…The rising sun had already gilded the stone faces of the mighty gods and the upper floors of the majestic temples with its first rays. The city was waking, filling with the usual everyday bustle—merchants were displaying corn cakes, fruits, potatoes, clothing and fabrics made from the fibers of the Maguey cactus, obsidian knives and beads, and a host of other edible and inedible items. Everyone was busy with their own business, and no one paid any attention to the ragged Wanderer, who had come from afar, from the East, where the radiant face of the Sun God, awakening, bathes in the ocean waves. The capital of the mighty Mayan kingdom was entering a new day…

…Mexico greeted us very warmly, even joyfully. The gentle summer sun shone brightly, and even the smog hanging in the air didn't dampen the charm of the rapidly dawning new day. Slightly overwhelmed by the impressions we'd just received, we couldn't sit still in the hotel; after a quick bite, we set out on our first stroll through the capital of this ancient and distinctive nation.

Before us lies the mighty Mexico City. The largest metropolis on the planet, home to 25 million residents, sits in a picturesque mountain valley on the site of the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan. This city, whose ruins can still be seen in the central plaza, stood on an island of the same name in a lake that covered the area of ​​today's Mexico City. Over time, the lake sank, and now the ground beneath the city is so saturated with water that it resembles jelly. Unsurprisingly, small earthquakes are common here, occurring on average 2-3 times a day. Unfortunately, these earthquakes don't always end well. In 1986, the ground shook for three minutes, registering 8.0 on the Richter scale. The consequences of this catastrophe are hard to imagine. Of all the high-rise buildings in downtown Mexico City, only one survived, and only because it had an all-metal frame and resembled a pencil half-buried in the ground. However, its top swayed from side to side with a range of 14 meters during the earthquake. Many buildings remain unrestored to this day, and some ancient structures lean, like the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa.

We must give credit to the capital's residents—they haven't lost their presence of mind and characteristic Mexican zest for life. We didn't feel out of place on the city streets. Passersby smiled amiably, city dwellers rushing about their business whistled lively Mexican tunes, and in Mexico City's main square, a group of young people were so enthusiastically practicing aerobics that it was hard to stay still.

Of course, natural disasters aren't the only things that happen in this resilient country. Our guide recounted with horror how, as a result of the previous government's financial machinations, the Mexican peso suddenly plummeted by 20%, and everyone in the country ("Can you even imagine?!") woke up that morning 20% ​​poorer. Out of respect for our guide, we didn't mention the economic cataclysms that have rocked Russia. This is our life and our pain.

The Wanderer settled in an empty shack near the main square of Chichen Itza. He proved to be a skilled healer. Residents came to him from all over the city with their ailments, and he never refused to help anyone. He would listen attentively, nod silently, pierce to the heart with his sharp gaze—and then he would be busy grinding herbs and mixing powders. The Wanderer was mute, but people were drawn to his kind heart and radiant smile. And when, during the annual ball competition, the High Priest's son suffered a severe injury, and the temple doctors silently retreated from the bleeding youth, they remembered the Wanderer. How agonizing those hours of waiting were for the High Priest! Finally, the door opened, and the Wanderer, who seemed paler than a dying man, looked at the High Priest, nodded silently, and staggered away. A miracle had occurred. The pallor disappeared from the young man's face, and now he slept peacefully, breathing evenly and deeply.

…In one of the squares of Old Mexico City, we notice extremely neatly dressed people—in white shirts, black tailcoats, and traditional Mexican sombreros—dispersed in small groups. I recall what the immortal Captain Vrungel said about England: "It's forbidden to just beg there, but you can in tailcoats." We ask: "Aren't these beggars, by any chance?" "Almost," laughs the guide. It turns out they're street singers, "mariachos." If you have a celebration, a wedding, an anniversary, or you just want to please your beloved, you hire "mariachos" by the hour, and they sing hymns or serenades quite professionally, accompanied by their own instruments. "By the way," our guide's eyes and ears seem to light up, "wouldn't you like to please your wife?" I have to refuse and haltingly explain that we have a slightly different way of expressing our attitude toward women. "It's a shame," he says, not hiding his disappointment. "These guys won't let me down; they're professionals!"

The next day is entirely devoted to history. After exploring the Teotihuacan temple complex, with its majestic 60-meter pyramids and gloomy labyrinths built at the dawn of our era, we head to the National Museum of History and Anthropology, where we bow reverently before stone and ceramic artifacts and stand in awe of the sacrificial stone and ritual obsidian knives of the Aztecs—the most brutal and bloodthirsty people of pre-Columbian America. The conquistadors would have had a hard time of it all, if not for a fateful coincidence for the Indians. According to legend, repeated in various interpretations among many peoples, the White God—the Feathered Serpent—who abandoned them at the dawn of civilization, is to come from the east. It's no surprise that the Aztec ruler Montezuma mistook Cortés and his men for messengers from the Feathered Serpent and trustingly opened his treasures to the Spaniards. And that's just what they needed...

Full of impressions, we return to the hotel. It's sad to leave hospitable Mexico City, of course, but the Yucatan Peninsula, with its remains of the mysterious Mayan civilization, awaits us.

The next morning, people flocked to the main Plaza, locked like a key by the Great Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent, stunned by the news—the mute had spoken. The Wanderer stood in the square and addressed the vast crowd: "For twenty years, the seal of silence has sealed my lips. I was commanded to walk the Earth, to serve people and to remain silent, so that my Word would become more precious than the Sun's metal. Look around. Your city-states are as disunited as your gods. Each god has its own temple, its own priests, each demands its own sacrifice. Such a faith does not unite you, but divides you. In fact, the God of the Sun, the God of the Wind, the God of Rain, the God of War, the God of the Harvest and many others - all these are just different faces of one, Great and Almighty One God, not evil, not good, but wise and just, just as all your cities are just parts of one Country, facets of one Crystal."

The people listened with bated breath to the Wanderer's muffled voice, and his words flowed like a calm, even river, as if he hadn't been silent all these years. "Look, even animals don't eat their own kind. Why do you think your Gods enjoy murder and the blood of sacrifices? Why do you imbue your Gods with the basest, most vile human qualities? Why are they devoid of Love—the only truly Divine emotion? How can you love your Gods, who inspire you only horror and disgust?"

A murmur ran through the crowd. Meanwhile, armed guards rushed out of the Temple to apprehend the troublemaker.

"Come to your senses, people!" the Wanderer's voice thundered across the square. "Abandon human sacrifice, be merciful to the captives! Only Great Love for one another and for the One God will help you conquer time and enter immortality! Love God, and He will reciprocate! I will return to you!" The Wanderer cried out these last words even as the servants seized him, dragging him into the Temple, trying to gag him.

…After the pleasant cool of high-altitude Mexico City, the Caribbean coast greeted us with stifling heat. With temperatures hovering between 36 and 38 degrees Celsius and 100 percent humidity, the air was thick and viscous, like uncooked jelly. After hurriedly listening to our guide's English-language instructions and nodding our heads for propriety, we dropped our bags at the hotel and, burning with impatience, stepped out onto the white coral sand, smoothed by the piercingly blue, cool waves. If we were asked now what our idea of ​​earthly paradise was, we wouldn't be at a loss for an answer. The blue sea, the green palm trees, the white sand, and the serenity of summer—it's impossible to forget.

The resorts of the Mexican Caribbean and Gulf Coast are in no way inferior to the beaches of Miami and Rio, but significantly less expensive. However, the decisive factor for us was the opportunity to experience the mysteries of ancient Indian cities lost in the jungle, pyramids, and observatories built by a people who knew nothing of the wheel or iron axe. The Mayan civilization arose suddenly around the third century CE and disappeared just as suddenly seven centuries later, having developed writing, a calendar, astronomy, mathematics, medicine, and religion. The calculations of the length of the solar year and the timing of solar and lunar eclipses made by these "wild" Indians are as accurate as modern ones, and in some cases even superior. So, while enjoying the beauty of the underground river in Xel-Ha and the wild lagoons of Ishkaret, the unforgettable water park in Cancun and exotic lunches on Isla Mujeres, we eagerly awaited an excursion to Chichen Itza, the ancient capital of the Mayan kingdom.

"You invited me to thank me for saving your son?" the Wanderer asked, looking into the High Priest's eyes. The High Priest's heart trembled, but his face remained unmoving. Before him stood not his son's savior, but a man undermining the very foundation of the faith that, combined with his fear of the bloodthirsty Gods, made the Priest more powerful than even the City Ruler.

"You say that man doesn't eat man, but man eats the flesh of animals. And animals are to us what we are to the Gods," the Supreme One squinted at the Wanderer. He calmly withstood a gaze that would bring any of the City's inhabitants to their knees.

"Man eats to sustain his body. The One God does not need such support. He is in us, in animals, in trees, in stones—in the entire world around us. Man is as close to the One as he recognizes himself as a part of Him and a part of Him within himself. God cannot consume Himself—He does not need bloody sacrifices. He needs as many people as possible to awaken His part within themselves and unite with Him in Great Love and the Joy of creative labor for the common good."

"Enough," the Priest stood up. "Anyone who dared to utter even a fraction of your words would have ended their lives on the sacrificial stone. But you saved my son, and I give you a chance: renounce your God, accept our faith before all the people—and I will not only spare your life, but also appoint you as the first healer in my Temple."

The Wanderer laughed in response to these words.

"A God who is renounced ceases to be God. I will gladly accept death if it serves to unite people whose hearts yearn for the One."

“You have passed your own sentence,” the Priest said with pain.

…Our guide was witty and cheerful, like all Mexicans. The entire journey, he recounted the history of the Yucatan's development, peppering his speech with jokes in both English and Spanish. Naturally, the main focus was on the history of the Mayans and their capital. "Not Chicken Pizza, but Chichen-Itza!" the guide emphasized. Expecting a glimpse of mystery, we barely absorb the jokes. And then—the jungle parted, and the first step pyramid of the ancient City appeared before us.

Everything here breathes history. The ominous stone faces of Native American gods gaze silently upon us, numerous frescoed columns stand in several rows before the Temple of the Warriors, and the high altar, once the site of the Sacrificial Stone, stands lonely and empty before the Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent.

The lights are burning on the Towers of Chichen Itza,
The darkness of the night is in the eyes of the Idols.
And distant lightning flashes are visible
На каменных угрюмых образах…[1]

Lights burned on the city's towers. The sun had already set, but the square before the Sacrificial Stone was filled with people. "Listen, Supreme One!" the Wanderer's mighty voice boomed across the square. "I bless your people, who have been kind to me; I bless your son, who has accepted part of my blood, and therefore my faith; I bless you, who have pondered my words. Let that which is sown rise. Live in peace, love one another, and remember the part of the One within you. You yourselves are Gods. So be them!"

The crowd began to stir, but at that moment, a stone knife rose and fell, ripping open the Wanderer's chest and tearing out his hot, trembling heart into the helpfully held palms of the stone idol. And then a cry rang out from the crowd: "Kukulkan!" A dead silence fell. According to ancient legend, Kukulkan—the Feathered Serpent—was the Great God who came from the East and imparted the seeds of Divine Wisdom to the Mayan ancestors. The same legend foretold that Kukulkan would one day return to lead his people and lead them to Light and Joy, and so many generations dreamed of the Feathered Serpent's return, the beginning of an era of peace and prosperity. "Kukulkan, Kukulkan," the murmur swept through the crowd, spilling outward and converging into a single exhalation. "KUKULKAN!" However, it was all over, and the bloody body was cooling on the Sacrificial Stone.

Enchanted, we stroll through a square steeped in the breath of millennia; we pause at a ball court the size of a modern stadium; we ascend to an observatory erected by an unknown genius of the forest people. Peering into the "Well of Death"—a circular karst pit filled with water—we feel the gaze of hoary antiquity upon us. Images of the past are resurrected before us, as if reflected in the green, murky water.

This solemnity lingers as we step outside the city gates and the jungle closes in behind us. "Is everyone there? If anyone's missing, raise your hand!" the guide's jokes are no longer borne in. What kind of people were these, where did they come from, and where did they disappear so suddenly, leaving behind monuments worthy of being counted among the wonders of the world? The answers to these questions remain to be found.

“God, that is denied, is not God anymore,” High Priest thought. “Who are you, stranger and who is He – your Single, in front of which even our mighty Gods have to use hands of mere mortals to defend their sham power?”

The next morning, the people were informed that the Wanderer's treatment had failed, the Gods had turned their backs on him, and the Supreme Being's son had died without regaining consciousness. The annual Festival, already marred by the Wanderer's death, ended with a mourning ceremony.

In history, "maybe" doesn't mean "will be." To this day, the ruined temples of the once Great City, hastily abandoned by its inhabitants, unrecognized, rejected, and torn to pieces by its age-old dream, rise above the tropical forest. And when the setting sun touches the grim faces of the stone idols, it seems as if they are still stained with the blood of a strange man from the East who never betrayed his strange One God...

[1] Poems by the author.