Free 12.21 by Dustin Thomason

place, far from home, was the worst of all fates.
    “We need to find out his name, how long he’s been in the States, and when he got sick,” Thane said. “And anything else you can tell us. Any detail could be important.”
    Chel looked back at John Doe.
“Rajawxik chew …”
he mumbled in Qu’iche.
    “Can we get him some water?” Chel asked Thane.
    Thane motioned at his IV. “He’s more hydrated than I am right now.”
    “He says he’s thirsty.”
    The doctor picked up the pitcher on John Doe’s tray table, filled it in the sink, and then poured water into his cup. He grabbed it in both hands and gulped it down.
    “It’s safe to get close to him?” Chel asked.
    “It’s not contagious that way,” Thane told her. “The disease spreads through tainted meat. The masks are so we don’t give him another infection while his defenses are down.”
    Chel adjusted the straps on her face mask and moved closer. It was unlikely the man worked in commerce; Maya who peddled their wares to tourists along the roads of Guatemala picked up some Spanish. He had no tattoos or piercings, so he wasn’t a shaman or a daykeeper. But his palms were callused, hardened across the base of each finger, with strips of cracked skin extending from the knuckle to the butt of the thumb. It was the sign of the machete, the hand tool
indígenas
used to clear land for farming. It was also what looters used to search the jungles for ruins.
    Was it possible she was looking at the man who discovered the codex? Thane said, “Okay, let’s start with his name.”
    “What is your family’s name, brother?” Chel asked him. “I am a Manu,” she said. “My given name is Chel. What do they call you?”
    “Rapapem Volcy,” he whispered hoarsely.
    Rapapem
, meaning
flight
. Volcy was a common surname. From the inflection of his vowels, Chel believed he was from somewhere in the south Petén.
    “My family comes from El Petén,” she said. “Does yours?”
    Volcy said nothing. Chel tried asking a few different ways, but he’d gone silent.
    “What about when he came to the United States?” Thane asked.
    Chel translated and got a clearer answer. “Five suns ago.”
    Thane looked surprised. “Only five days ago?”
    Chel looked back at Volcy. “You came across the border through Mexico?”
    The man squirmed in his bed and didn’t answer. Instead, he closed his eyes.
“Vooge,”
he repeated again.
    “What about that?” Thane asked. “
Vooge
, is it? What does it mean? I looked it up with every spelling I could imagine and couldn’t find anything.”
    “It’s
w-u-j
,” Chel explained. “
W
is pronounced like a
v
.”
    “What does it mean?”
    “It’s the Qu’iche word we use to refer to the
Popol Vuh
, the holy creation epic of our people,” Chel said. “He knows he’s sick, and he probably wants the comfort the book gives him.”
    “So he wants us to bring one to him?”
    Chel reached into her bag, pulled out a tattered copy of the holy book, and set it on the nightstand. “Like a Christian might want a Bible.”
    No
indígena
would use only the word
wuj
—what the Maya called their ancient books—for the proper name of the
Popol Vuh
. But no one would question her here.
    “See if he can tell us anything about when he got sick,” Thane said. “Ask him if he remembers when he first had trouble sleeping.”
    As Chel translated the doctor’s questions into Qu’iche, Volcy opened his eyes a little. “In the jungle,” he said.
    Chel blinked, confused. “You were sick in the jungle?”
    He nodded.
    “You were sick when you came here, Volcy?”
    “For three suns before I came here, I had not slept.”
    “He was sick in Guatemala?” Thane asked. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”
    Chel nodded. “Why? What does that mean?”
    “It means I need to make some calls.”
    CHEL PUT A HAND on the crease between Volcy’s neck and shoulder. It was a technique her mother had used when Chel was a little girl, to