GOD K BY DANIEL LANDES | ART BY NICK FLOOK Dreamy was a late addition to our tour. She boarded the bus, disheveled in an expensive way — scuffed up Gucci slides, oversized Louis Vuitton hand bag stuffed with the kind of detritus accumulated in Pemex gas stations across Mexico. Her blonde hair dyed with streaks of brown was a swarm of chaotic static. Two women, seated near the front of the bus, murmured tones of concern as Dreamy plopped into an open seat, the contents of her bag spilling out. The bus’ breaks released with a sigh signifying our imminent departure as the driver checked his rearview mirrors. “Wait!” Dreamy screamed as she lurched from her seat toward the door. “My child! I need to get my child.” The bus driver opened the door as she rushed out and collected a swaddle of white linen nesting in a seat beside the bus. Dreamy reboarded, holding the bundle tenderly. Worried whispers rippled through the bus as Dreamy dropped back in her seat cooing gently to the bundle as the bus released its breaks and maneuvered onto the highway. The pools of the Red Queen were located four hours away in the now ruined Mayan city of Palenque, deep in the jungles of Chiapas, Mexico. The Red Queen, her skeletal remains dusted scarlet with cinnabar, was discovered by archaeologists in 1994. Her burial included rich grave goods: a mask made of malachite, jade, obsidian, a diadem, beads of jade and shell, elaborate jewelry, seashells, possibly as offerings. Outside her sarcophagus, two other skeletons were discovered — an adolescent male and an adult female — who show signs of injury. They are thought to have been sacrificed to accompany the queen into the afterlife. The overnight tour offered an exclusive look inside the Temple of Inscriptions and an optional Crystal Skull ceremony in the pools of the Red Queen. Only eight of us signed up for the ceremony. The remainder would continue on the tour of the sprawling city of Palenque and enjoy an evening in a nearby hotel while we spent the night on the jungle floor. Folks kept quiet conversation as the bus leaned into sharp turns, the engine straining as we gained elevation. Dreamy, head supported by a window, slept with her arms wrapped around the swaddle. Inside the Temple of Inscriptions was a hieroglyph of a life-size man with a sloped forehead, clad in a leopard-skin skirt, a feathered headdress, holding a child — one leg human, the other leg a serpent. The colors were vibrant, unfaded by time. Bright yellows, deep brown, scarlet reds. The child is K’awiil, GOD K, a Mayan deity identified with power, creation and lightning. Rulers would perform bloodletting rituals, piercing human tongues, ears or genitals to feed K’awiil with their sacred blood, which was believed to ensure prosperity, fertility and political legitimacy. In more extreme cases, like a severe drought, animals and humans were sacrificed to the child god. After the tour, we all gathered for a buffet lunch and fathomed what life was like here in the first century. Dreamy had not joined us on the tour. Gossip rippled speculating about the safety of the baby and her absence. Our group of eight finished eating, cleared our plates and reboarded the bus for the ceremony. I was surprised to see Dreamy sitting bolt upright in the front seat breastfeeding the baby. She had used her time to transform herself. Her hair combed and pulled back in a loose ponytail. A few long strands falling across her face. Her eyes shadowed with fine makeup and a skilled hand. Her lips lightly tinged with a soft earth tone, just a hint of pink. She had changed into a white linen smock, cinched with a red cloth belt, embroidered around the neck with bright yellow marigolds. We were now a group of ten on the way to the pools of the Red Queen and the ceremony of the Crystal Skull. The bus lurched and pitched as it climbed the asphalt road, slippery with the muddy washout from the previous rainstorm. The road narrowed, the curves pinching in as we swung higher into the cloud forest, leaving the jungle below. Pulling into a carved-out shoulder, the driver swung open the door and stepped into deep mud as he lifted the hatch to our luggage. We piled out, each descending into the sludge and gathered our rucksacks packed with a blanket, a change of clothes and a journal. The bus spun its wheels and left us standing on the edge of the forest alone. Dreamy was barefoot, holding the swaddled infant, no more luggage than her now tidy LV bag. We talked as we waited, getting to know one another, discovering each other's motivations to partake in this ceremony. A couple from Argentina lead medicine rites in Oaxaca and were here to participate and learn. A young Chilango was finishing his thesis on ethnobotany. The others ranged from experienced psychonauts (well-versed in Ayahuasca, San Pedro, peyote, hongos) to those who were not experienced at all. I explained I was somewhere in the middle — a cautious dabbler. I did not share that I was here because I am possessed by a demon, here for the medicine, to pray and, god willing, an exorcism. Dreamy shared a little. She had crossed the border into Mexico five months ago when her baby, Misty, was only seven months old. She alluded to leaving behind a bad situation. Something about a custody battle. The details were sparse and delivered with a SoCal lilt that belied levity. As an afterthought, she shared that she was here to learn more about the Mayan people and their rituals. An hour passed standing in the conversation circle. The Chilango rolled cigarettes and shared what he knew about the surrounding flora and fauna. Coyol palm trees swayed gently in the breeze above the canopy. Blooming bromeliads peeked out of the squinting branches of oak trees. Everywhere was the watchful eyes of the bromeliads. The air was thick with the humidity of a recent rain being cooked off by direct sunlight. Eventually concern was growing that we were dropped off in the wrong place, or the guides simply weren’t coming. 19
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