by J; P Voelkel
“Shame about the weather,” said Mrs. Smith-Jones as she watched the first wedding guests arrive, umbrellas blowing inside out and hats flying off across the square.
“We should go inside,” said Mr. Smith-Jones, “before it starts to pour.”
His wife surveyed him critically. They’d stopped at a rest area and changed into the best clothes they had in their suitcases, but she was still concerned that they looked like American tourists. Tutting to herself, she straightened her husband’s tie and brushed a petal off the shoulder of his suit.
Then she turned her attention to Nasty. At her mother’s insistence, Nasty had put on a white sundress and brushed her hair for the first time in weeks.
“It’s nice to see you looking like a young lady for once,” said Mrs. Smith-Jones. “Doesn’t she look pretty, Massimo?”
Max nodded politely.
“I look stupid,” Nasty whispered to him. “And so do you.”
“I know,” said Max miserably.
Nasty’s father had forced him to borrow a white shirt, a tie, and a deeply uncool navy polyester blazer. Max particularly loathed the little anchors on the gold buttons.
“Grazie, signor, but eet eez not necessary,” Max had protested in his terrible Italian accent.
“Yes, it most certainly is necessary, Massimo,” countered Mrs. Smith-Jones. “If you’re kind enough to take us to the wedding, the least we can do is lend you a jacket. I wouldn’t dream of turning up improperly dressed for a society event, and I’m sure you feel the same. I’d rather not go than put you through that embarrassment.”
Realizing that he was in danger of not getting to the wedding, Max had reluctantly surrendered to the Smith-Joneses’ sartorial ideas. But now that they stood on the streets of Santiago, one glance at his reflection in a shop window confirmed that he’d never looked less like an Italian aristocrat.
“That’s where you get your boutonnieres, boys,” said Mrs. Smith-Jones, pointing out a small man at the bottom of the steps who was handing out yellow flowers and pins to the male guests. To his horror, Max recognized the limo driver from the previous night among them.
He had to find another way in.
“Go with your parents and get some good seats,” he said to Nasty, handing her the invitation. “I’ll see you in there.”
Nasty handed the invitation to her mother.
“You go with Dad and get some good seats,” she said. “We’ll see you in there.”
When her mother hesitated, Nasty pointed to a woman in pink who was entering the cathedral. “Look! I think that’s Crown Princess Valentina of Vienna! Maybe you can sit next to her if you hurry!”
“Don’t be long, Anastasia,” called her mother as she trotted off across the square, pulling her husband behind her.
“Go with them, Nasty,” Max urged. “I have to find Lola.”
“Lola’s the bride, right?” asked Nasty.
“Yes. She must be in the cathedral somewhere. The wedding starts soon.”
Nasty shook her head. “Don’t you know anything about weddings? The bride is always last to arrive.”
“She is? So where will she be?”
“Leave this to me.”
Taking out her cell phone, Nasty pretended to be chatting away loudly with a friend as she walked through the square in the direction of some teenage girls who were dressed to the nines and obviously on their way to the wedding. “Yeah, no, I know, I know, I know.… No, I haven’t seen her yet; hold on, I’ll ask.…” As she passed the girls, she asked them casually, “So, have you seen the bride? What’s her dress like?”
The girls started twittering and chirping like excited starlings. “We don’t know, we haven’t seen her yet; she’s still in her room at the hotel.” They pointed at a large stone building next door to the cathedral and carried on their way.
Nasty smiled triumphantly at Max.
“Impressive,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The hotel was extremely fancy, all red carpets and gilded pillars.
“Give me the necklet,” whispered Nasty.
She marched up to the reception desk. “Excuse me,” she said, sounding breathless and flustered, “but Count de Landa asked me to bring this piece to Miss Lola urgently—she needs it for the wedding.”
“Of course, señorita,” said the girl behind the desk. “I will be happy to deliver it for you.”
“No!” said Nasty, horrified at the suggestion. “Do you have any idea how valuable this is? It’s a Landa family heirloom. The groom gave me strict instructions to deliver it in person.” She leaned over to read the clerk’s name tag. “Trust me, Conchita, you do not want to displease Count Antonio de Landa.”
The groom’s reputation had evidently preceded him. “This way, señorita,” said the clerk. “I will take you to the room immediately.”
Max followed them to the elevator, but the clerk barred his way. “Sorry, señor, but Miss Lola gave us strict instructions: no one of the male gender is to be allowed near her room today. Not even Count de Landa or the best man, no matter how much they insist. It’s the custom among her people, apparently.”
That figures, thought Max. She doesn’t want them to know she’s given away the Yellow Jaguar.
“See you at the wedding,” said Nasty.
“Tell her it’s going to be okay,” said Max. “Tell her I’ll think of something.”
Nasty nodded and got in the elevator.
Max walked out of the hotel with a heavy heart. Would it be okay? he wondered. Would he think of something? At that moment, he had nothing. He’d even handed the necklet over to a stranger. He was fairly sure that Nasty wasn’t a demon in disguise, but still … what did he really know about her?
He tried to focus on his next problem: how to get into the cathedral without being recognized.
Max studied the groups of overdressed, braying aristocrats who were milling around in the square. He’d never pass for one of them.
Beyond them, a long line of scruffy, shell-wearing pilgrims were making their way down some steps to the bowels of the cathedral. A priest appeared and hurried them along, trying to get them out of sight before the wedding started.
Problem solved.
Max ducked into the nearest souvenir shop and bought himself a scallop shell on a leather thong, and a long, knobbly walking stick. Then he hid in a side street and set about transforming himself into a footsore pilgrim. He scooped up some mud from the gutter and rubbed it on his face and clothes. He mussed up his hair. Then, to give himself an authentic-looking limp, he placed a little stone in each of his sneakers.
“Oh, my blisters,” he groaned as he hobbled toward the end of the line outside the cathedral. “I can’t believe how far I’ve walked today.”
The waiting pilgrims welcomed him into their throng. They shook hands and hugged him and slapped him on the back and seemed completely unaware that every single one of them smelled like a skunk from their long days and nights on the road.
“Come and get some food, man,” said a sunburned guy with a long beard. “You’ve earned it.”
Down in the bowels of the cathedral, a wonderful spread had been laid out to welcome the pilgrims. There were fresh-baked breads, soft cheeses, pink hams, beef stew, cold chicken, slabs of potato omelet, golden pies, bowls of ripe tomatoes, fruit tarts, little pancakes filled with cream.…
For the first time in his life, Max Murphy declined the offer of free food and forced himself to keep walking.
He found a bathroom and cleaned himself up, then scurried through the passageways under the church until they narrowed and shrank into little more than ancient tunnels. This was ridiculous. Somewhere above him, Lola was getting married. And he was trapped like a rat in maze.
He turned one last corner and came face-to-face with a silver coffin. He stared at it uncomprehendingly. If only he’d paid more attention when Nasty was reading the guidebook.
The guidebook! She’d given it to him!
He pulled it
out of his bag, found the page about the cathedral, and read impatiently. Okay, so this was good. This must be the casket of Saint James. From here, steps were supposed to lead up to a small chamber behind the altar, from where an old jewel-encrusted statue of the saint looked out over the faithful. Hardly daring to breathe in case anyone heard him, he found the steps and tiptoed up to the chamber. This was where pilgrims came to kiss Saint James at the end of their pilgrimage. And this was where Max Murphy peered out over the saint’s left shoulder to see what was happening in the cathedral.
At least the wedding hadn’t started yet.
He saw the yellow flowers decorating every pew, the priests nervously preparing the service books, and the giant incense burner, like a great golden tea urn, tied by ropes to a pillar at the side.
His eye traveled over the congregation. He recognized a few of the faces from the party last night. Near the front, sitting next to the woman in pink, were Nasty’s parents. They were saving two spaces for himself and Nasty.
But where was Nasty? She should have been back from the hotel by now. All she had to do was drop off the necklet.
He was kicking himself for entrusting the Yellow Jaguar to her. Lola’s life was on the line here. What if Nasty had decided to keep it? No one on earth could stop her. Or what if she’d simply lost her nerve? Or what if Landa’s thugs had intercepted her?
There was an air of unease in the pews. People were craning around and looking at their watches and shaking their heads and whispering loudly among themselves. It seemed that the wedding was getting off to a late start.
The main doors of the church were thrown open and everyone turned to look.
In place of a radiant bride, in walked the repulsive figure of Ah Pukuh. He was wearing his ceremonial headdress, the exotic creation of dried human tongues and eyeballs bobbing on their optic nerves that he’d worn when Max first met him at the party in the Black Pyramid. Now as he lollopped down the aisle, the eyeballs swiveled and rolled independently, leering obscenely at the female guests. His blotchy face was daubed, as usual, in thick white makeup, and his bloated body bulged out of a traditional gray wedding suit with tailcoat and vest. As he passed each pew in turn, the occupants would start fanning themselves frantically to dissipate the foul odor he left in his wake.
A wooden side door clanked open, and Landa limped out, flanked by two bodyguards dressed in black. Landa looked ridiculous in a mustard-yellow velvet doublet and black knickerbockers, his skinny legs encased in black tights, a ceremonial sword hanging at his side. The guards took up positions on either side of the altar, while Landa paced to and fro, his hand clenching and unclenching on the handle of his sword as though he were considering killing someone.
Another side door opened to admit a band of red-robed acolytes, carrying among them a tray of burning coals. Every head in the church turned to watch as they untied the great incense burner and set the tray of coals inside.
When this sideshow was over, unrest set in again among the guests. The whispering grew to a clamor. Where was the bride? Where was the bride?
And then she was there.
Lola stood at the door of the cathedral, silhouetted by the daylight behind her.
The organist launched into a wedding march.
As Lola progressed down the aisle, the congregation fell silent and stared openmouthed. Were they stunned by Lola’s beauty or horrified at the prospect of this sweet young girl being joined in matrimony to the evil Antonio de Landa?
It was impossible to say.
Lola was wearing a creamy-white, renaissance-style wedding dress, with a lace veil that fell over her shoulders and trailed behind her, its hem borne reverently by a bridesmaid. She walked slowly, almost floating like a ghost in her long silk dress, and she stared straight ahead with the unseeing eyes of a sleepwalker. Max registered, with relief, that she was wearing the Yellow Jaguar, its amber tones picked out in her bouquet of golden roses.
When Lola reached the front, the bridal party took their places at the altar steps. Even without their eccentric costumes, it made for a strange wedding photograph. The groom looked angry, the bride looked brain-dead, and the best man looked like an extra from a horror film.
Max strained to see the bridesmaid. What kind of weirdo would she be? Lola had no friends in Spain as far as he knew, so her attendant must be from the groom’s family. Maybe a female version of Landa, with or without the beard.…
Lola turned to pass back the bouquet, and for the first time Max saw the bridesmaid clearly.
It was Nasty. In her white sundress. With yellow flowers in her hair.
As Lola handed her the bridal bouquet, Max distinctly saw her squeeze Lola’s hand. A kind of “it’s going to be all right because your good friend Max will think of something to stop this wedding” squeeze. And now he could see Nasty anxiously scanning the church, trying to spot him.
But it was Lola who saw him.
As the priest droned on, her gaze drifted up to the statue of Saint James behind the altar. Those jungle-sharp eyes, which could spot a brown toad on a brown log in brown mud at fifty paces, spotted Max’s eye peeping over the saint’s shoulder.
She looked away instantly, asking him for nothing, expecting nothing.
Max’s heart lurched.
He remembered the last time they’d been alone. How he’d told her she wasn’t a princess. She was looking regal at this moment, her head held high in acceptance of her fate.
She’d been ready to walk down the aisle without the Yellow Jaguar, which would surely have meant instant death. Now she was about to sacrifice her life in marriage to this creep. And Max was fairly sure that she was doing it all for him.
He couldn’t let this happen.
He had to think of something.
Somehow he had to save her.
But he should have been thinking about saving himself because a big calloused hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth and he was forced down onto his knees. Max had kept an eye on the two bodyguards at the altar but, foolishly, hadn’t thought to check if Landa had hired other security.
“We meet again, little drummer boy,” whispered a voice in his ear.
It was one of the Maya roadies from the party.
“And this time,” said the voice of the second roadie, “our orders are to finish you.”
Max heard a gun being cocked. His last thought, as he braced for a bullet to his brain, was, I’m sorry, Monkey Girl; I’m so sorry I let you down.
He heard a faint whistling sound.
Then he was falling, falling.…
Max was knocked forward by the weight of the first roadie’s body collapsing on top of him. He pushed it off and saw a blowgun dart lodged in its neck. Even as the second roadie took aim, a dart whistled through the air and knocked him senseless.
Max’s heart raced with pleasure. There was only one marksman in all the world who could make that shot.
“Lord 6-Dog?” he whispered.
The monkey king bounded up the steps to the chamber. He was carrying two lengths of PVC pipe.
“Lord 6-Dog! How did you—? Where did you—? I thought you were—”
The monkey’s eyes twinkled, but he tried to look fierce. “I have brought thee a weapon, young lord. I hope thou canst remember thy training?”
Max nodded. He couldn’t stop smiling.
Lord 6-Dog handed him the pipe. “This is thy blowgun,” he whispered. “Alas, no poison dart frogs, but I have made a paste of toxic roots.” He wore two small gourds at his waist and he untied one to give to Max. It was filled with wadding soaked in poison. He gave Max half his stash of darts and Max knew to dip them in the wadding before he used them. “And now, young lord, let us stop this unholy union. Ko’ox!”
Max tied the gourd onto his belt loop and stuffed the darts in his back pocket. “Ko’ox!” he replied. “It’s on!”
By now, Ah Pukuh’s reeking body odor had permeated every part of the cathedral, and the congregation was waiting impatien
tly for the gigantic incense burner to swing into air-freshener mode. There was a collective sigh of relief when the red-robed acolytes returned and began to untie the ropes.
With a clanging of pulleys, the censer shot thirty feet straight up into the air. As the acolytes pulled rhythmically on the ropes, it began to trace an arc from one side of the cathedral to the other. The wind fanned the coals into bright flames, and soon a Vesuvian cloud of perfumed smoke drowned out even the smell of Ah Pukuh.
The congregation watched in awe as the incense burner swung higher and higher, side to side, until it seemed certain to hit the ceiling. Then, as it started on its downward trajectory, they gasped to see a small, dark figure leap from a high balcony onto the rope above the censer.
It was a brown howler monkey, gripping a knife in its teeth.
“Lady Coco?” Max stared at Lord 6-Dog in incredulity.
The monkey king nodded. “It is time to attack,” he whispered. “First we deal with the guards. Then, when I give the password, thy job is to escort Lady Lola far, far away from here.”
“What’s the password?”
Lord 6-Dog cast around wildly. “Bananas!” he announced.
They took up their sniper positions, Lord 6-Dog standing on a velvet stool, each pointing a blowgun over one of the saint’s shoulders.
The incense burner was spinning wildly and careening from left to right. Everyone in the cathedral was transfixed by its progress, except for Landa—who was screaming at his remaining two guards to shoot the monkey—and Lola, who stood stock-still and expressionless in the chaos.
“Take aim …,” whispered Lord 6-Dog. “Fire!”
One guard fell.
Lord 6-Dog’s dart had found its target.
Max’s dart missed, and his guard spun around to retaliate.
Down, down, down the incense burner swung, with Lady Coco riding on top of it.
Max didn’t even have time to duck before a red-robed acolyte snuck up behind the guard, hit him with a candlestick, and ran off into the shadows. The guard forgot about Max and hesitated between chasing his red-robed assailant, shielding Landa, and shooting the monkey as his boss was yelling at him to do.