Mayan Moon [ONC2024]

Chapter 1

The lamp at the corner of 102nd and 5th had been broken for the last three days, making Roger's daily walk to work a little more dangerous. The chill of the autumn night showed in each of his exhales. A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the abundant trees.

A shiver traveled through his body, although he wasn't cold.

Roger looked at the blood-red moon above. It hung low, deep, and ominous, painting the sky with an ethereal red glow.

His grandfather would have called it a Mayan Moon—a harbinger of change, transformation, or even turmoil—a moment when the veil between the worlds thinned and the power of the unseen flowed freely.

All his godsends or catastrophes had come on the moon, but he mostly remembered the falls- the night they left Arandas, the night he was left alone, the night he squandered it all, all haunting his memories, etched in his soul. So tonight, he walked, watched, and waited.

His senses were heightened as he neared the dark corner, not that he felt any particular fear from the typical street thugs that roamed the park. They had long ago learned to leave him alone. But other things could roam in the darkness, his Tata would have warned.

Perhaps that's why when a bleeding old man ran in front of him and collapsed at the foot of the stairs that led to the Arthur Brisbane Monument, he wasn't particularly alarmed.

With what seemed to be his last breath, the man looked up at Roger and said, "Run!"

It seemed like he thought someone was chasing him, but no one followed. He cocked his head, trying to listen for pursuing footsteps, but there were none.

With an hour till his shift started, he had been strolling through Central Park to kill time, and it had been uncharacteristically quiet. He had few friends at the hospital. His situation made him weary, and on top of it, he was—he admitted to himself—a loner.

His old Timex Expedition watch marked midnight as he hurried to aid the elegant gentleman. He looked at it and remembered his Tata; it was the only thing he had left of him.

As he neared, he tasted more than smelled the coppery tang that permeated the air. The man lay motionless, breathing raggedly.

The back of the vest the man wore had three gashes—as if a gardening hand rake had slashed across it—bleeding profusely. A pool of dark liquid collected underneath him.

Roger looked all around, and to his fortune, the corner was deserted. He sighed and put his right hand on the man's shoulder, concentrated, and whispered, "K'ux."

His Tata had prohibited using his gifts in the open, but the old man could not make it to Mt. Sinai. "We help in silence, lest we fall to the excesses of the past," his grandfather had warned.

An azure glow emanated from his palm, and the gashes stopped bleeding. His Tata would have been proud of his control. It won't heal him completely, but it will be enough to get him help.

He took his wrist and sent a small pulse of Ch'ulel through the man's body. He's dying, but it won't be today. However, something felt odd about the old man.

He searched his memory.

"Ch'ulel lets you feel the connection to all living things. We are all connected to one degree or another. When someone is closer, destined, you'll feel it," His Tata had explained when he first mastered the technique he had just used.

Connected to this old man? I'll talk to the old guy after my shift if there's time.

He frowned as he heard the old man mumbling something unintelligible. Only the word "run" could be made out.