altar. Haniba had insulted the gods by failing to do her duty. Kawil explained that he followed her all the way to the Outskirts, where she was living.
Now there was no question in my mind what I had to do.
Someone had to remind Auxila’s wife of her duty. It is decreed by Itzamnaaj for all of our history that the wives of sacrificed nobles are to join their husbands in the overworld by an honorable suicide. Auxila was my close friend, my brother, and his wife deserved better than the horrors of the Outskirts.
If she would not heed the call of the gods, I would have to help her.
When the morning star passed through the reddest part of the great scorpion in the sky once more, I dressed in a commoner’s loincloth and leather sandals so as not to be recognized.
The Outskirts shelter the dregs of Kanuataba, where men and women have been saved from death by omens but exiled from the city proper for their crimes. Here were thieves and adulterers who had escaped death by an eclipse, errant borrowers who lived only by the grace of the evening star, drug addicts, and even those we are told are the greatest sinners of all, bound to walk the earth for all eternity from the north to the south: those who stupidly worship only those deities who they believe favor them.
No limestone or marble is wasted on the buildings in the Outskirts, and if any of the quarrymen are caught sneaking limestone, they are guaranteed a public death, so the buildings are made of mud and thatch. There are only the illegal trades—the market for dream mushrooms, gambling on ball court games, and whoring.
I had obscured my face with my blotting towel, which I use to prepare the gesso for books. In the palm of my hand I carried several cacao beans and doled out each one as I spoke with women in the streets who might be able to guide me to Haniba. These women all offered me their bodies in exchange for the bean and were utterly confused when I refused them. Instead, I spoke with an old whore. She sent me another two hundred paces down the causeway to a series of stalls, which I had not seen since I was in the Outskirts as a young boy, where I lost my own virginity.
In the back of one of the stalls, I heard a woman moaning. I went around and found a man on top of Haniba, a vile man thrusting himself into her. Haniba was defiling herself! There were four cacao shells laid neatly on the ground beside them, and in the midst of their copulation they could not hear as I leaned down to check the beans. I found no beans inside two of the shells. The man was a cheat.
I picked up a large sitting stone in the corner of the stall and raised it above my head. I bore down with all my might. The man slumped on top of Auxila’s wife and she screamed, not understanding. I believe she thought the stone had come down from Iztamnaaj himself to punish her for her trespasses. But when I lifted the man off her and she saw my face, she turned away. Haniba was deeply ashamed. Yet there could be no deeper shame before the gods than that she was still living on this earth.
She spoke:
—They have taken everything from me, Paktul, my house, all of my clothing, and Auxila’s goods—
—I know why you are here, and I am come to implore you, Haniba. You must act prudently. Your children starve because no one will take them until you are gone. People will learn you are still alive—
The woman wept, barely able to breathe:
—I cannot heed the order until I know my children are safe. Flamed Plume is turning to the age where she will be taken up by some old man who wishes to have a fresh girl! You have seen the way Prince Smoke Song himself looks at my Flamed Plume—she might have been queen, Paktul! The king was considering their betrothal, and the prince is good, deserving of her. But now that her father has been shamed, we all know they cannot be betrothed. So what good man will take Flamed Plume? Surely you understand, Paktul. Surely this shame is like the shame you felt when your father left you!—
I was tempted to strike her for speaking this way. But when I saw the look of sadness in her eyes, I could not hit this woman I had known since Auxila and I were boys together.
I spoke:
—You must find yourself a length of vine and wrap it around your neck by the turn of the next sun. You must hang yourself proudly, Haniba, to fulfill your duties as wife of a noble sacrificed to the gods—
—But he was not sacrificed to the gods, Paktul! He was murdered by a king! Jaguar Imix ordained his death because Auxila had the courage to speak out against him, and the king sacrificed him in the name of a god that does not exist! This god, Akabalam, surely cannot have called for Auxila’s sacrifice, having never revealed his power to us or to any other noble in a dream!—
I said nothing of my own doubts about the new god. For just as a scribe should not question a divination, it is not for a widow to question a king.
I spoke:
—What can you know of the conversation between a king and a counselor he sacrifices? How can you know the king never revealed Akabalam?—
Haniba buried her head in her hands.
As a nobleman, seeing such a woman make such a transgression against the gods, my duty was to kill her.
But I was powerless in the face of her sadness.
EIGHTEEN
THE CDC HAD ARRANGED SPECIAL DISPENSATION FOR CHEL TO BE on the roads, and the Getty security team provided an escort who followed her toward Mount Hollywood. From the top of Mulholland Drive, even against the night sky she could see smoke rising from distant corners of the city. Yet as she raced east, Chel felt the first glimmers of hope she had had in days. Patrick had agreed to meet her at the planetarium immediately.
East Mulholland was eerily empty but for the occasional police car and National Guard jeep. Yet there was an acrid smell in the air—maybe the burning was closer than she thought. She started to roll up her window. Just then a woman in exercise clothes ran into the middle of the street, right in front of her car. Chel wouldn’t have seen her except for the flash of the woman’s reflective running shoes.
Chel swerved, her Volvo’s tires skidding across the road, and finally she veered onto the shoulder, heart racing. In her rearview mirror, she saw the jogger keep on going, as if nothing had happened. The woman was on autopilot. Chel had heard stories of VFI victims raiding pharmacies for sleeping pills, drinking to the point of alcohol poisoning, and paying huge prices to drug dealers for illegal sedatives. But the woman now receding behind her was trying to do it naturally, attempting to exhaust herself into oblivion. It looked as if she might collapse in the street at any moment. Yet on and on she went.
The security car following her pulled up alongside the Volvo. Once Chel had insisted she was okay, they wound their way up to the top of the mountain without further incident.
Fifteen minutes later, their caravan reached Griffith Observatory. The massive stone structure had always reminded Chel of a mosque. Patrick had told her that, years ago, before the city lights made most stars too hard to see, this had been the best place in the country to study the night sky. Now it was better suited for city vistas; the entire Southland shined below. From here, the fires burning against the night looked almost beautiful. From here, Chel could almost forget that L.A. was at risk of its own collapse.
The security detail peeled off, and Chel checked her phone before getting out of the car. No new messages. Nothing from her mom. Or Stanton. She wondered when she could expect another
She got out of her car, and a minute later Patrick was greeting her at the observatory entrance. “Hi there,” he said.
“Hi yourself.”
They held each other for a moment, fitting together perfectly at his very manageable five-foot-six. How strange it was that, after talking to this man every day, living with him, sleeping so many nights next to him, Chel was huddled against him and had no good idea what had been happening in his life for months.
