Sisimito II--Xibalba

by Henry W. Anderson

  “I wanted to push through to Miramar Hill,” I answered.

  “We can’t travel at night in these jungles. We don’t know them as well as the ones near Santa Cruz. And there’s Sisimito. We have to make a camp.”

  “Make, makea camp?” I looked at him. “Taat, this is not a hunting trip. It’s a search and rescue. We don’t have time to make a camp. We just clear an area to sleep.”

  “We are hunting and in the jungle. When we hunt, we do things our people’s way. If we don’t, we catch nothing.”

  Rhys had come up to us and heard our conversation. “Sarge. Taat is right. We must treat this mission as we would any other. At night, we make camp. It is regulation protocol.”

  “You’re close to insubordination, Private,” I snapped.

  “Perhaps it’s time you appointed a 2IC, Sarge, to look after routine things.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Supposing that anything on this mission will be routine. Anyway, I am being both a soldier and also your friend.”

  I knew that I wouldn’t pull the Sarge thing on them, and they did have a point. Nevertheless, I would take us as far as we reasonable could before calling a halt. We hadn’t had much rest for the last couple of days, preparing for the wedding, drinking in excess, fighting. Perhaps a good night’s rest was in order. Also, we would soon and suddenly be over two thousand feet above sea level. I remembered how Parham had vomited his guts out; I again pushed those memories from my mind. Taat would do okay, but I was not sure about Robertson.

  “Thanks, Taat. You too Rhys. I’ll keep what you said under advisement.” I turned, but could feel them staring at me, then I heard them move a few steps away.

  We didn’t have time for traditional camps. I simply would not allow the time needed for that. I thought about the ritual we went through whenever Taat and I went hunting. On the first day, we travelled to the hunting grounds. At the end of that day’s journey we searched for a place to build a temporary camp, one where there were tutz fronds available to thatch a shelter. We then built a fire. We cleaned whatever animals we had shot for food and seasoned them with a lot of herbs for the evening’s meal. Usually, on that first day, we ate kuts or kolols, as we usually hunted the bigger game on the following day. It would be early evening when we’d have our meal, set against the loud howls of batz, the Howler Monkeys. After the meal, Taat would tell me a story then we made ourselves comfortable in our beds of bush branches and listened to the sounds of the jungle. We heard the haunting and eerie call of the icim, and the chirping and soft huff among the trees and tutz palms of the ajwoyotz’124 as it searched for food. Later on, we heard the grunts, growls, barks, and tooth-grinding noises of the haaleb, and the whistling of the ek baläm.125 Later at night, since our hunting grounds were enchanted, they being within the areas of the ancient temples of my people, we often heard the whispering and distant singing of my people.

  Between 0400 and 0600 hours on the following morning we’d be awakened by the whistle of the kolol. We lit the fire once more and prepared breakfast. After breakfast, we hunted in the area among rugged and rocky mountains where many caves were found. That day’s hunt would be continuous and tiring as we would track down kitams. If we shot several, there was a lot of work to be done as we had to clean and smoke them so that they would be lighter for us to carry on our backs. We had to collect a lot of firewood and all that preparation took us until midnight. We then dropped to our bush bed for a couple hours and by 0300 we’d be up again, have an early breakfast, and by 0600, at the latest, we’d start the journey back home to our village of Santa Cruz.

  Nah’ and Isabella were always very happy to see us return safely, even if the hunting was poor, for there were great dangers lurking in those areas of my jungle. Taat always told me that I must look out for the Hairy Man of the Kechelaj Komon, that I might hear him screaming like a man. I never saw him or heard him … not until Molly and I, one year ago, were hurled into that horrible and dangerous world. But here I was, going into the world of Sisimito and the Kechelaj Komon once again. I trembled with koal seed.

  Yes, I would not allow an overdone camp site. I was willing to have us rake the jungle floor, light a fire, and throw ourselves down to sleep. I thought of the tapesco126 Hulse had built during Expedition Bold and how it flippin127 collapsed because he used ‘virgin’ crutches. I smiled amidst the flippin pain the thought brought back to me. After two days, we just stopped building them and simply slept on our ground sheets.128 Not a fok happened to us, at least not while we slept. I brought myself back to the present.

  We were all doing well, perhaps Robertson was tired, but he tried his best not to show it. Choc and Taat were used to the area. Rhys was in continuous training as a soldier. In fact, Robertson was doing okay.

  We continued and around 1830 hours arrived at another meander of the Rio Blanco and I decided to make camp as Taat and Rhys had advised. I chose the western bank so we would not have to deal with crossing in the morning. The river was not very deep and there were many small rapids foaming white, rushing noisily along and over the brown flattened boulders, confirming how the river got its name. There were also shallow areas with smaller rocks over which a logging truck or tractor could have passed in the old logging days. Patches of small rocks and sand between the larger rocks allowed the men to ford without much difficulty. It was still sensible to remove our boots, socks, garters, and pants for the crossing, however, rather than have them wet. There was also the danger of slipping on the moss-covered rocks and cutting the feet or twisting the ankle. I decided to leave it up to each man to decide how he wanted to cross, warning them, however, to be careful. Thankfully, we crossed without incident.

  The trail on the western bank was not readily seen, but I knew it was there, just covered by the dense growth of the wall-like bank side. The trails were old, but they were, in many cases, not mere hunting trails but old truck passes from the logging days. Those truck passes, although overgrown, were once wide enough to allow a truck to pass; so, though the jungle was reclaiming them, they were still partly visible most of the times.

  Choc climbed the bank first and macheted out a small area of the waha leaf that grew there so that we could all ascend. After drying and dressing, we made a larger clearing, Taat dictating how large our camp site was to be. I chose an area under the large canopy of a yax’-nik129 tree, upsetting several k’oys130 who were feeding off the small, pale, yellow berries. The canopy offered some protection from rain, although I didn’t expect heavy rainfall as we were in the period of lowest yearly rainfall for the area. Of course, storms from the southwest and cold fronts from the north could always bring in heavy rain. I called the camp the West Rio Blanco Camp as having a name would make future discussions on our track easier. Taat immediately began organizing the camp, totally in control, just as he had done on our hunting trips when I was a boy.

  I had changed and was dressed in my military issue boxers and flip-flops, sitting with my back against the buttress of the yax’-nik tree. My rifle, boots, bergen, and clothes were beside me. Leaning against a tree, while the men prepared the camp, was one of the privileges of being in command. I always did that on my missions and the men, whoever they were, always accepted it. I supposed they had heard that’s the tradition with me; also, I was a good patrol commander and they were thankful for that. Actually, sitting and watching them gave me an opportunity to really see my men, to access each one’s individuality. My camps were functional, almost always bare, otherwise they took too much time to prepare; however, I often went along with what the men wanted unless there was a strategic reason not to. So, that night, Taat had the say on how the camp would be. It quickly took shape, looked good, and a fire was burning. It almost looked too permanent.

  The men were doing their best trying to keep in high spirits, putting the horror of Santa Cruz behind them. They were laughing and talking, dressed as I was, flexing their muscles under Taat’s guidance, but always having their rifle, or gun in Choc’s case, or
machete within easy reach. Robertson, who had on his long khaki pants and boots, was a little more serious. I supposed he thought that we were all being too laid-back. That was not so. Beneath the apparent relaxed mode, every one of us was aware of everything around us. Every one of us was ready to react.

  Taat continued cleaning the camp site, even though it looked okay to me, and Rhys gathered additional wood for the fire. Choc was cutting tutz fronds and tree branches for those wanting a lean-to.131 I didn’t want one. The fireteam was quickly ‘jelling’, becoming one, becoming buddies as they laughed and foked around. Their jesting helped them, helped me, as we fought remembering what had happened in Santa Cruz. It was fresh in our minds, the sight of the carnage, the smell of blood and burning flesh, the cries of the villagers. We all knew what we were going to face when we intercepted the Kechelaj Komon and rescued Molly; we did not need to be reminded of it. Whenever I thought about that future encounter with Sisimito my heart raced, my skin crawled, koal seed erupted, my breath became rapid and shallow, and I trembled both in anger and in fear. When I thought of Molly, my entire mind and body became enraged and bitter, and I sweated. So, I pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on what I had to do. That was the only way I would be able to make the right decisions. I had to rid me of all emotions. I couldn’t allow myself to live in the past or in the future. I had to live in the now.

  I gazed around. Taat and Choc were typical Ke’kchi. They were both browned by the sun and by nature, had black hair, black eyes, sharp nose, firm mouth. Taat was short and a little stout. Actually, he was among the shortest of the Ke’kchi. Choc was a bit taller, slim and tightly muscled, probably from his long trips hunting in the jungle. I was taller than both of them and, sometimes, I had seen villagers staring at me as if I were a freak of nature. I always ignored them as I was very happy with my height, even if it were a little abnormal for my people. Rhys was Kriol all through. He was dark, not by the sun alone, muscular, had tightly curled black hair, was about four inches taller than me, and had deep grey eyes. As we became better friends, he had teased me about being the tallest Ke’kchi alive and that I should go into the Guinness Book of Records. In turn, I teased him about having the greyest eyes any black man had. I had been very hesitant about having a close friend again for I always thought of Bas and how I was unable to save him. Yet, Rhys was there for me when I had needed, still needed, a close friend. I looked at Robertson. He was the typical colonial. He was the tallest in the fireteam, his exposed areas browned by the sun, the rest of him quite white. He had receding reddish hair, and a somewhat good-looking face. I tended to resent colonials, but, on a whole, Robertson had always been a good man to Toledo and my people, always ready to assist the Alcaldes with getting our people’s needs and projects to the Governor’s ears. I reflected back on Choco and Teul. Choco was typical Ke’kchi, Teul typical Mopan … except for their behavior. Somewhat like me, I supposed, but, thankfully, not as bad. But then, we were soldiers.

  Later, we all had a bath in the Rio Blanco with some waata daags,132 a hurried one as night was already upon us, then we sat around the fire, all fully dressed, eating from our army rations of instant soup, chicken with mushrooms and macaroni, and coffee. I would have been happy with just an ixtam’al. I had to smile at our rations. Those were not our usual rations. Normally, when we went on jungle patrol, it was noodles, rice and corned beef, and tambran, tamarind that is, flavored Tang. Perhaps, it was because we were going to Santa Cruz for my wedding that we had been given those special rations. Well, I wasn’t going to complain and I didn’t think the men would. It was nice to have something different.

  Taat kept us entertained with his stories. Other than our laughter, the continuous chirp-chirp of the xirs, and the occasional call of a distant night bird, my jungle was generally calm and the k’oys had gone away. But there was one other sound, the distant howl of the batz and, even with the warmth and camaraderie around me, I found it difficult to push away the memories.

  About 2100 hours we heard the haunting and eerie call of the icim, and the soft huff of the ajwoyotz’ among the trees. Taat told us we should go to bed as we would have an early start. I smiled, wondering if the men had any idea what Taat meant by an early start. As we stood up, I addressed the men, reminding them to keep their rifle, machete, and bergen beside them. The bergens were to be closed in case we had to leave suddenly. Taat had made a bush bed and lean-to for himself, as had Robertson. The rest of us were going to sleep on our ground sheets; pieces of branches covered with the broad waha leaves made comfortable pillows. I also informed the men that I had decided on a 2IC and it would be Robertson. When I made the announcement, Robertson seemed stunned then very pleased as he thanked me for the confidence I had placed in him. For a moment, I was worried that we would have a speech, but he didn’t say anything else. I told the men that Robertson would be responsible for scheduling the watches that night and he would be taking the first watch. I then went to my ground sheet as Robertson arranged the roster with the men. As I rested, awake for a while, I heard the occasional grunts and tooth-grinding noise of the haaleb. As I began to fall asleep, it was with the whistling of the ek baläm.

  CHAPTER THREE

  UNEXPECTED

  ARRIVALS

  Tuesday, April 24, 1973.

  It was still dark when the light from the awakened fire woke me. Taat was adding wood and stroking the embers and Rhys, who had been on duty, was standing talking to him. From my bergen I took out some bum fodder,133 a word I had exchanged with a British soldier buddy for shit-paper, picked up my machete, and walked a few feet into the jungle where the light from the fire still gave a soft glow. I dug a hole and started to crap. Rhys came to where I was and started pissing. I looked up at him assuming he had something on his mind, that he had a question. He looked at me saying, “Chiac?”

  “Yes, Rhys. I assume it’s very important. You couldn’t wait for me to finish shitting.”

  “Do you know where you’re taking us?”

  I knew that question was going to arise soon from someone. I had some unease about answering it as I was uncertain and I didn’t want the men to know that. Yet, I wouldn’t lie to any of them. “Better you than someone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. Better you ask the question than someone else. But why now? You’ve successfully and completely halted my shitting.” He chuckled and finished pissing. I cleaned, pulled up and buckled my pants. I then used my machete to cover the hole I had dug. I sighed. “I suppose I’ll finish this later.”

  “Sorry I stopped your shitting,” he chuckled, again, “but I didn’t want to ask you in front of the other men and Taat will soon be waking them up.”

  I looked at my friend. I didn’t know if he could ever take Bas’ place, but he would probably be the one to come the closest to it. I knew I shouldn’t compare their friendships, but I did, unfortunately. “The Kechelaj Komon is going into the Maya Mountains,” I responded. “I don’t know where, but I believe they are headed towards Sisimito’s cave. You know what I am talking about.”

  Rhys nodded. “You told me. We were drunk.”

  “Yes! And you’re the only person I have told my story to. If you need me to remind you of any part of it, just ask.” He nodded again. “With what happened at Santa Cruz, I think I can conclude that you now believe.”

  He hesitated. “I still don’t know what to believe,” he answered, brooding. “I just want to know where we are going and what your plans are. I think you owe me that.” He hesitated again. “And you do know where Sisimito’s cave is?”

  I looked fixedly on him. “If our worlds at all coincide, Sisimito’s Cave is north of Santa Cruz, somewhere between Santa Cruz and Ox Witz Ha, or Caracol as we call the city now. Ox Witz Ha is also north, about thirty miles from where we are. We will continue northwest on the trail to Edwards Central, but turn east for a mile to walk to Miramar Hill after which we return to the trail to Edwards Central.
”

  “Why go to Miramar Hill if we’re going to march back to Edwards Central?”

  “To look at the lay of the land to the northwest. It won’t take us long and will be worth it. From Edwards Central we continue north on the trail to Union Camp and then to Burgos. From there we cross the lower Maya Mountains to Vaca Plateau. Those mountains range between 2000 and 2400 hundred feet, not as high as the Main Divide. There are no trails in that area until we get into the Vaca Plateau itself. I can show you better on one of the maps I asked Taat to find and bring.”

  “He found them.”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe you should show all of us. Also, I need to know how long we’ll be in the bush. We will need to ration.”

  “I will brief the fireteam. I’ll do it at Miramar Hill.”

  “You said, ‘If our worlds at all coincide.’”

  I looked at him and grimaced. “That’s all I can say about that now.” I grinned. “Like you, sometimes I don’t know what to believe.”

  We heard cussing in the camp as Taat began waking the men. “What time is it Rhys?”

  “0400.”

  I chuckled. “They’re lucky. Normally, he’s up at 0300.”

  “By the way, there’s a surprise for you.”

  “Surprise?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Come on, Rhys. Tell me. I don’t like surprises on missions.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Okay. Surprises are more often bad than good,” I said, as we walked the very short distance into camp. “Up men. Time to go. If you want to piss or shit, do it now … What the fok!” Instead of two men getting off their ground sheets, there were four. Two of them jumped up, standing at attention beside their bergens.

  “Private Choco L. reporting for duty, Sarge.”