Oracle of Oxhuitza

This story is by Mariana Moguel Mendez and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Yaxché was a living bridge that connected the three realms. Its roots snaked deep into the earth, reaching the underworld where the souls of our ancestors lived. Its towering trunk soared towards the heavens, connecting us to the world of the gods. And its branches spread out like arms, embracing the world of the living. Now, the balance between the three realms was shifting. Yaxché stood frail and withering in the city’s center – a grim harbinger of Oxhuitza’s fate.

I knelt beneath its mighty branches, its leaves now frail and withering. My grandmother and I began a soft chant invoking the gods. I placed offerings on the stone altar before us: cacao, maize, and fragrant herbs. The smoke of burning copal incense curled upwards and carried our words to the realm of the gods. We closed our eyes in unison, our hands moving in practiced, fluid motions as we continued the chant, pleading with the gods to save Yaxché and, with it, save Oxhuitza. Suddenly, behind closed eyes, bright red flames appeared to me, so thick and high it seemed to lick the sky. Familiar faces twisted in fear with mouths wide in terror. I heard screams that cooled the blood flowing through my veins. Gasping, I opened my eyes to the serene light of dawn, a stark contrast to the horror of my visions. Only this I knew: terrible darkness loomed over Oxhuitza, my city, far more profound than we anticipated, and I only hoped the gods would hear our plea.
Rising, I turned to face the city, a marvel of the power of the Maya, its stone structures rising like red sentinels against the lush green of the surrounding jungle. Situated amidst the verdant expanse of the Yucatan Peninsula, it was a hub of trade and cultural exchange, its streets teeming with merchants, artisans, and scholars from far-flung corners of the Mayan world. The sun, casting its last golden rays over Oxhuitza, illuminated the stone and thatch-roofed homes that spiraled from the central plaza.

Ahau Balam, the commander of our guards, approached me.

“Itzel,” he said, “Our scouts have spotted strangers in the jungle. Men armed with weapons that bring rain and thunder.”

The visions, Yaxché, and now these strangers.

“In their path, they have invaded other Maya cities,” continued Ahau Balam. “Villages to the north lay abandoned in their wake. We must protect Oxhuitza.”

“As long as Yaxché stands, so will Oxhuitza,” I said. The thought of other Maya cities, once vibrant and alive, now empty and silent, sent a shiver down my spine. It was a fate too grim to contemplate for Oxhuitza, my beloved city.

As night fell, a heavy blanket of tension settled over the city. Warriors in jaguar pelts armed with obsidian blades stood vigilant while the elders recited ancient prayers, their voices blending hope and desperation. Under the dark veil of night, I held my daughters close.
Then, the tranquility shattered. The conquistadors emerged from the shadows like specters. Their armor glinted in the torchlight like the scales of some vicious beast. Their leader, a man with a face as hard as the stone of our temples, stepped forward. His words, foreign and sharp, sliced through the tense air. None among us understood his tongue, but the intent was evident in his steely gaze – a silent declaration of power and threat.
The sounds of battle – the clashing of metal and the thunderous roar of strange weapons – echoed off the ancient stone structures, marring their grandeur with the scars of combat. The once majestic Yaxché now stood forlorn amidst the violence, its withered branches a testament to the sorrow that had befallen Oxhuitza. I gazed upon the tree, feeling a deep connection to its plight. Like Yaxché, I felt drained of life, stripped of the peace that had once defined our existence.

Around me, my people fought bravely, their faces set with grim determination. Warriors, once guardians of our city’s harmony, now battled to protect it from destruction. Every cry of a fallen comrade, every clash of steel, sent a pang of despair through my heart. I saw my sister fighting fiercely against the invaders among the clashing of blades. Then, another thunder rang out.

“Tz’unun!” I cried.

My world narrowed to her as I rushed to her side, the battle around us fading into a distant roar. Blood pooled around her, seeping into the thirsty earth. Cradling Tz’unun, her blood warm on my hands, I felt a piercing clarity. The visions I had seen, the foreboding omens, led to this moment. The fate of our city was stark; the conquistadors, with their foreign weapons and ruthless tactics, had brought Oxhuitza to its knees. Only I could turn the tide, breathing life back into Yaxché and, in turn, our city. My heart ached as I looked into my daughters’ eyes, seeing in them the future of Oxhuitza. In their gaze, I realized I could not let the legacy of Oxhuitza fade into oblivion or turn my back on the city that had given us so much. If there was even the slightest chance that my sacrifice could save Oxhuitza, then it was a chance I had to take. My daughters, with eyes wide and filled with fear and trust, looked up at me; their fate intertwined with the decision I was about to make. I hugged them close in a tight embrace, feeling their tiny hearts beating against mine.
The distant sounds of battle continued to rage, a grim reminder that time was running out. The conquistadors would only stop once they had claimed every inch of Oxhuitza. I stood up and walked to Yaxché, again facing the sacred Ceiba.

“My people,” I said, addressing the elders gathered at the Ceiba. “I have seen our fate,” I continued, my eyes fixed on the Ceiba. “And there is but one path that can save Oxhuitza.”
Tears blurred my vision as I looked upon the faces of my people – faces I had grown up with, laughed with, and now sought to save. As I scanned the gathering of elders, my grandmother’s presence among them struck me like a piercing shock. There she stood, her face now etched with the gravitas of the night’s ordeals, a stark transformation from the gentle matriarch I had always known. I lifted my arms high, engaged in the ancient ritual of my ancestors, beseeching the gods of heavens, earth, and the underworld for their intervention. Those around me joined in the chant, an ancient melody that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the city. The air around us hummed with energy. The atmosphere felt alive. Suddenly, a fire roared to life, engulfing Yaxché in its embrace; fiery tongues licked the air with fervent intensity. As the chanting grew louder, I stepped into Yaxché’s fiery base. My flesh seared, and the noise of the still ongoing battle drowned out my screams. Yet my spirit soared as my body merged with the tree’s bark, roots, and heart. The once-dying Ceiba sprang back to life, its leaves shimmering with an emerald glow. The darkness shrouded the city and dissipated, replaced by a radiant light.
The spreading fire consumed the conquistadors. When the light subsided, the conquistadors, untouched by flames, fled from Oxhuitza, bewildered by this inexplicable power. My people emerged, their eyes wide with wonder at the unfolding miracle. Oxhuitza, once on the brink of destruction, was reborn.

In the years to come, my people abandoned their beloved city, fearing the conquistadors’ inevitable return. They took a piece of Yaxché with them and planted it in new homes. Centuries have passed since the night Oxhuitza was reborn through sacrifice. The city, once a hub of life and culture, now lies dormant beneath the embracing arms of the jungle. Weathered by time, its stone structures stand as silent guardians of history.
Today, Oxhuitza, known to the world as Caracol, is a place of pilgrimage. Explorers, historians, and descendants of the Maya walk among its ruins. Drawn by the allure of its mysteries and the enduring legacy of its people.

As they trace the outlines of our pyramids and plazas, a new chapter of Oxhuitza is written – one of rediscovery. From the realm of spirits, I watch over them. In their voices, I hear the echo of ancient chants. In their eyes, the reflection of Oxhuitza’s former glory. With each step they take, the stories of my people – of courage, wisdom, and sacrifice – are reawakened.

I am Itzel. My name became etched in the annals of Oxhuitza’s history. My legacy is a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Maya people of Oxhuitza, a beacon of hope that illuminated the darkest of nights. The legacy of Oxhuitza, of its people, lived on – a testament to the enduring strength of the Maya. And I, once a daughter of Oxhuitza, now its eternal guardian, continue to watch over the ruins of my beloved city, a reminder that the Maya spirit endures forever resilient, forever strong.