Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 98: The Ruins of Kabah
An old Maya guide with a sun‑creased face and a staff carved with glyphs approaches Ixchel and Yalitza.
“You’ve come far,” he says to Ixchel.
“Yes,” she replies. “We’re looking for the old places. The sky‑watching places.”
The guide nods slowly. “Uxmal is close. Kabah too. But be careful.”
Ixchel’s brow furrows. “Careful? Why?”
The guide glances toward the horizon. “Foreign men walk these paths now. They dig where they should not dig. They take stones they should leave alone. And they search for artefacts and stories.”
Yalitza steps closer to Ixchel, her small hand gripping Ixchel’s shawl.
Ixchel’s voice is calm. “We’re not here to take anything.”
The guide studies her for a long moment, then nods. “I believe you. But the foreigners may not.”
I feel a ripple of unease through the fragment. Not danger ... just a warning.
That night, we sit outside the settlement beneath the vast Yucatán sky. The stars emerge one by one, sharp and bright, as though newly polished.
Yalitza lies on her back, pointing upward. “Ixchel, look! Venus is so bright here.”
Ixchel lies beside her. “Yes. The Maya watch Venus closely.”
I whisper gently, ‘This land remembers a piece of the ancient instrument, or at least its golden glyph fragment.’
Yalitza rolls onto her side, resting her head on Ixchel’s arm. “Do you think we’ll find it?”
Ixchel hesitates, realising Yalitza has heard my words. “I think we’ll find its path.”
The bracelet’s fragment hums again ... stronger now, steady, insistent.
Ixchel touches the bracelet. “Jeannia?”
‘It’s close,’ I whisper. ‘Not the fragment itself ... but its memory. The stone tablet that housed it may be near.’
Ixchel’s breath trembles.
Yalitza looks between us, hearing my words and sensing the shift. “What does that mean?”
Ixchel wraps an arm around her shoulders. “It means we’re in the right place.”
The wind stirs the dry grass. The stars sharpen. The glyph fragment hums like a distant drum.
The road to Kabah is a ribbon of pale dust winding through low hills and thorny scrub. The air is hot enough to sting. Even the birds seem tired, their calls thin and distant.
Yalitza walks ahead of Ixchel, her braids swinging, her eyes bright with anticipation. She has never seen a ruin this large. I feel her excitement ... quick, fluttering pulses like a hummingbird’s wings.
When the first stone façade appears between the trees, she stops dead.
“Ixchel,” she whispers, “look.”
Ixchel steps beside her.
Kabah rises from the earth like a dream half‑remembered: long walls of carved stone, terraces swallowed by vines, and above all, the Palace of the Masks ... hundreds of stone faces stacked in repeating rows, each one a fragment of the rain god’s gaze.
Yalitza’s mouth falls open. “They’re watching us.”
Ixchel kneels beside her. “They watch the sky. The rain. The seasons. They watch everything.”
I warm against her wrist. ‘They watch the path of Venus too.’
We climb the worn steps to the palace. The stone is warm beneath Ixchel’s hands. Yalitza runs her fingers over the carved faces, tracing the curves of the eyes, the ridges of the headdresses.
“They’re all different,” she says.
“Different moments,” Ixchel replies. “Different days. Different alignments.”
The bracelet’s fragment hums faintly in recognition, not in urgency. This place remembers the instrument, but it doesn’t hold it.
Ixchel opens her notebook and begins sketching the glyphs carved along the base of the wall.
Yalitza watches her closely, copying the shapes into her own small notebook.
I feel a faint ripple ... something has been disturbed recently.
‘Footprints. Fresh ones,’ I whisper.
Ixchel notices them too. She crouches beside a patch of soft earth. “Someone was here not long ago.”
Yalitza kneels beside her. “A Maya guide?”
Ixchel shakes her head. “No. The boot prints are wrong.”
I feel a tightening inside the fragment ... unease ... not danger, but something or someone close.
A Maya elder approaches from the far side of the palace. His face is lined with age, his hair bound in a simple knot.
“You study the old faces,” he says.
“Yes,” Ixchel replies. “We’re looking for sky‑watching places.”
The elder nods slowly. “Kabah watched the sky. But others watch it now.”
Ixchel’s brow furrows. “Others?”
He gestures toward the jungle. “Foreign men. They came with tools. They dug near the arch. They took stones.”
Yalitza’s eyes widen. “Why?”
The elder sighs. “Because they believe the stones belong to no one and are there for the taking.”
Ixchel’s jaw tightens. “Did they find anything?”
“No,” the elder says. “But they will return.”
I feel the fragment pulse ... soft, but a warning.
Yalitza looks at Ixchel. “Are they explorers?”
Ixchel hesitates. “Yes.”
The elder studies her carefully. “Be cautious. They don’t understand what they seek.”
As the sun lowers, the Palace of the Masks glows gold, each carved face catching the light like a hundred watching eyes. Ixchel stands at the top of the terrace, her notebook open, her breath steady.
Yalitza sits beside her, legs dangling over the edge, humming a tune she learned in the highlands.
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