Dark Eye of the Jaguar

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by Robert Mitchell


  “He sounded a hell of a lot younger than sixty years of age on the telephone,” I replied. “He sounded much more like twenty-five, or thirty at the most.”

  “But what is your point, Sue?” Joseph asked.

  “Well, just say for instance that Jackson Lee is thirty. He would have been ten years old in 1990 and his grandfather would have been at least one hundred and fifteen years old when he supposedly related the story to the young Jackson Lee. It’s just not possible. We should’ve seen it all along. Jackson Lee is definitely lying.”

  “But where would he have gotten those drawings of the pieces of jade, and the gold piece?” I asked.

  “Ah,” Angelo replied. “I have the answer to that as well.”

  “Well, what is it for God’s sake?” I interjected when he once again seemed to be pausing too long for his dramatic announcement.

  “It is this!” And with those few words he lifted up a tattered old book from the table. “This book is from our library. It is a book written by a French missionary and was published in 1895. This missionary was interested in the various religions of China. He was also an accomplished photographer.” He started to flick through the pages to illustrate his point. “Somehow he must have convinced the monks from the temple to allow him to examine and photograph some of the items which they used in various ceremonies from time to time.”

  He opened the book at a page he had marked with a small piece of cardboard and turned it around so that the three of us could see. There, in clear black and white, set out over four pages, were all of the items comprising the valuables of the temple that he had been allowed to photograph. Amongst them were the three jade items that I had found in the writing box, as well as both of the gold ornaments. Each item had been photographed showing the obverse and reverse. The signatures on the back of the three jade pieces were clearly visible.

  “So that’s where Lee got his drawings,” I said. “Would any of these photographs have been available on the internet?”

  “It is possible,” Angelo replied. “But I don’t think so. The book is quite, well, uncommon. It is not rare by any means, but there would not be many copies in existence, and probably very few in China. It was a specialist field even in the nineteenth century.”

  “Does the book tell us anything about the pieces of jade?” I asked. I was still wondering why Jackson Lee had paid such a high price.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact it does,” he replied. “The pieces of jade that you found in the writing box were part of a set of nine. They were known as the Nine Doves of Wisdom.”

  “But they don’t look anything like doves,” Sue said. “The three that we found all had different shapes and were carved in a variety of styles.”

  “Nevertheless,” Angelo went on. “For some reason best known to the temple, they were known as the Nine Doves of Wisdom. According to my interpretation of the chapter describing these particular items, and you must appreciate that my French is not very proficient, the Nine Doves of Wisdom had once been the sole possession of a Buddhist monk who lived in the early part of the nineteenth century, a monk who had, it is said, the power to chart a person’s future. Apparently he would gather the jade pieces to his chest, all nine of them, and remain motionless for great periods of time, sometimes even days. At the end of this period of meditation, he would see a vision, a vision of the path of the person who had sought his wisdom. Apparently it was not always a happy vision.”

  “So this would mean that the pieces of jade are worth much more than we thought,” Sue said.

  “I would believe so,” Angelo replied. “Yes, to some people, to certain unscrupulous collectors. And of course they are priceless as far as the Buddhists are concerned.”

  “So that explains why Jackson Lee was so keen to get them,” I said. “The cunning bugger!”

  “Ben!” Sue snapped.

  “It’s all right, Sue,” Joseph said. “We hear much worse than that in our day to day work amongst our parishioners.

  “But, what about the medallion?” I asked. “It’s not amongst this lot.” I pointed to the photograph. “So it doesn’t belong to the monks. And if it’s not part of your regalia, then where’s it from?”

  “It was probably just something else that the Boxers picked up along the way,” Joseph said. “There could quite likely be a few other items in the chest which are unconnected to either the Society or to the temple.”

  “Would there be any way of tracing the owners?” Sue asked.

  Joseph just shrugged his shoulders. His only interest, and that of Angelo, was in anything that had been taken from the church.

  “Is this Buddhist temple still in existence?” I asked. “Or did it disappear during Mao’s time?”

  Sue had done some investigation on the internet about the destruction that had occurred during the so-called Cultural Revolution in China in the mid 1960’s. Mao had incited his Red Guard into destroying everything that was old. The role of the Red Guard was mainly to attack the four olds of society, the old ideas, cultures, manners, and customs. Red Guards had taken to the streets from their schools, committing violent and indiscriminate acts in the name of the Cultural Revolution. In their attempt to wipe out China's past and create a new society, these young people destroyed any precious painting, vase, book, statue, item of pottery, calligraphy, or embroidery, or other work of art they could lay their hands on. They ripped crosses from church steeples, forced Catholic priests into labor camps, tortured Buddhist monks in Tibet and turned Muslim schools into pig slaughterhouses. Thousands of famous buildings, temples, churches, shrines and heritage sites had been destroyed.

  “The temple is still in existence,” Angelo replied. “It almost disappeared during those turbulent times, but there were enough adherents to see that it survived.”

  “What’s the name of this temple?” I asked, forcing myself not to look at Sue, and willing both Joseph and Angelo to fix their eyes on me. I knew that if they said it was the Temple of Agriculture, Sue wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face.

  “It is the White Crane at Dawn Temple,” Angelo replied, and I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that my face hadn’t given anything away.

  “So that presents us with another problem,” I said quickly, trying to move away from the subject of temples.

  “What’s that, Ben?” Joseph asked.

  “Well it’s not really your problem as much as ours. If there’s any more of the stuff that’s pictured in that book in the chest, then the temple will probably lay claim to it.”

  “I think that they would certainly do that,” Angelo said.

  “And,” I continued. “Unfortunately, as far as Sue and I are concerned, we might have another court case on our hands.”

  “That would appear to be the case, Ben,” Joseph replied. “What do you wish to do?”

  “I want to think about it for a while.” I turned to Angelo. “Have either of you mentioned this to these Buddhist guys? Do they know that some of their pieces have turned up?”

  Joseph looked at Angelo and raised his eyebrows in a questioning glance.

  “No, Ben,” Angelo replied. “We four in this room are the only ones who share the knowledge contained in the note. Oh, and Ben?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are not guys. They are Buddhist monks.”

  “Okay, I apologize. Can you guys, sorry, can you two give Sue and me ten or fifteen minutes to talk about this? In fact, give us half an hour. Our feet don’t seem to have touched the ground since we found Joseph’s note under the door.”

  “Certainly, Ben,” Angelo replied.

  “And could we maybe get some coffee?” Sue asked. “I’m dying for a cup.”

  “I think that can be arranged. Milk? Sugar?”

  “I take mine black,” I replied. “Sue has hers with milk and two sugars.”

  Joseph went to the door and gave instructions to somebody outside and then came back and sat down again. He looked at Father Angelo. A message seemed to p
ass between them and they remained seated.

  “Ah,” I said. “We asked if Sue and I could have a few moments together?”

  “Yes, Ben,” Joseph replied. “I have asked the servants to send out for some coffee, but in the meantime there is more that Father Angelo has to tell you.” He nodded to Angelo. “Hopefully, he will be a little briefer this time.”

  “You told Father Joseph,” Angelo said quietly, taking the rebuke in good humour. “That an attempt was made, you believe, to steal the cross from you, or from a house which you had given as the residential address for the other email address that you had used.”

  “That’s correct,” I replied.

  “That is puzzling,” he said.

  “Why?” Sue asked.

  “We don’t believe that this Jackson Lee would have been behind such an attempt.”

  “No?” I said.

  “No. It would appear that this Jackson Lee is well versed on the subject of religious objects. That being the case, he would not try to wrest the cross from your possession.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The large stone in the centre of the cross, the dark emerald, is supposed to have a curse upon it.”

  “A curse!” Sue said laughing. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “No,” Joseph said. “Father Angelo is serious, very serious. The cross and the dark emerald are well known amongst religious circles.” He turned to Angelo. “Tell them the story, Father. Let them make up their own minds.”

  Angelo settled himself back in the large overstuffed chair, put his elbows on the arm rests and placed the palms of his hands together, as if in prayer, and leaned forward.

  “The history of the curse began many centuries ago, in South America,” he began. “We only know the dark emerald from when it came into the hands of the Church in the sixteenth century. We are unaware of what occurred prior to that, but the supposed legends were most vile.”

  “What happened?” Sue asked.

  “You must take your minds back hundreds of years to the Spanish incursion into South America. It was a hard and perilous place. Men took what they wanted, without thought, without care. It so happened that there was an Inca ruler, a king. His name escapes me for the moment, but I can look it up if you wish.”

  “Don’t bother with the fine details, Father,” Joseph interrupted. “Just tell them the pertinent parts of the story. Ben and Sue are tired. They will want to rest, but they should hear the story first.”

  “Yes, Father Joseph, of course.”

  “Take your time, Father Angelo,” Sue said.

  He bowed his head for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts together, and then looked up at us both and continued with the story.

  “There was a party of Spaniards, conquistadors, who had been fighting their way through the jungle in Peru, trying to reach a small city that they had been told about. It was the city ruled by that Inca king. After twenty or thirty days they finally reached this city. They were welcomed by the citizens, but it was not a warm welcome. The people had heard rumours of the men in armour who had come from the sea, and they were wary. There were two officers in charge of the conquistadors, both jealous of each other, and both eager to acquire as much of the city’s riches as they could find.

  They were taken before the king, a proud man, decked out in a feathered cloak, his lower torso wrapped in the skin of a jaguar, and wearing a high bright red hat somewhat like a bishop’s mitre. Both officers stood before the king. Nothing was said and the officers called their interpreter forward. He approached, quivering with fear. He knew that at any moment violence could break out. He had seen what these Spaniards were capable of doing.

  The Inca king’s feathered cloak fell open and the eyes of the two officers fell upon a magnificent dark green stone which the king wore from a delicate gold chain around his neck. It was the dark emerald, cut in the shape of a jaguar’s eye. You may have noticed the lighter colouration at the dark stone’s centre. It is said that if a person looks long enough at that one central point, he can see his future. But I digress.

  The arm of one of the officers suddenly reached out and clasped the dark emerald, and wrenched it from the neck of the king. The king raised his arm to strike at the conquistador, but before he could bring his hand down, the dagger that the officer had drawn from its sheath was plunged up into the king’s chest, deep into his heart. The king uttered a few words and then screamed, but it was not the scream of a man. It was the scream of a jaguar. His dark eyes opened wide, and the officer stared into those eyes and stumbled back. The officer yelled to his men. Several of them raised their guns and fired at the citizens. Never having seen or heard such weapons before, the people fled into the jungle in terror. The city was deserted within minutes.

  The conquistadors searched the city, but found no treasure. There was a priest with the party, a Jesuit priest. He asked the interpreter what were the words that the king had said before the scream of the jaguar had burst forth from his lips. The interpreter was quaking, even more than before, and refused to speak. The priest asked again, and again. At the third time he was told.”

  “What were the words?” Sue asked, her mouth open, spellbound.

  “They were the words of the curse,” Angelo replied.

  “What did they say?” she asked again.

  “We don’t know the exact words,” Angelo said. “But they have been passed down to us through the centuries as: whosoever shall savagely wrench me from the one who possesses me shall himself perish by violence.”

  “What happened then?” I asked. I was getting as intrigued as Sue. It was a good story, but had to be just that, a story, and only intended to scare the ignorant and gullible.

  “The priest went then to the officer and asked him what he had seen in the eyes of the king when the jaguar had screamed.”

  “Was it a jaguar that had screamed?” Sue asked. “Or did the king scream like a jaguar?”

  “Those who were present said that it was a jaguar’s scream, but that it came from the throat of the king, and that no man could make such a sound.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I interrupted. “Forget the scream. What did he see in the eyes?”

  “He saw a man. He saw a man wearing a metal helmet, a morion, a conquistador helmet.”

  “He probably saw his own reflection,” Sue said.

  “He did not recognise the man,” Angelo said. “The man was thin-faced. His beard was bushy, unkempt, his skin pocked with the marks of sickness, the eye tired and red.”

  “One eye?” I asked. “Don’t you mean two?”

  “No. The other eye had been pierced by a dagger, a dagger not unlike that with which he had slain the king.”

  “Oh, delightful,” I said, and seeing the look of disgust on Sue’s face asked: “So how did the emerald come into the Jesuits’ possession?”

  “As I have said,” Angelo continued. “There was no other gold or precious stones to be had in the city. The only thing of value had been the thin gold chain and the dark emerald taken from the king. The two officers argued over them, the other officer demanding that they be shared. It was finally agreed that they would draw lots. One would take the chain, and the other the emerald. But the officer who had wrested it from the king cheated, and his dishonesty was revealed. Such was the anger of his brother officer that this officer drew his own dagger and plunged it into the eye of the one who had cheated, killing him instantly.”

  “You said that he didn’t recognise the face he saw in the king’s eyes?” Sue said. “But it was his face, wasn’t it.”

  “That’s correct,” Angelo replied. “It was his own face. But the last time he had seen that face was on board the ship which had brought them to the shores of that inhospitable country. They took no mirrors ashore, and the ravages of the jungle and the months that had passed as they had forced their way through the jungle, the bad food, and the ravages of disease had changed that face.”

  “What happened then,” I asked.
“Did the other officer take the stone?”

  “He picked it up and turned to the soldiers, ready to explain his action, but he had no time to do so.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “As he turned, a spear pierced his back and he was dead even before he fell to the ground. The priest reached down and picked the dark emerald from the ground where it had fallen. He raised his own holy cross and held it towards the jungle from where the spear had come. And slowly, the party of soldiers backed away from that place, led by the priest, and in the weeks that followed they made their way back to the main body of the conquistadors.”

  “Did anything bad happen to the priest?” Sue asked.

  “No,” Angelo replied. “He did not wrest the dark emerald from that second officer. It had dropped to the ground and he took it peacefully. But it was said that the body of men was tracked from that day on by a spotted beast, a jaguar, hidden amongst the dark shadows of the jungle.”

  “Did anything bad happen to anyone else who owned the stone?” I asked.

  “No,” Angelo replied. “The emerald was placed into the cross some time in the seventeenth century and has been used in the name of God since that date.”

  “It has a name,” Joseph said quietly. “Although we do not refer to it by such name.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “In the world of famous gems,” Angelo said. “It has a name, although not so famous as most of the others.”

  “What’s its name?” Sue asked.

  “It is called the Dark Eye of the Jaguar.”

  “The Dark Eye of the Jaguar,” Sue repeated. “Will I find it on the internet?”

  “Most probably. There will also be a reference to when it was taken from the church by the Boxers.”

  “The Boxers!” I suddenly exclaimed. “Joseph, did you tell Angelo what happened to the Boxers who stole the cross?”

  “No,” he replied. “I have not yet had time.”

  “My God!” Sue exclaimed. “The Boxers violated the church, killed the priests and stole the cross, and then Captain Jenkinson-Smythe had his men cut the Boxers down and executed the ones who surrendered.”

 

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