at me with those baleful eyes, I somehow found the will to break the glue that held my muscles immobile.

I reached out and pulled her close. “No, baby, I don’t,” I lied. “I think it’s just nerves and excitement about Cancún that are working your mind into a pretzel. We’re going to have an absolutely wonderful time, so stop worrying. And Maggie will be right here when we get home, safe and sound.”

“But, Mom, you know what a brat she can be. And what about Toby? He’s a big dog, and he could squish her with one foot.”

“Uncle Jeff and Aunt Mary will take good care of Maggie and make sure that Toby doesn’t hurt her. Besides, she’s the top cat, and she’ll put Toby in his place easily enough.”

Fear bells were still clanging in my head, but I couldn’t let Becca know that. She was a perceptive child, and if she wasn’t so upset herself, I don’t think I could have pulled off hiding my own unease. I desperately wanted some time to think. Then another thought struck me.

“Becca, is this the first time you’ve had this bad dream?” I asked, tensing as I waited for her answer.

“I think so. I don’t know. Sometimes I wake up in the morning thinking I might have dreamt something scary, but this is the first time I really remember actually dreaming. But it’s only been maybe the last two weeks that I’ve felt… I don’t know…like I should be remembering something important when I wake up. Are you sure about Maggie, Mom? Really sure? She’ll be okay while we’re in Cancún?”

Icicles tingled down my spine. The way her dreams and feelings mirrored my own just seemed too coincidental and…well…just plain weird. But I didn’t want Becca to suspect the fear that was burning in the pit of my stomach. It was an effort to keep my voice normal.

“I’m sure, honey. It’s just we’re leaving in the morning, and I think you’re going to miss her, and this is your mind’s way of expressing that emotion.

“Since you’re up, why don’t you go downstairs and start getting things ready for pancakes? Maybe the smell will roll your sister out of bed.”

Becca screwed up her nose. “I don’t think so. She already yelled at me this morning because I was too loud. She thinks she’s just the queen bee around here since she graduated. Do we have to take her to Cancún with us? She’s such a pain.”

I had to admit, Becca was right. Ever since Rachel had become an almighty senior in high school, she was a pain, especially to Becca. She had always before allowed Becca to tag along wherever she went, but last summer she suddenly decided that she was too mature to hang out with her younger sister, and there had been hurt feelings and arguing over the past year. Still, in spite of Rachel’s obnoxious behavior, Becca would flip somersaults for her big sister if she asked.

I really wanted some time to think, so I pushed her teasingly away and said, “Go on, get those pancakes ready. I’ll be down in a few minutes to help.”

She gave me a half-hearted smile as she headed for the kitchen. Watching her slim frame disappear through the door, her slightly wavy blonde hair swaying, I was clutched with an overwhelming longing for Mark. I still missed him so much. He was the most sensitive, caring, and intelligent man I had ever met, and he would have known exactly what to say to assuage our fears.

If only he were alive.

Memories of Mark, soft and colorful like so much confetti sprinkling down from the sky, fell softly before my eyes: Mark smiling as he slipped my wedding band on my finger; strong, safe arms holding me tight; tears at the birth of our daughters; lovers’ whispers in the night. My most precious memories, though, were of Mark and the girls. He loved them so much! He and RaRa, his pet name for Rachel, shared a love of reading and often read books together. But Becca was the most like Mark, and the two of them shared a love of just about everything. Becca trailed after him no matter what he was doing.

I often think about the conversation Mark and I had the night before he died. In retrospect, it almost seems as if he had a premonition of his death.

Mark held me tight—so tight it almost hurt. His mouth was pressed close to my ear, whispering.

“You know I’ll always love you and the girls, don’t you sweetheart? I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

I squeezed him back and said playfully, “Like the vows we took, til death do us part!”

He didn’t laugh, though. Instead, he said very seriously, “Not even death can sever the love I hold for you. This love comes once in a lifetime, and it’s forever. No matter what, when you need me, I will find a way to come to you. I swear it, Laura, on the love I hold for you and the girls, I swear it!”

At the time, I thought what a sweet, typical Mark declaration. But the recent onslaught of these frightening dreams twisted my sweet memory into something more foreboding. What if there was a way to communicate from the other side? Had Mark found a way to reach me through dreams? If that one spark of goodness that I felt in my nightmares was Mark, what did he mean, save Rachel? Save Rachel from what? And how? And why was Becca having nightmares too, and not Rachel? What was Becca’s role in all this?

I had way more questions than answers. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have one single answer.

“Mark?” I softly called, feeling just a little foolish. “Mark? Is this you trying to communicate with me?” I stood very still, straining, listening, praying, but the room remained agonizingly silent.

I needed to get down to the kitchen to help Becca with breakfast before she popped back up to see what was keeping me, so I gathered up all my questions, and with difficulty, tucked them into a corner of my mind. Becca was my little worry-wart, and I didn’t want to give her any more reason to worry than she already had.

My maternal instinct, though, was still on painfully high alert. Until these dreams ceased, I knew I would be hovering over my daughters like an overprotective mother hen, shadowing their every move.

A quiet but vehement vow whispered from my lips, uttered with the complete conviction that I could shield and protect my daughters from the evils of the world. How naïve I was. There are evils in this world that are clever and malicious, and when evil comes courting, devastation follows.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, June 9, 2012

“Let’s go, girls! You need to eat before we leave!” I shouted up the stairs. Last night had been blessedly nightmare free, and I was feeling rested for once, in spite of lying awake half the night pondering Mark and my dreams and all those unanswerable questions that still pounded in my head. As I turned back toward the kitchen, my toe caught the edge of my suitcase that was leaning against the long table in the foyer, packed so full the zipper bulged. With a sigh I hoped it would hold together and bent over to gingerly poke at it. When I stood up, my elbow caught something on the table, and I jumped when it crashed to the floor.

A feeling of déjà vu washed over me as I stared at the fallen object, inexplicably afraid to touch it. Slowly I reached down and picked up the last family photo taken before Mark died and carefully turned the frame over. The glass was shattered, and yet every piece remained tenaciously in place. How odd, I thought, that something could be so broken and yet so intact. Softly I kissed the top of the frame and gently set it back on the table. As my fingers pulled away, I heard a small crackling sound and gasped. It was as if the glass over Rachel had convulsed, leaving her face completely hidden behind an opaque star burst of splintered glass. Tingling, burning fear pulsed through my veins.

I stepped back until I bumped into the far wall. I stood there for long moments, hugging that wall and swallowing down my fear, eyes riveted on the picture.

“Get a grip. This isn’t what you think it is,” I whispered, half under my breath. Slowly, I shuffled back to the picture and poked the frame. Nothing happened. I jiggled the frame a little—and then a little more. Still nothing happened.

“Okay. It’s all okay.” Relief shaded my voice. “It’s just a stress fracture that popped out from jarring the glass.”

“Mom!” Rachel yelled from the top of stairs, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Will you pop me in a bagel? I’ll be down in two minutes!”

Irritated for acting so stupid, I chided myself all the way to the kitchen, even as I gave the photo a wide berth and a wary look. Glad to have something normal to do, I dug the bagels out of the drawer and split two to toast, just in case Becca decided she wanted one, too.

While they toasted, my disobedient mind kept flipping up questions, like a crazy, backward Magic 8 Ball. All my reasoning’s for these unexplainable events fit very nicely and were certainly plausible. So why was I still feeling edgy? Sticky doubts still lingered, hanging tenaciously to the fringes of my rationale.

What the hell was going on? Was anything going on? Should I cancel our vacation? Was everything just a coincidence? Why was I so quick to succumb to blind fear? That was highly unlike me. I’m logical and rational, so much so that Mark used to tease me that I was more in touch with my masculine side than a lot of men he knew. So what was the rational, logical explanation for these spooky…what should I call them? Happenings? Instances? Warnings from beyond?

“Knock it off!” I scolded myself. “This is not a message from beyond. You’re just wound up about the first vacation without Mark and you’re sad and scared.”

That had to be it. I tried hard not to, but for a while now, I noticed that as time went on Mark did not occupy all of my thoughts. When did I stop asking myself what Mark would do and simply do what I thought was best? It saddened me, but I knew I was finally letting go of the life I had shared with Mark.

It was lonely, this business of moving on.

So the biggest question of all still remained: should I succumb to this irrational fear and cancel our much-anticipated and much-needed vacation or make the logical decision and continue moving on? I was still waffling when the girls came bumping down the stairs with their suitcases.

“Mom! You’re burning the bagels!” squealed Rachel as she flipped up the crispy disks. “Do we have any more? I hate burned bagels,” she said disgustedly as she tossed them into the waste basket.

“There’s a whole bag in the drawer. What about you, Becca? I burned one just for you too.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll have one. Have you seen Maggie, Mom? I haven’t seen her all morning.” Her voice was unusually subdued, and I glanced worriedly at her as I split two more bagels to toast.

“You okay, honey? Did you sleep well last night?” I asked, even though I suspected by her demeanor that she’d had another nightmare.

“Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t have another nightmare, if that’s what you’re asking. But I still can’t get over that awful feeling about Maggie.” She sat dejectedly at the kitchen table.

“What nightmares?” asked Rachel.

“It’s nothing, just a bad dream I had,” Becca said evasively, obviously not wanting to discuss her dreams with her big sister.

“Dreams don’t mean anything, anyway. It’s just your mind’s way of dealing with issues. Besides, what issues could a pipsqueak like you have, anyway?” she asked dismissively. Becca just shrugged her shoulders.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. We don’t have to go on this vacation right now. We can postpone it a bit,” I ventured.

“No!” exploded both girls at the same time.

“What, we’d cancel our vacation because baby here had a bad dream? That’s not fair, Mom! We’ve looked forward to this for six months,” Rachel said angrily.

“I’m not a baby, Rachel, so shut up already. Besides, you don’t even know what you’re talking about as far as my dream.”

“Mom, I don’t want to cancel our vacation. I want to go—I really do. What if we just warn Uncle Jeff to take extra special care of Maggie—to watch her real close? He’d do that, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course he would. And Rachel, I expect you to be more respectful of your sister. You can get your point across without all the sarcasm.” Rachel glared at her sister but did manage to hold her tongue.

I was torn. Part of me wanted to cancel our vacation and hide in my room, but another part argued, quite logically, that to do so would be, well, illogical. The girls were watching me closely, their eyes full of silent pleading. My logical side won the argument.

“So it’s on to Cancún for the Freeman girls!”

“Yes!” said Rachel, as she slapped the table jubilantly. Becca laughed, which I erroneously took for a good omen.

I glanced at the clock. “Better hurry and eat. The limo should be here soon,” I said, and marveled again at the idea that we were taking a limo to the airport. Becca had asked to do something different this vacation, and when Rachel suggested taking a limo, it seemed the perfect idea to give our vacation memories a new, fresh twist: something different from family vacations when their dad was alive.

Quickly, we finished eating, cleaned up the kitchen, and were waiting at the door when the limo pulled up. As we started out the door, Becca suddenly dropped her suitcase and turned back inside.

“Mom! We can’t go without giving Maggie a hug! Here, kitty kitty kitty! Here, kitty kitty kitty!” she called tearfully as she bolted back into the house.

Maggie sauntered lazily from the living room, tail held regally high and haughty, as usual. Becca hugged her fiercely and wouldn’t let go until Maggie mewled and wiggled out of her hard embrace. Becca trotted quickly back, tears glistening in her eyes.

“You’re sure, Mom, Uncle Jeff will remember to come and get her tonight and he’ll take good care of her? You’re really sure?” Her sweet voice was pleading and watery.

“Of course he will, honey. Don’t worry. Uncle Jeff and Aunt Mary love Maggie and will take good care of her.” I gave her a quick hug and helped pick up the overturned suitcase.

The girls rolled and bumped along to the limo, and I turned back to lock the door. The snick of the key sent a ripple of foreboding whispering through my body and an unreasonable thought that the next time that door opened, life would be irrevocably changed. Cancelling our vacation leaped into my head, but when I turned to call the girls back, I felt silly. What on earth could I tell them that wouldn’t sound crazy?

I’d never been prone to superstitions, but I still felt a little spooked by all the strange things that had been going on lately. I had a vague, fluttering sense that the girls, especially Rachel, were somehow in danger, and Becca seemed to have a strong sense that Maggie wouldn’t be here when we returned. Was all this just a manifestation of my feelings of loss because Rachel would be leaving for college soon and living on campus, leaving a huge hole in our already fractured family? If Rachel really were in danger, wouldn’t she be experiencing similar dreams? She seemed perfectly fine. Maggie had bonded the most with Becca, so it made sense that she would have premonitions about her kitty. And given Maggie’s unusual behavior, I decided that just maybe these nightmares did concern our little fur ball and meant nothing more.

With a sad sigh and a silent prayer for Maggie’s safety, I dragged my own suitcase to the young and very good-looking limo driver and climbed in with the girls. Rachel seemed much more animated than I expected, while Becca was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting and staring out the side window.

“Good morning, ladies!” said our darkly handsome driver as he slid into the front. “My name is Sean, and I’ll be taking you to the airport today. Would you like me to keep the divider window open during our ride or would you prefer it to be closed?” he asked with a very interested look in Rachel’s direction.

“You can leave it open,” Rachel quickly replied, giving him one of her for-boys-only smiles.

His own smile widened and he gave her a wink, which made her smile even more. I just sighed. What’s a mother to do with beautiful, maturing daughters?

The ride to the airport took less than an hour, and I chattered away to both girls, half to keep Rachel from Sean and half to draw out Becca. I wasn’t very successful on either account.

When we finally arrived, Sean gracefully pulled our luggage out of the trunk, and with smiles and winks, assured Rachel that he would be the one to pick us up for the return ride home. We wheeled our bags inside and queued up to check them in. Becca still looked glum, her pretty face furrowed with worry lines. Even Rachel noticed her somber mood.

“Hey, Becca, what’s eating you? You’ve been a pain in the neck—well, actually about two feet lower—for the past week and now you barely seem excited. You sick or something?” Rachel actually seemed concerned, which was a pleasant surprise.

“No, I’m not sick. I just…I don’t know…just don’t feel right, you know? I hope I’m not getting sick, though.”

Rachel good-naturedly shoulder-bumped her sister and said, “Don’t worry, Becca, be happy!” This would normally have elicited a huge smile. She loved that phrase, as well as those silly iconic smiley faces, and had decorated her mirror, ceiling, school binders, and locker with millions of them. This time she barely smiled, which ratcheted up my worry thermometer.

Looking into her sad blue eyes, I knew I really needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. As soon as the plane was airborne, I would try to allay her fears about Maggie. I hoped Rachel would either fall asleep or listen to her headphones. I didn’t need her two cents worth, since her two cents would probably be laced with ridicule and make Becca clam up.

CHAPTER 3

Eighteen years before, June 18, 1994, a remote Mayan village deep in the jungle of the Yucatan Peninsula.

A scream, long and full of pain, chased through the small village. Silence followed as morning chores ceased and the villagers exchanged fearful, worried glances. Inez started at the piercing screech, spilling a little tea on her rough cotton shift. With a heavy sigh, she set her cup on the freshly swept dirt floor of her hut, and with a grace and agility that belied her age, she pulled her thick body up and ambled slowly over to pick up her birthing bundle.

She knew who screamed and, just as certainly, she knew that no one in the village would be helping with this birth. Fear would keep them away. Only Inez had the courage to help Ramona with the birth. Tucking her bundle safely under her arm, Inez hurried to Ramona’s hut as another scream pierced the silence.

Slipping quietly inside, Inez found Ramona curled naked in a heap on top of a ragged sleeping mat, her thin frame shaking. The sturdy waddle and daub walls of her living area did not allow light to penetrate the gloom and heat in the room. Inez lit a tall oil lamp and gasped as the light chased away the shadows. Not having been allowed into the hut since Ramona’s mother, Itzel, had disappeared, she was appalled at what she beheld. Itzel’s sleeping mat and blankets were still folded neatly in the corner, undisturbed, but the rest of the hut was filthy. Cobwebs, thick with dust and soot, hung loose and swaying from the tall conical ceiling. The light disturbed moving things in the rough, thatched roof, which compelled Inez to shake her hair and brush off her shoulders. Obviously, the dirt floor had not been swept since Itzel had last done it because debris was littered everywhere. She wrinkled her nose at the sour smell that permeated the hut.

Shaking her head in disgust, Inez walked quietly over to Ramona, squatted beside her, and placed the lamp close by. She reached out and gently tugged on Ramona’s shoulder. Instantly, Ramona exploded into a screeching, flailing, wild thing. This unexpected reaction completely startled Inez so that she stumbled back onto her ample backside.

Ramona’s thin arms waved above her head as her unintelligible screeching filled the hut. Her long, ebony hair hung damply, and a few dirty strands clung to her face. She screeched and flailed at Inez until another contraction forced her to fall helplessly back onto the mat, clutching her very round belly and moaning in pain.

As Inez watched the young mother struggle, anger that had simmered in the pit of her stomach since learning of Ramona’s pregnancy began to foment. Many times over the past few months, she had tried to examine Ramona, to help her through the pregnancy, but Ramona had refused all attempts. Inez had not even known she was in labor until she heard Ramona’s screams.

In spite of her disgust, worry and fear etched her weathered brown face. She was the medicine woman in this small, remote village—all the women in her lineage had been. Having delivered many babies, Inez’s intuition and experience told her that this young mother and her unborn child were in grave danger.

Quietly, Inez pulled the lamp out of Ramona’s flailing reach and left the room, but she refused to leave entirely. She retreated through the archway, pushing aside the soiled and tattered blanket that hung limply in the uneven archway that separated the sleeping quarters from the cooking area and waited for Ramona to become too exhausted to resist her help.

The open, spaced branches of the kitchen area allowed a cool breeze to waft through, and light danced haphazardly around the hut. Inez was disgusted at the filth here, too. Dirty pots looked as if they had been flung into a corner, and sour-smelling rags were fermenting in a pan of greasy water. While she waited, Inez busied herself with building a fire in the cooking pit and cleaning up some pots to heat water for the birth. She rummaged around but could not find any clean cloths or blankets for the baby.

She poked her head out of the hut, intending to call the first person she saw to bring some cloths and blankets. But not a single person was to be found, which was highly unusual during a birth. Normally this was a joyous time and celebrated by the entire village, but Ramona’s strangeness frightened the villagers. Centuries’ old superstitions still abounded within the Mayan culture, and most of the villagers feared terrible things would befall them if they came near Ramona.

With a heavy sigh, Inez waddled to her own hut to gather the things she needed. When she returned, she settled down and waited for Ramona’s pain to override her irresponsible behavior.

That time eventually arrived, but even after almost eighteen hours of labor, Ramona resisted Inez’s help as much as her exhaustion allowed. Finally, Inez was allowed to examine her, and what she found was alarming. The baby was face up, the small head caught against Ramona’s pelvic bone.

If the baby did not come soon, she would have to puncture its skull and deliver it stillborn in order to save Ramona. She had only had to do that twice before, but bile still roiled up when she thought about it. She did not relish the almost-certain task at hand.

Ramona screamed a long, deep, guttural, otherworldly sound that shocked Inez with its intensity. As the frightening scream trailed to a rasping whisper, Inez saw the child’s head begin to slip out. Thanks to all the gods, what a relief! She would not have to kill it after all.

“Push, Ramona, push! I see the head!”

Once the head finally emerged, the rest of the baby slipped out almost effortlessly into Inez’s strong, brown hands. She quickly wiped at the mouth, freeing the airway. It was a boy, and he gave a mighty scream as he greeted this cold, new world. She wrapped him in a soft blanket and laid him atop his mama. Ramona stroked him briefly before another contraction seized her and she screamed.

Startled, Inez placed her hand on Ramona’s belly. She was surprised at how large and hard her stomach still was, not to mention the strength of the contraction that gripped Ramona. She suddenly realized that there was another baby in there. She snatched the crying infant from his mother’s lap and laid him gently on the floor.

She barely had time to get back in position before another fuzzy little head emerged, and, with a squish, the rest of the tiny pink baby plopped out into her waiting hands: another boy. This one immediately began screaming his displeasure at such a rude and callous emergence. Inez wiped him, wrapped him in another soft blanket, and placed both baby boys atop their mother. Ramona, even in her exhaustion, smiled radiantly as she stroked her babies. Watching her, Inez suddenly shuddered and rocked back onto her heels. Ramona did not notice.

Inez was known to have frightening powers and strong feelings, which often struck her unbidden and unwelcome. This was one of those moments, and she shuddered harder. Watching warily, she observed that Ramona’s smile turned unnatural, almost demonic in its expression, as she gazed on her tiny sons. For Inez, it conjured up visions of blood, violence, and ancient evil. Involuntarily shuddering again, she turned away from mother and babies. Inez had known Ramona since birth—had in fact been friends with Ramona’s mother up to the day she mysteriously disappeared over a year ago. But Ramona, now, she was an odd one, nothing like her sweet mama. This strange child had grown into an even stranger woman. Shunned by everyone, Ramona actually seemed to prefer it that way. Since her mother’s disappearance, she’d lived in solitude. Inez wasn’t sure who the father of her babies might be, since she had never seen Ramona with anyone—male or female.

Unaccountably, Inez was certain that babies and evil and been birthed together this day. She could sense it, almost as if a menacing spectral presence hung like a gauzy shroud over the ragged young mother.

Forcing control of her feelings, Inez turned back to the task of cleaning up Ramona and the babies. All the while, Ramona’s expression never wavered or changed; she stared trance-like at her tiny identical boys. Inez suffered through several episodes of irrepressible shudders as she handled mother and babies. She was tempted to take the squirming, wailing twins from this oppressive place—pretend they were in distress and needed to be taken to her own hut for a healing ceremony. She knew a family in another remote village that would happily take the babies and raise them as their own, far from this evil she felt emanating from Ramona. But she seemed unable to act, her judgment clouded by an almost willful pressure as she struggled with indecision. Almost against her will, she decided to do nothing.

Ever would she rue this decision.

Her heart heavy in the oppressive hut, Inez worked as quickly as she could to finish cleaning up Ramona and the twins. Normally she chattered happily as she worked, giving advice and instructions—but not today. Inez was mute, as a heavy malice pressed into her, stealing her words. When she was finally finished, she simply gathered up her birthing bundle and left. She didn’t even offer to bury the afterbirth for the mother. She couldn’t bear to touch it; it vibrated as though pulsating with a dark life of its own.

* * *

After Inez left, Ramona snuggled with her baby boys, pressing her lips reverently to each warm, tiny head. For all the months of her pregnancy, she had reveled in the sure knowledge that something special would be revealed to her upon the birth, but never had her expectations given way to glorious thoughts of twins. Twins! As soon as her second son was born, she knew what her gods meant for her to do. In a burst of clarity, her destiny became as clear as a thunderclap in her mind’s storms.

She pressed their little mouths to her breasts, and as they began to suckle, her twisted thoughts turned inward, and plans for her sons’ futures clicked ominously into place. Since she was a small child, Ramona had always listened with rapt attention to the legends of her ancient ancestors and could recount each and every one. But if she had ever been so inclined to retell those legends and history, her people would have been horrified to know how she had corrupted them, spinning them to her own dark perversions. An odd, foreboding smile crept over Ramona’s face as her infected thoughts gained momentum and the fate of the twins played out in her mind.

Dimly, Ramona became aware of her newborns’ wailing cries. In a lazy, lolling motion, she dropped her head and stared at the crying infants. Her arms lay slack at her sides, the babies laying uncomfortably half in and half out of the crook of her arms. Frowning, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and concentrated, straining to push aside the fog until she was able to focus on her babies once again.

She wiggled the boys back into her arms and held them close, their mouths eagerly searching for the comfort of her breast. Ramona’s unnatural smile returned with remembered awe as the newly revealed plan played out in her mind once again. Her purpose lay before her now, a clear path winding through the dimness of her mind. To assure the fulfillment of their destiny and propel them down the dark path set before them, Ramona knew she had a very important first task. She must name the boys.

The ancient gods had already made clear what the boys’ secret names were to be, but they still required their common names to be used until the time of their predetermined fate. Ramona believed fervently that names were prophesy of what was to be, and with great effort, she carefully chose the names they would be called within the village—special names that would carry them to their destinies. She called her first born Heriberto, meaning “ruler.” Her second born she named Chale, “strong” and “manly.” These great names befit the ancient gods’ great expectations for her boys.

And then, in a whisper so low only the ghosts of her mind could hear, she uttered their ancient Mayan names, secret names that only her revered gods would know, until the time came to reveal their real names and the boys’ real purpose in this world—the whole reason they had been conceived, born, and given over to her and only her. Yam Kaax, her most revered god, had chosen her as his vessel and earthly protector for this great task. For didn’t Ramona’s own name mean “wise protector”? That was exactly what she would be to her precious twins—her precious gods. She would protect them with all her might and teach them with all the wisdom that flowed through her, a fount bestowed upon her by the mighty Yam Kaax himself. Her precious babies would grow healthy and strong, for on the day they reached eighteen summers, the dawning of their manhood, Yam Kaax promised he would magically transform them into great Mayan gods of Xibalba, the underworld. They would become the Hero Twins, Hun Hunaphu and Xbalanque, and she would become the Immortal Mother.

This she knew and accepted it without question. She was the chosen one, the vessel Yam Kaax had chosen to resurrect the Hero Twins. Yam Kaax had been slipping in and out of her foggy dreams for many years now, whispering instructions into her eager ears. Many tasks he had laid before her, and always she obeyed, even if the task caused her unspeakable pain and anguish.

And now the first crucial step had been accomplished in the great plan to resurrect the mighty Mayan gods of the underworld.

As her boys suckled, Ramona kissed their silken heads, dark adulation glowing in her eyes. She had much to do to ready her boys—to make them acceptable to Yam Kaax. Warped excitement roiled inside her. She squeezed the babies tightly as a fierce love surged through her. They squirmed and cried out in protest, and she reluctantly loosened her grip and guided their greedy mouths back to her breasts. Slowly she began to rock the babies. Beating cadence with her rocking, she began to whisper their secret Mayan names into their innocent little ears, “Hun-Hunahpu, Xbalanque, Hun-Hunahpu, Xbalanque.”

Chin tucked close between their heads, she whispered to them, over and over. Faster she rocked; faster she whispered—motion and words becoming frenzied.

“Hun-Hunahpu, Xbalanque, Hun-Hunahpu, Xbalanque, Hun-Hunahpu, Xbalanque…”

CHAPTER 4

As the plane taxied down the runway, an unbidden thought popped into my head: The most dangerous part of flying is in the take-off and landing. Why I have to think stupid things like that, I don’t know, but I always do. I can’t remember the multiplication table without concentrating, but over the years I have meticulously stored little tidbits of trivia into my selective memory and can dredge them up quickly and effortlessly at the most inopportune times—like now.

To combat these nasty little thoughts, I dug industriously around in my carry-on bag, pushing aside magazines, munchies, water bottles, nasal spray, a camera, and two Styrofoam cups until I found my gum: Dentyne, my favorite. Every time I chew, which isn’t often any more, that silly little ditty that was popular when Mark and I were in college flashes through my head: Brush your breath, brush your breath, brush your breath with Dentyne! Why I can’t chew it without thinking of that is another thing that is beyond me. Maybe I am obsessive/compulsive. Lately I think I may have an even worse mental problem.

I offered the girls a piece of gum and they took it. It was a ritual that we did every time we flew. Chew gum to avoid plugged ears. I’m not actually sure how well it works, since my ears usually pop anyways, but I’ve never been daring enough not to chew it either. I heard once that if you took Styrofoam cups and held them over your ears during take-off that your ears would not plug or pop. I have always wanted to try this and always pack a pair of cups, but I have never seen anyone else do it so in the bag they stay. Besides, if it really worked, wouldn’t everyone do it?

The plane lifted off without a problem, and my ears didn’t even pop: another bonus. I glanced over at the girls. Rachel, being the queen bee, had claimed the window seat. Becca sat in the middle seat but didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she hadn’t put up her usual fuss when Rachel elbowed her out of the way and scooted into the window seat. That was very unusual. I was anxious to talk with Becca, and I kept glancing at Rachel, hoping she’d pull out her headphones soon. I didn’t have to wait long. As soon as the plane leveled off, Rachel pulled out her iPod, leaned her seat back and closed her eyes: the queen bee’s way of saying “leave me alone”.

Becca sat staring ahead and not speaking. A sad, forlorn look covered her face like a veil of opaque worry.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you still worried about your dream and leaving Maggie?”

Becca looked up with wide, doleful eyes—definitely not happy vacation eyes. “Yes. It’s really awful, Mom. It is just so real! And the worst part is that I really don’t know what the dream is about. I think I even heard whispers, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and then when I woke up and Maggie was hissing at me, it really scared me. It’s just too weird, Mom.” Her voice was tight and mournful and tugged at my heartstrings. It also made my own chest constrict tightly with apprehension and remembered terror. Becca’s dreams and Maggie’s hissing seemed to uncannily parallel my own experiences, and it scared me more than the dreams themselves.

“Sweetie, it was just a dream. Everybody has them once in a while, and they’re nothing to worry about. I know it’s hard, but you need to just ignore them. And Maggie is probably hissing because she senses your fear. Are you thinking about your Dad, maybe?”

“Yeah, I think about him. I think about him all the time, and I remember all our vacations, but I’ve really, really thought about my dream and I don’t think it has anything to do with Dad dying. I just know it’s something else, Mom, and it’s something awful, too! What if Maggie isn’t there when we get home?”

As awkward as it was to do so, I managed to get my arm around her shoulders in the cramped space and give her a sideways hug. Becca leaned into me and laid her head on my shoulder.

“What do you think it means, Mom? Am I crazy? Sometimes, after Dad died, I thought I was going crazy. I would think I heard him come home from work, and I’d run downstairs, but he wouldn’t be there. It made me sad and scared because I thought it was a sign I was losing my mind. But this is different. I really do think I am losing my mind because it’s so real—so scary. Dreams aren’t real, but mine feel like they are!”

“Oh, Becca, I know it was hard. It still is. But remember we talked about this a lot, and your feelings were, and are, perfectly normal. You’re not crazy and these dreams are not signs that you’re going crazy either. Everybody, at some point in their life, has dreams like these. It is a normal part of life. I think that you are having these dreams and feelings for two reasons. One, you don’t want to leave Maggie, and two, because it is our first vacation since your dad died. It’s hard on all of us, but we need to get past that and just have a good time. I know your dad would want us to.”

“Yeah, he would, wouldn’t he? Remember when we went to Florida? That was so much fun. Dad got us up every morning at six to go watch the dolphins and walk the beach. Even Rachel got up and she hates early mornings. It was so cool to see the dolphins, and we held hands and walked the beach and watched the sun come up. I liked those quiet times with Dad. I think I miss those more than anything.”

Becca’s face softened with the memory, her eyes wistful. She and Mark had been so alike, both enjoying the simple things in life. They spent hours on the beach looking for shells, crabs, sand dollars, and anything else they could find. One time they found a dead blowfish washed up on the beach, all puffed and spiny, and they came running excitedly back to the cabana to get me and Rachel to see their cool find. So much fun. So many memories. I hoped this vacation would be the start of new and good memories to help take the sting out of Mark’s death.

Becca lifted her head and looked into my eyes. “So you really don’t think I’m crazy, Mom? Everybody has dreams like these sometimes?”

I knew she badly needed to be reassured that she was perfectly normal and that other people felt the same way. The most fearful thing for Becca was to think that she was the only person in the whole wide world who felt a certain way or had certain thoughts. This had been an insecurity with her since she was little, and Mark and I had many, many conversations with her over the years reassuring her that other people, including us, had the same feelings and thoughts and that she was not unique or abnormal.

“No, sweetie. I know you are not crazy. And yes, everybody, including me, has had the same dreams and feelings, so you are not alone or unique.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I had chosen oh-so-wrong. Becca, as usual, picked up my blunder immediately.

“You’ve had bad dreams, too, Mom? When? What were yours like?”

Fortunately, the in-flight movie was about to begin and the stewardess stopped by our seats to inquire about earphone rentals. I snatched the opportunity to ignore Becca and pulled my purse out of my carry-on. I purchased three headphones, even though I wasn’t interested in the movie. I had planned to get a jump-start on my vacation reading while the girls watched the movie, but in frustration and hurry to change the subject, I overbought.