Music of the Spheres (8 page)

14

Tegucigalpa :

Honduras :

Central American
Conglomeration :

His Mayan name
was Te’irjiil, but only his grandfather ever addressed him as such. Most
Hondurans spoke only Spanish and had difficulty pronouncing his given name, so
he went by the name Terry Fernandez. That was the name he gave to the desk
clerk of the hostel in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, after he ran away
from home in Copán Departmental.

That first night away was the most frightening experience in
his life. He had to share a room with three others, one of whom looked pale and
sickly and coughed throughout night. The second resident of the room snored
heavily, and the third occupant wouldn’t stop talking about how he was going to
plunge a knife into the next person who crossed him.

It was the first time Terry had ever been alone, and the
strangeness of the city was overwhelming. The pungent stink of the streets, the
hard faces of the citizens, and the screams of police sirens and honking of
horns all together nearly sent him running home with his tail between his legs.

He had never seen a group of more than a hundred people in
one place at one time before. Now in a city of millions, Terry felt incredibly
small and insignificant. He told himself to be strong, and was proud that he
survived the night.

The next morning, as he stood on the sidewalk outside the
hostel, he counted the few lempira he had saved over the past six months. He
calculated the cost of the hostel and meals; he knew his money would not last
him more than a week, even in the poverty-stricken barrios of the city.

At twenty years of age, Terry’s only viable trade skill was
as a laborer in the coffee plantations that employed more than half the
population in his home departmental. He had no idea what he would do in the
city, but when he spotted a truck with the name of Ruiz Coffee, the company he
had worked for back home, he followed it to their warehouse and asked to speak
with the foreman.

“I’m young, strong and healthy,” Terry said after the
foreman—an extremely grumpy-looking man with grizzled grey hair—initially told
him they weren’t looking for help.

“We already have too many workers,” the foreman said and
flicked his hand at Terry. “Every day we turn good men away.”

“I will work for free today,” Terry offered. “Just to prove
myself.”

The foreman sized him up and pressed his lips together as if
tasting something sour. Finally, he said, “All right. We have a truck that
needs to be loaded on dock three. Start there. See if you can keep up with the
others. We’ll see how you do.”

With a grin, Terry headed down to the loading docks and pitched
right in.

While waiting between trucks, one of the other laborers
struck up a conversation with Terry.

“I’m Humberto,” the man said. He was middle-aged and stocky,
with short-cropped hair and a thick moustache. He sized Terry up a moment
before extending his hand. They shook.

“My name is Terry.”

Humberto asked, “First time in the city?”

Terry wasn’t sure whether he should reveal too much about
himself, but he didn’t think he could come up with a believable fiction. “How
can you tell?”

Humberto pointed at his clothing. “I used to wear homespun
outfits when I lived in the country, too.”

Looking down at his rural-style clothing, Terry felt
suddenly conspicuous. The other workers wore denim pants and factory-made
shirts with logos and slogans on them.

At first he suspected Humberto was making fun of him, but
the other man did not have a smirk on his face. Instead, Humberto looked
concerned and maybe a little sad.

“Yes,” Terry admitted. “I don’t have enough money to buy new
clothes. Yet.”

“I know a place you can get jeans cheap, some sneakers and a
shirt that doesn’t scream ‘country’. After the shift, I’ll take you there, if
you like.”

“I don’t know…” For a brief moment, Terry wondered if he
should trust someone he’d just met. He’d heard stories about criminals in the
city who preyed on unsuspecting victims.

Humberto shrugged. “Offer’s open if you want.”

A new truck arrived, and then they were too busy loading to
talk.

At noon break, Terry went and sat by himself to eat some
fries he purchased from a lunch truck. He listened to the other workers joke
and laugh, and though he wanted to join in, he kept to himself.

Deep down he knew running away from home the way he had was
childish. Though he wasn’t sure if he could make a life in the city, he knew
there was nothing for him back in his village.

For the longest time he had courted Itzel, whose grandfather,
Artec, was friends with his own grandfather, Yaxche. Both of the old men had
conspired to arrange the union, and Terry had been smitten from the start.

His parents—who both worked long hours—had delegated Terry’s
upbringing to his grandfather, and usually deferred to his authority. They
approved the marriage, but that was the extent of their involvement.

Terry and Itzel had spent many evenings sitting on the porch
making plans for their future. Then Itzel became feverish with typhoid seven
months ago.

Honduras continued to be one of the most impoverished
country corporations, and Copán Departmental was severely lacking in medical
facilities and supplies. Within two days of the first symptoms, Itzel had
succumbed to the disease. With her death, all hope Terry had for a future died
as well.

His anger, at first, was without direction. As the lonely
days piled up, he realized that there had been a chance of Itzel’s survival had
the village had proper sewage, treated water, or a qualified doctor—amenities
that many other countries in the world enjoyed.

Their village had had its chance. With so much interest from
USA, Inc. and NASA in that ancient document, the leaders of the community could
have negotiated access to it for better medical care, infrastructure and a
better way of life. They also could have sold it outright, as the NASA
officials had first wanted.

Instead, his grandfather had chosen to keep the old scroll
with him as a cultural and religious artifact, and he basked in the
self-importance he received from his new status. It would be blasphemy to
charge admission to view the relic, his grandfather had told Terry one time.
The ancients had intended for all humankind to benefit from the knowledge
contained within.

But no one had figured out the meaning of the inscrutable
words, and so no benefit had come from it, only a continued lack of medicine
and technology that could have saved Itzel.

Terry’s traditional upbringing would not let him direct his
rage at his grandfather or the leaders of the community for not bargaining with
the scientists. And so, the only option he could think of was to abandon the
people who had failed him and make his own way through life. He had spent the
past half a year planning and saving.

But now he was alone, friendless and more than a little
frightened. The rudimentary education he had received in the village was enough
for him to read and write, but Terry did not even have basic computer skills.
The village only had one computer and it didn’t have an EarthMesh connection. When
the scientists from USA, Inc. left, they took all their machines with them.

At one end of the spectrum, humankind had traveled to
another solar system, and at the other end, there were millions of people who
lived in squalor. This was the inequality that kept Terry going. He had no idea
how he would do it, but he vowed to set things right and bring balance to the
world so that no one would have to suffer and die needlessly, like his darling Itzel.

With renewed passion, Terry threw himself into his work that
afternoon, enough so that at the end of the day the foreman invited him back.

“You’re not union so you’ll work on a day-by-day basis.”
With that, he gave Terry his first day’s pay.

“I said I would work today for free,” Terry protested,
holding the lempira in his hand uncertainly.

The foreman shook his head. “You need proper clothing. That
outfit you have on makes you look like a beggar. If any of the supervisors came
around, they would write me up for it.” He made it sound as if Terry were doing
him a favor by accepting the money.

The foreman shooed Terry off and he immediately went in
search of Humberto, who was walking toward the main gate.

“Is it too late to go to the store with the cheap clothes?”
he asked the larger man.

“Change your mind?” Humberto didn’t break his stride, and
Terry matched his pace.

“Yes, you were right. I need to look like I belong.”

“So old sourpuss is keeping you on?” Humberto jerked his thumb
back in the direction of the foreman’s office.

“Just as a day worker,” Terry said. “For now.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

As he led Terry off the factory grounds towards the city
centre, Humberto surprised him by saying, “I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Humberto glanced at Terry out of the corner of his
eye. “I saw you on the news a few years back.”

Terry answered in a sullen voice. “Oh, that.”

“The way the reporter told the story, your village was host
for all those rich NASA men. Good fortune for you.”

“It could have been,” Terry said. “But it wasn’t.”

As if measuring Terry up, Humberto took a long while before
prompting him to tell his story.

“It’s all right if you want to keep yourself to yourself,” Humberto
said finally. “But I left a village very much like yours because I was angry at
how poor our conditions were. I didn’t want to live like that anymore. No one
should have to live like that.”

Sensing he finally had someone who would understand him,
Terry started at the beginning and told Humberto about his grandfather and the
ancient scroll, about NASA and Alex Manez, and when he ended his story with the
account of how Itzel had died unnecessarily, there was a catch in his throat
and a tear in his eye.

Humberto clapped his hand on Terry’s back. “After we get you
some clothes, there are some people I want you to meet. They all have a story
like yours,” he said. “They also have a plan to put things right. I think
you’ll like hearing what they have to say.”

∞

Terry was nervous about going to a secret meeting. He had
heard the stories of criminal organizations operating in the city, recruiting
ignorant farmers and villagers into their operation and either corrupting them
into their way of life, or using them up and discarding them in the most
unpleasant ways.

The only thing that kept him steadfast was Humberto. He seemed
perfectly at ease as the two of them wound their way through the narrow barrio
alleyways to a ramshackle building. It looked like an abandoned storage
warehouse.

“Don’t worry,” Humberto said. “I called ahead to let them
know we are coming.”

Upon entering the building, Terry was surprised to see only
two people waiting for them. He had imagined a gang of cold-eyed men
brandishing weapons. Instead, the first man was scrawny and wore glasses. His
pock-marked face was split in a wide grin as he stepped forward to shake hands.

“Hello, I’m Jose Fernandez.”

Uncertainly, Terry shook the man’s hand as Humberto
introduced him.

“His first day in the city,” Humberto said to Jose, “but I
feel he is the very person we have been waiting for.”

Jose nodded. “You’re from the village with the alien scroll?”

“Yes,” Terry answered. There was no use trying to hide it.
If he had been on a newsvid, he would be recognizable to many. “But the scroll
is not alien. It’s ancient Mayan. My grandfather is its caretaker. He believes
it is the story of the end of our gods; the NASA people thought it was the
story of an alien visit.”

“Ah, yes.” Jose gestured to a table with four chairs.
“Please sit. Would you like something to drink?” He nodded to the other man who
dug into a picnic cooler and withdrew four bottles of beer.

When the man popped the cap and offered the drink to Terry,
he said, “Pleased to meet you. My name is Alberto.” Though his voice was deep
and rich, there was a hardness in his eyes. Terry noticed a scar that ran from
Alberto’s left ear to the corner of his mouth.

Being polite, Terry tipped the beer to his lips and drank
deeply. They all sat down.

“First off, I want you to know that Humberto, Alberto and I
all have Mayan blood running through our veins to some extent. In that, you are
like our brother. That is one reason we have arranged this meeting.”

That was unexpected information, but Terry immediately felt
a little more comfortable and trusting of these men.

“I believe in being honest with my friends and family, and I
believe in coming straight to the point,” Jose said. “Do you mind if I am blunt
with you?”

Terry shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

Jose leaned forward and smiled. “We want you to go back home.”

∞

At one point in pre-Columbian history, before the colonial
invasion, the Mayan civilization had been more advanced than any other culture
in the Americas.

Along with art, music, and architecture, the Mayans had also
been the first in that part of the world to develop a written language. They
studied mathematics and astronomy, and in some ways their development rivaled
those who lived on the other side of the world.

“It is no wonder,” Jose told Terry, “that the alien visitors
chose the Mayan people as the custodians of their technology. If history had
progressed as it should have, the Mayan culture would today be the dominant
force on Earth.”

Unfortunately, the wars with the northern tribes, the arrival
of the conquistadors and the flood of aggressive Europeans over the last
thousand years had drowned out the Mayan culture and reduced their civilization
to small pockets of communities.