The 13th Cycle by Sabrina Ricci (best beach reads .TXT) 📕

They only had two days left, but Mahaway had no intention of finishing the stela. To her, creating a monument honoring the killing of her friends and family would mean accepting a fate of enslavement and fear. She would rather risk her life and fight for her freedom—she just didn’t know how to go about it yet.
Mahaway watched as Yochi chipped away at their rock. His brow furrowed as he worked, though whether it was from stress or concentration Mahaway did not know. After years of being best friends with Yochi, Mahaway knew he was the type who would rather appease than fend for himself. The simplest choices made him happy, and oftentimes that meant he enjoyed his assigned tasks.
Shaking her head, Mahaway tapped Yochi on the shoulder.
He looked up. “Huh? What is it Mahaway?”
“Remember that room we accidentally found yesterday? I want to find it again.”
“But we have work to—”
“Yochi! When will we get this chance again? Once this stela is finished, they’ll probably lock us up. I’ve heard rumors that King Jasaw is rounding up all the scribes and astronomers—for what reason I do not know. This could be our last chance.” Mahaway started pacing. “Please. I need to know what’s in that room.”
Yochi sighed, looking wistfully at the rock. “Fine. Lead the way.”
Mahaway jumped up and down in excitement. “Thank you, thank you Yochi!” She took his hand and walked the path she had followed the day before, using the same trick Yochi had used to get past the guards. This time they pretended they saw a jaguar. Soon she found the hidden tunnel, tucked away between two rocks. It was barely noticeable, except for an area of flattened moss next to it, where Mahaway had slipped and fallen.
“This is it,” she said, a gleam in her eye. “But be careful, it’s steep.”
Yochi nodded, looking uncomfortable. “Only for you.”
They went through the tunnel slowly, one careful step at a time. After what felt like hours to Mahaway, they made it to the bottom.
Yochi stared at the hieroglyphs in awe. “Amazing,” he muttered, walking closer to inspect them. “These look like some sort of notes—on cycles of some sort.” He pointed to a group of symbols on the wall. “But they don’t quite make sense.”
Mahaway wasn’t paying attention. The room looked different, somehow. She had remembered seeing a chair, but now it was missing. “Yochi? Did you hear that?” Mahaway moved closer to him.
Yochi was too engrossed by the writing on the wall. “Now if I read that correctly, and assumed that was right, then it could be…”
“Yochi!”
“What?” Yochi looked irritated.
“I heard a noise. I think someone else might be here.”
“You’re crazy Mahaway. You even said so yourself yesterday: this is a secret room. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Now let me get back to these calculations…”
Mahaway saw something move out of the corner of her eye. A flash of a leg going up the tunnel. She ran over and grabbed it. “Aha! What’s this?”
Down tumbled a young man, only 16 or 17 years old by the look of him. He rolled over and took a fighting stance, growling.
Yochi ran in front of Mahaway, holding his arms out. “Get back Mahaway. He might be dangerous.”
“Yochi, stop.” Mahaway pushed her way in front of him. She stared at the young man, trying to read his eyes. They looked young and frightened. “It’s ok,” she said, lowering her voice. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Yochi relaxed a little, until he noticed the young man’s uniform. “He’s a soldier! Get back!”
The young man flexed his muscles and tried to stand straighter. But he was too skinny to look threatening. Mahaway moved closer to him, and he backed away.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He stared at her a moment, before answering. “Ichik. And your friend is right. I am one of King Jasaw’s soldiers, so if you want to live, you’d better forget about all this.”
“Yes, yes, anything you say,” Yochi said.
“Wait,” Mahaway said. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would you be here unless you’re…” She gasped. “A deserter?”
Yochi got back in front of Mahaway. “We have to turn you in,” he said, eyes wide with fear. He tried to grab Ichik, but Ichik was too quick. Before Yochi had any time to react, he was on the ground, his breath knocked out of him.
“Stop! Stop!” Mahaway said. “We won’t turn you in. Promise.”
Ichik took a step closer to her, searching her eyes for the truth. After a few seconds, he seemed convinced. “You know what this means if you’re caught, right?”
Yochi gasped and choked on the ground, shaking his head violently.
Mahaway nodded solemnly. “Death.”

Amara was excited as her plane descended into Cancun. It had taken a lot of convincing, but after hours of begging, yelling, and threatening, she had talked her family into letting her skip Thanksgiving and go to Mexico. This story was her big chance, she had said. She purposely didn’t mention anything about her grandfather, though she knew her parents were thinking it. Instead she promised to visit a couple more times next quarter, since they only lived a three-hour drive away.

Besides, she had told them, Puerto Morelos was less than an hour away from Cancun, a fairly safe part of the country. Finally her parents had relented, and now she couldn’t wait to settle in and find Alma Libre, the bookstore with the Maya archives.

The view from the plane was enchanting. Amara watched as the flat, green land turned into jagged buildings juxtaposed with bright white sand. She wondered what the ancient Mayans would have thought about shiny metal buildings and the ability to fly.

As soon as she landed and went through immigration, Amara hailed a cab and headed to Puerto Morelos. It was even more beautiful than Cancun, with long stretches of beach, and a sense of tranquility and contentment. Buildings were smaller and cozier, with a more familiar feel.

She decided to head straight to the bookstore, and check in at her hotel later. As soon as she saw the bookstore, she knew she had made the right choice. The store was welcoming, with bright lights and shelf after shelf of books. Most of the books were used, which Amara felt gave them a certain charm. It had been a while since she had felt nostalgic about print books, but something about the shop made them seem more precious, like they had their own memories.

“¿Puedo ayudarle?” An elderly man popped up from behind a mountain of books. He had a mild Mexican accent, and his nametag read, Jorge.

“Sorry—er…no hablo Español.” Amara blushed.

Jorge broke into a smile. “It’s okay. I just asked if I could help you.”

“Yes, please. I need to do some research on the classic Maya.”

“Wonderful. It’s so rare these days for Maya scholars to come by. Ever since Aaron Rivera…well I shouldn’t talk about it.”

Amara perked up. Jorge’s hesitation intrigued her. “What about Aaron Rivera? I came here to learn as much as possible about the Maya, so may as well start there.”

Jorge’s smile faded. “It’s a sad story. But basically, he was one of the best Maya scholars. He was an American, but he used to come visit here a lot—often for months at a time. We became friends. The last time he was here, he spent a lot of his time going back and forth between Puerto Morelos and Calakmul, where some of the ruins are. One night he called me, and said he had some big news, some big break that could help us all understand Maya civilization and history. He said he’d come back to Puerto Morelos and tell me in person. But then a few days later, rumors were going around that he had killed himself.”

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Jorge said, “you know he wasn’t that kind of guy, so I went to the hotel he’d been staying at. They told me he had been found hanging in his room, and that someone had already collected all his things.” He took a deep breath. “Whew, it’s been a while since I’ve told that story. Most Maya scholars stopped coming around here after that, bad karma or something. And I’ve just kept it to myself ever since.”

Amara tried to comfort the man. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, but when did this happen? I have a professor who recommended I come here.”

“Sure, a few scholars here and there have stopped by,” Jorge said, regaining his composure. “This happened, oh almost six years ago now.”

Amara paled.

“What’s wrong, señorita?”

“My grandfather—he was in Mexico six years ago. He killed himself too, in Cal—Calakmul. His name wasn’t Aaron Rivera though. It was Allen Randall. But that has to be him, right? He was obsessed with the Maya. When I was little, I remember his study was filled with books, and notes, and—it can’t be just a coincidence.”