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“What’s an alcalde?” she asked quietly.

“It means mayor. It’s what they call the village leader,” he explained in a low mutter. “Maybe I should try Mopan...”

“Do you speak Mopan?” Ellie asked with surprise, recognizing the name of one of the other Mayan languages used in the region.

“Er—sort of?” Adam hedged. He turned his attention to the women again. “Tub’aj yan alcalde?”

His efforts earned him a flash of surprise, but didn’t entirely banish the women’s suspicion. The trio ducked back inside and whispered furiously.

“Hope I didn’t just ask them how to sail a fish or something,” Adam grumbled awkwardly.

The children looked far more comfortable with their presence. A little scattering of them had drifted out of their hiding places to form a cluster at Ellie’s back. The group grew as Adam gave the house of unfriendly women an awkward wave, and then guided Ellie deeper into the village.

The road widened until it formed a rough square of beaten earth that surrounded a well. At the far end of the bare plaza stood a slightly larger thatched roof building with a cross hung over the door—clearly the local church. Ellie hadn’t read a very great deal of Mayan ethnographic literature, as there wasn’t an awful lot of it to begin with—but she did know that most of the Maya were practicing Catholics, albeit with a few local variations on the faith.

A dozen or so men were gathered in front of the building. They sat on low stools or hovered in the shade. The members of the group wore simple shirts and trousers. Some shaded their faces with hats woven from dried palm fronds.

None of them looked very friendly—or surprised. Ellie guessed that the boy from the milpa had already spread the news of their arrival.

As a welcome, it did not seem very promising.

“Don’t worry,” Adam said quietly from beside her. “I’ve talked my way out of worse.”

His comment was far from reassuring.

The train of children dissolved to take up positions around the square. A few of them climbed into the trees while others peered from behind rocks or fences.

Adam slapped a deliberately friendly smile on his face. He raised a hand in greeting as he approached the men.

“D’yoos b’o’tik,” he said. “K’aat janal, naj’a ak’a.”

Ellie guessed that he was using Mopan again. She could hear how awkwardly the words fell from his tongue.

The men continued to glare at them suspiciously.

“What did you say?” she asked in a whispered hiss.

“Just whether there’s a place where we could stay for the night,” he countered defensively. “I think.”

“Are you sure they’re Mopan speakers?” Ellie pressed. “There are quite a few distinct Mayan languages...”

“Well, it’s not like I know all of them,” he retorted, and then took a breath. “Lemme try something else. Bix a beel! Tu’ux u alcalde?”

One of the oldest fellows clustered by the church raised his head. His lean, weathered face was marred by a pale scar on his forehead—a jagged line that ran into the white fringe of hair under his straw hat. A wooden cross hung around his neck alongside another rough pendant that looked like a fang from some large, hungry animal.

“Is that supposed to be Yucatec?” the older man asked in accented but clearly fluent English.

Adam shuffled a little awkwardly beside her.

“Er… yes?” he offered.

“Padre Amilcar Kuyoc,” the older man said, introducing himself. “Your offense against my language is forgiven—but we don’t have an alcalde here. You are looking for a place to stay for the night?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Adam replied, brightening.

“You married?” Kuyoc pressed crisply.

Ellie startled at the unexpected inquiry from the man, whose title revealed him to be the village’s priest. She flashed an alarmed glance at Adam.