Sisimito II--Xibalba

by Henry W. Anderson

  “Sarge!”

  “Then, ko’one’ex.”

  “Sarge!” they bellowed.

  We continued downhill and it wasn’t until 1110 hours that I called a halt. We had reached the bottom which was a gorge, aligned west to east, and we saw the ridge going upward across from us. It wouldn’t be easy to cross the gorge for a great deal of talus274 and deadfall,275 as well as dense waha growth, separated us from the ridge.

  “Madafoka!” cussed Choco. “How are we going to get through that? And it continues on both madafoka sides.”

  “We have to be careful,” warned Taat. “A gully like this one harbors many things, some dangerous. There may be a creek under all of that why the waha is growing so thickly.”

  “Yeah! Like madafok kumätzs,” cautioned Teul. “Snakes, Medic.”

  “You should be right at home with a kumätz, considering the rattlesnake in your pants, the one you lied to us about,” taunted Choco.

  “This rattlesnake pours out enjoyment. Other rattlesnakes pour out poison. Big madafok difference, Choco.”

  “Look! There’s one right now,” exclaimed Robertson, pointing to a dead branch sticking out of the deadfall, a snake rapped around it. “Goodness, it’s about four feet long.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” advised Choc.

  “Is it a Green-Headed Tree Snake or a Green Tree Snake?”276

  “Matter’s a madafok, Medic” admonished Teul. “It’s green and it’s not dangerous. That’s all that’s important. But that one between your feet is.” Robertson gave a big jump backward and Teul roared with laughter.

  Wah-co!-Wah-co!-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

  “Bugger off, Teul. That’s not fokin funny,” grumbled Robertson.

  “Teul!”

  “Sarge!”

  “No place or time for jokes. I want no accidents.”

  “Sorry Sarge. It just sort of happened.” He shrugged his shoulders. “One thing just led to the next.”

  “That’s the worst fokin excuse you could have given, Private.” I saw Teul’s face change. My use of his rank, Private, was enough to replace his laughter with embarrassment.

  “Won’t madafok happen again, Sarge.”

  “Good. That goes for all of you as well.”

  “Sarge!”

  “The Jumping Tommygoff277 likes places like this,” said Taat. “We have to be very careful.”

  “I’ve been told they aren’t common,” Robertson tried to assure us.

  Taat looked at him. “It only takes one to kill you.”

  “I suppose so,” admitted Robertson, reddening.

  “They are not common in the rest of the country, but they are common here in Chiquibul,” remarked Choc.”

  “It’s a pity anti-venom does not hold up long in the heat,” added Robertson.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We’ve been standing here for about fifteen minutes,” I stressed. “Come on, Men. What do we do?”

  “I think we should move eastward along the gorge until we come to the spur at the beginning of the ridge,” suggested Choc.

  “You saw a spur?”

  “Yes, Sarge. A spur is there. It’s steep, but it’s there. There’s a subtle change in the trees growing on it. Different from the rest of the jungle. We might even find that this pile of rubbish gets less further down. When I viewed the area from the summit, it didn’t look like more than a mile to the spur.”

  “The spur could be an outcropping of quartz or limestone,” suggested Robertson.

  “We wouldn’t even have to climb up and along the spur. We’d cross over it and just go north until we reach the Chiquibul Branch. I didn’t see any more mountains between the spur and the river. Might prove to be the best route,” finished Choc.

  I looked at Choc and nodded. “Good, Choc. What do you say, Men?”

  “Sarge!”

  “Ko’one’ex.”

  We walked deep but parallel to the deadfall and talus, going through the sparse undergrowth at a good rate. By 1200 hours we were adjacent to the beginning of the spur and the land had leveled off, leaving the deadfall and talus in the gorge we had been following. We took a short break to have some water and have a smoke of a’kl. Taat briefed us that there were no indications of the whereabouts of the kitams and batz, but the hach-k’ek’ens had continued travelling on our right. We finished our smoke then tabbed northward. We avoided the spur and ridge completely and continued for about half-mile through the undergrowth which remained sparse. The vegetation and the terrain soon started to change, an indication that we were then on the floodplain of the river. The canopy was broken and although there were many very large trees, some above the canopy layer, a lot of sunlight came through allowing the undergrowth to grow thickly.

  Teul and Choco were doing the macheting ahead when they stopped. Taat and Choc immediately walked towards them. Taat lifted his head smelling the air then put the palm of his left hand above his head.

  I walked up to them. “What’s happening?” I immediately felt the heavy cold.

  “Ke’eleen,” said Teul.

  “Beyxan teen,”278 concurred Choco.

  “What’s it, Taat?”

  “Mal Viento. Remember what happened when we stopped at that creek after crossing the Poctun Trail? We felt a cold heaviness and Teul and Choco developed cramps. It’s the duende. It has been travelling with us.”

  “Why weren’t you aware of it before, Taat? Choc?” I questioned, pointedly.

  “A duende is not an animal. It is not even one of the Kechelaj Komon. It is difficult to tract,” rebutted Taat.

  “It’s ahead of us now,” indicated Choc. I stared at him, questioningly. “Yes, Sarge. It is ahead of us.” I decided not to question him. I would leave further discussions for later. I just had to believe.

  “Well, I don’t want to get any more madafok cramps, so let’s get out of here,” suggested Teul, quite forcibly.

  “Let’s drop back a little,” I said, and we moved back a few yards. The coldness was not there. “What do we do, Taat? We have to go on.”

  He threw down his cuxtal, opened it and brought out a plastic bag full of crushed leaves. “It’s cordonsillo,” he said. “Medic, you’ll know it as

  buttonwood. I brought it for kumätz bites, but as I explained at the Poctun Trail, it is also used to treat Mal Viento.”

  Taat opened the bag, instructing us. “Take a handful each. Throw some in your shirts and pants, back and front, and in your hair.”

  “Will it work?” asked Robertson.

  “Just do it,” snapped Taat. I was taken aback. I had never heard Taat snap at anyone. “If you get cramps, I will boil some later and bath you. That will remove the cramps.”

  “Sorry,” apologized Robertson.

  “Put some in the hair around my balls too?” asked Teul, not sounding playful. Taat glared at him.

  “What? I just asked a question. A reasonable question. If I don’t look after my balls, who will?”

  “Yes, Teul,” I said. “Put some in the hair around your balls. Now, men, if you get a cramp, just keep on going. There’s nothing else we can do but that. We’ll help you, but we won’t stop,” I forewarned.”

  When Taat had finished distributing the leaves and Teul had put some in the hair around his balls, we all did, we entered the coldness and each one of us immediately had koal seed rising on our skins. I didn’t hear anyone complain although the cramps did come to all of us, but they were not intense. I didn’t know if it were because of the cordonsillo or the fact that we were hot and sweaty, macheting and moving, or a combination of both why the cramps were not severe. Occasionally, however, one of us cussed as, intermittently, the pain from the cramps became more forceful, but we kept on going and, suddenly, we were macheting through the dense bushes of a riverbank and the oppressive heat of the sun returned to us. We were soon out of the jungle, looking at a sandy and grassy floodplain beyond which was the Chiquibul Branc
h. That river was very different from any I had seen.

  Across the river, a ridge running northeastward sent down several spurs, covered with high broadleaf jungle to the valley plain. They crossed the river, three ending in narrow jagged inclines on the southern floodplain where we were. At times, we saw the river, at other times, it disappeared under the spurs. Beyond the third spur to the east, we were not able to see the river any more. That concurred with the map which had shown it turning to the northeast. The spurs were anywhere from two hundred to three hundred feet wide where they crossed the river and reminded me of the sharp claws of the powerful ah-chu’uy279. I didn’t feel good about the place.

  No one commented, however, and we began walking towards the river through the bushes of the floodplain. About half-mile from the river, we came to a large sandy area interspersed with thickets of bamboo. We continued tabing and on reaching the river we saw that it was absolutely clear, slow moving, had a mostly sandy bottom, and the deepest areas looked about four or five feet. The sand had silver grains shining like diamonds as they reflected Kinich. The surface would look golden or green as it mirrored the multicolored trees. Yet another area was colored blue as the sky. The spurs disrupted the mosaic of colors with its own. Various hues of brown and green, interspersed with bright colors, painted their jagged slopes where moss, ferns, orchids, and bromeliads grew on and between the rocks.

  “Tin bin ichkíil,” said Choco,” throwing down his bergen and resting his rifle against it. “Will anyone join me?”

  “I will,” answered Teul. “I need to get into that river. I’m so madafok dirty.”

  “Delay that,” I uttered. “Teul, Choc, and Taat. Reconnoiter the jungle perimeter. Stay together. Go into that fokin jungle and check it. Make sure nothing’s there. Choco, Rhys, and Robertson. Let’s go to the river between those two spurs just ahead. Don’t forget your bergen, Choco.”

  The recce280 group immediately left, in single file, Choc in front, rifle right. Taat was in the middle, machete in his hand, and Teul at the rear, rifle left.

  “Should I get some grub?” asked Rhys. I nodded.

  “You don’t look happy, Sarge,” remarked Robertson.

  “There’s something about this fokin place I don’t like,” I responded.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen spurs come down like that across a river; and the trees on them … Look at the ceiba trees. It’s all so breathtaking.”

  “I don’t know, Robertson.” I looked towards the men who were walking back toward the jungle, along the path we had come. “I’ll wait until the men come back before I decide what we’ll do here.”

  “Could you just tell me, in a general way, how we proceed from here?” asked Robertson. “Are the plans still the same?”

  I looked towards the north and felt a deep longing, so deep that my eyes moistened. In my other world, that’s where Ox Witz Ha was. I wasn’t ashamed as I looked at Robertson.

  “I’m sorry if I provoked something,” he said.

  “I grimaced. “That’s okay, Robertson. You are my friend and mate.”

  “Thank you,” he answered, and I realized that what I had said meant a lot to him.

  “Generally, the plans are still the same. Because of the spurs, we’ll walk along the southern bank on this grassy plain. The map indicates that this plain goes all the way to just south of Holec Camp and the river moves away from the northern ridges as it flows east then north; hopefully, there won’t be other spurs crossing the river and we can tab on the bank itself. If we don’t make it to Holec by nightfall, we’ll ford, camp on the northern bank, and proceed to Holec tomorrow. From there we take the old truck pass, if we can find it, to Round Hole Bank and onto Cowboy Camp, then to Ox Witz Ha … Caracol.”

  “Caracol?” That’s where we’re headed. If we reach Caracol, that would mean that we did not enter Sisimito’s jungle … Sisimito’s world. If that turns out so, we could have used a transport to get there. What do we do then?”

  “For now, Robertson, we follow the packs. The Kechelaj Jupuq. Molly and Sisimito should be with them, but if they are no longer travelling with them, the packs will eventually have to rendezvous with Sisimito. They will take us to Molly, in our world or in Sisimito’s world.”

  Robertson bit his lower lip. “I suppose we continue to Caracol only if that is where the packs are going.”

  “That’s right. If they change, we change. I don’t think they will change, however.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  I stared at Robertson, his face darkened by the years he had spent in my country. I frowned, looking at him. He was actually just a bit lighter than I was. “You can! I have said that any of you can ask me anything you wish concerning this mission. No offence intended.”

  “None taken, Sarge.”

  “The packs remain close to us, doing nothing to us because we’re going where they want us to go. I think I said that before, also. I don’t mean to be rude, Robertson, but when I say something, I expect my men to remember it should I not get the opportunity to say it again.” He nodded. “I am sure that if we turn in a direction where they don’t want us to go, they’ll stop us. That would not be good for if they attack, we don’t stand a chance against them if we haven’t already dug in and made some kind of preparations to defend ourselves. At some point, Robertson, we will enter Sisimito’s world and it will be at a point that they want us to.”

  Robertson nodded. “The Vaca Plateau that we are getting into, Sarge, is it of any special significance?”

  I hesitated a little. “Based on what happened in Expedition Bold, that area is Sisimito’s home. It was in that theatre, west and southwest of Victoria Peak, that everything happened. I don’t know how I was transported there, but it was there that I lived in the Maya city of Oz Witz Ha.”

  “Ox Witz Ha … Caracol.”

  “Yes! The city is now called Caracol, but to me it will always be Ox Witz Ha, the ancient name, Place Of Three Hills. A native logger named Rosa Mai came across it in 1937 while searching for mahogany. There are various versions of the ancient name. Some say it is Ux Witz Ajaw which means Three Lords Hill. Another is Oxwitza’, Three-Hills Water. Also, Three Stone Place of Creation. The modern name Caracol is Spanish and means snail or shell. The more general meaning is spiral or volute-shaped. When first discovered, the site had large amounts of snails and it’s said that the name comes from the workers calling it ‘That one place with all the snails.’ To me it will always be Ox Witz Ha. That’s what K’an II called his city.” I was quiet for a while and Robertson saw my need for silence and said nothing. “You know, Robertson, I went to the Caracol ruins after Molly had gone to France. As I walked through the bushes and the remains of the city I knew what each ruin was, where each overturned stone came from, for I was there before. I saw the ballfield and heard the shouts of the people as I played for my life. I saw the brilliant colors of the masses, and the temples reaching into the sky. I felt the warmth of the friends I had made there. I heard the noise of war, tasted the blood of battle upon my lips, felt the grim satisfaction of plunging my spear through the body of an enemy I did not know, crushing the head of another with my maquahuitl.281 I lived it all over as I walked through those ruins and I longed for it so much that my chest pained and I felt my heart would stop.” I looked at Robertson and smiled. “Don’t think me crazy, Robertson.”

  “I don’t,” he said, “I am accepting everything more and more, convincing myself that I haven’t gone mad. I just have to pull out the memory of what happened at Santa Cruz.” He chuckled. “I am sure those taking the reports at HQ must indeed think everyone was crazy or drunk from too much booze or some strange jungle narcotic.” I laughed. “I’m glad I’m not there, at this time,” he said, shaking his head. He was quiet for a while. “I must ask again, what happens if we reach Caracol and there’re no droves, no Molly, no Sisimito?”

  I knew that Robertson, especially as my 2IC, had every right to ask me tha
t question. I exhaled, loudly. “Then I suppose I’ll ask for leave from the army. If they don’t want to grant that, there are other protocols I can follow to get out. I’ll AWOL if I have to, but I will keep on searching, forever if necessary.” I looked towards the jungle. “They will come, Robertson. They will come as soon as the time is right for them. They want me.” I exhaled loudly, again. “We might as well sit. Our bergens do make a nice back-rest,” I added, lightheartedly. Let’s sit in that low grass and sandy area just west of the first of those three spurs in front of us.”

  We didn’t speak for a while, each of us in his own grave thoughts. I saw Robertson give a quick smile and I knew he had found something to lighten the ominous world our anxiety had taken us.

  “I notice, Sarge, that the men cuss a lot, which is not unexpected in the armed forces or even bothersome; yet, each uses different cuss words. It’s like each man has his own. Yesterday I only murmured ‘madafok’ and Teul reprimanded me saying that was his cuss word and I had to find my own.”

  “Thanks, Robertson. I need some levity.” I chuckled. “Well, we do cuss a lot. But as you would know, that is all part of the soldier’s world. It means absolutely nothing. It’s not like when other people cuss. They usually have deeper meanings behind their cuss words. There’re also the rough jokes about sex. Again, it means nothing.” I chuckled once more. “A soldier’s life is a hard life, Robertson. In our country, very few of our people realize it. They think that because we’re not a country at war, we’re just a group of loafers on duty and drunkards on ‘stand down’. That is not so. About the jokes and cussing, that helps to cement our units. Camaraderie is developed to the point that each soldier will look after his buddy, even if it means losing his own life. Each soldier will do his duty. We’re not at war, but we face dangers when we go into the jungle, when we patrol our borders, when we have to help restore order if there’s civil unrest. When we patrol our borders, we are faced with the constant threat from Guatemalan smugglers, and Xateros282 who come for the Xate leaves in the Chiquibul Forest Reserve. Our soldiers have been harassed, shot at, and even shot. A policeman was killed. Once, one of our Sergeants was lost for nine days in the reserve. We thought he was probably dead, or captured by Xateros. Thankfully, he eventually walked his way out. When there’re natural disasters like a hurricane, we’re the first responders. And then, always hanging over us is the knowledge that one day we’ll be soldiers no more. We wake up and we’re not a soldier and being a soldier is all we’re trained to be, all we know. What then? What do we do? What do we become?” I raised my eyebrows, looking at him. “It’s not easy for soldiers to be without their families. Some of the younger soldiers are married, some only a few months. Yet, sometimes, they don’t see their young wives for two or three weeks, and that happens often. That’s not good, but it’s our life, the soldier’s life, the one we chose … or had to choose. So, we cuss. What the fok!” I chuckled again. “Boy! I’ve been fokin rattling off. Why do you always do that to me, Robertson?” I shook my head. “But to come back to the men and their cuss words, I really hadn’t noticed.”