by Betina Krahn
“Quickly—” She grabbed the scrolls from the table and pushed back benches and stools to make enough room to lay them out on the floor. Soon she was looking at the three-sided portal that she had proposed the first time she laid eyes on the scrolls. “These stones may have originally adorned a doorway or the entrance to a temple.” She pointed to the arc of the stones. “They could make up a figurative jaguar’s mouth, through which people passed to make their offerings.”
The professor sank down on the bench behind him with a plop. He thought about it for a while and slowly began to smile. Dropping to his knees by the rubbing, he took out his magnifying glass to look again at the stone where the little humans were depicted entering the jaguar’s mouth.
“It could be,” he said with tempered excitement. “These stones could indeed be the doorway to the temple where the jaguar keeps his treasure!”
Cordelia hugged Hedda and the professor, then staggered to a stop and stared down at the three-sided opening, more convinced by the moment that it was the entrance to the storehouse of a great treasure. It would be the find of the century!
Find being the operative word. If they could only find it.
Her excitement deflated. There were still dozens of questions to answer.
“What were the stones part of? Does it still exist? If it does, where is it? And how do we find it?”
She joined the professor on the floor; he was studying the other side of the arch. There was another great snake, without the feathers this time. At his mouth was a small school of fish. At his tail were what the professor had identified as flames. Above that were mountains that seemed to be on fire. It didn’t seem to either continue or complement the creation story displayed on the other side.
“Perhaps it tells a different legend,” Hedda suggested, looking on.
“There is a legend that says the serpent, he also gives gifts to humans,” the professor said. “He gives writing and knowledge of the stars and seasons. But his gift is not so great as the jaguar’s. He grows jealous and causes mischief.”
“Did he burn things?” Cordelia asked, pointing to the burning mountains.
“I do not ever read this… that the serpent makes the world burn.” He sat back on his heels, studying the great, winding snake and mountains in flames.
“Could that be a volcano?” Hedda said, glancing at Cordelia.
“Possibly. Or maybe a ‘forked tongue’ of lightning setting the forest on fire,” Cordelia ventured with a smile for Hedda. “Professor, are you quite sure those figures represent fire?”
“Oh, yes. Fire is shown many places. Well known in translation.” He gave Hedda a hopeful look. “There are one or two volcanoes in the south.”
Goodnight, who had planted himself on a bench to watch them unfold the layered meanings of the images, spoke up.
“There are other possibilities, you know. It could be that the mountains aren’t burning at all. Maybe they’re just ordinary mountains glimpsed through a ceremonial fire.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. These were primitive people,” Cordelia declared. “They didn’t have ‘perspective.’ And they were clearly into representational art. Flames mean fire and snakes mean snakes—the crawl-on-the-ground kind.”
“You’re thinking so literally, that you can’t see the forest for the ‘burning’ trees,” he charged. “What if that snake image does represent something else? Something like a river. Rivers twist and turn. And from a hilltop one might look like a big, moving snake.” He rose from his seat and planted himself in the middle of the arch, staring down at the undulating snake and the burning mountains by its tail. “What if the mountains are not just floating up there by the tail or meant to show the snake caused problems? What if they’re meant to show something’s location in relation to the snake. What if the snake represents a river flowing from those mountains?” He drew a path along the snake’s back with his finger, then tapped its head. “And what if the mouth of the snake—shown open beside a school of fish, by the by—is really the mouth of a river that leads to the sea?” He straightened.
Cordelia looked up at his adamant “Colossus” pose, astride the puzzle of their enterprise, and felt a sudden and inexplicable heat rising through her, drying her throat. He was so smug. So sure of himself. So … so completely… infuriatingly…
Socks flashed into her mind. Piles of socks. Mountains of socks.
Intent on proving him wrong, she focused on the drawings and was annoyed to find she was seeing them with reoriented vision. Expelling a heavy breath, she stepped into the arch determined to debunk his theory. But what she saw caused her heart to beat faster. From above, it did look like the snake could be a river. If it were, could it be part of a map of the place they’d been talking about?
She looked up at Goodnight, who was concentrating on the drawings around his feet. His hair was sticking up here and there, and his black eye was turning a spectacular shade of green around the edges. But his profile presented an arresting line and the jut of his lower lip was nothing short of absorbing. Leave it to him to come up with something entirely unique.
And contrary to everyone else’s opinion.
When she pulled her gaze away, his profile came with it and for some reason she thought again of him and chemistry. His proposal smacked more of science than contentiousness. Maybe it was just a matter of perspective, and they’d needed a fresh approach to see the truth under their noses.
“We could at least see if there is a river that matches that shape.” She finally was able to speak. “How many rivers can there be flowing out of the mountains to the sea? What we need is a map—several maps—to compare to our snake.” Unknowingly, she proposed the best possible test of his theory: “If we find a river that fits, then we’ll look for mountains near the head of the river. Who knows? Maybe the right river will start near a volcano somewhere.”
It didn’t take much to persuade Captain O’Brien to share his maps of the Mexican coast with them. Unfortunately, they were navigational charts that emphasized underwater topography and coastal irregularities rather than inland features. They needed land maps, Cordelia said, plying him with her most Irish smile. Did he know anyone with reliable maps of southern Mexico and the Gulf?
As it happened, he did, and that was how they decided their first destination in Mexico would be Campeche, a busy port on the western side of the Yucatán that had been home to ancient pyramid builders, conquistadors, pirates, and revolutionaries, and was now the base of entrepreneurs making fortunes from the timber of the region.
It took more than twenty-four hours of hard steaming to reach Campeche, where everyone seemed to know Johnny “Dynamite” O’Brien. During their post-siesta meal in a quaint, saffron-scented cantina, the owner and other patrons were eager to retell the story of how the captain had acquired his nickname: carrying explosives to the canal builders in Panama when no one else would. And they were told that he had been a friend and admirer of Jose Marti, one of the first leaders and greatest martyrs of the Cuba Libre movement. Clearly, many in Campeche sympathized with the Cuban revolutionaries and welcomed O’Brien because of his support for them.
By the time he led them to the mapmaker he declared to be the best south of the Mason-Dixon Line, Cordelia was feeling much better about their course and looking forward to discovering whatever truths the stones had to tell.
Mapmaker Gonzales’s shop was down a side street, near the old wall of the once-fortified city, and seemed unimpressive from the outside. But once inside the modest doors, they descended to the shop floor and found themselves in a cavernous chamber lined with shelves and bins overflowing with rolled maps and charts. In the middle of the place were several chart tables, some piled with stacks of freshly printed maps and others cleared for working. In the back, through a broad stone arch, they could see a printing room ringed with drying racks and a number of workers cleaning the day’s ink from presses.
“A long time since your last visit. What brings you to Campeche? More dynamite?” His chuckle seemed a bit humorless.
“Something even more dangerous. Women.” O’Brien grinned and gestured to Cordelia and Hedda. “May I present the Misses O’Keefe. Friends of mine.”
Gonzales greeted Cordelia and Hedda with a half bow as introductions were made. He took the hand the professor extended, looking impressed, then acknowledged the aloof-looking Goodnight with a neutral nod.
“I’ve told my friends that if any chart man in Mexico has th’ maps they want, it’ll be you. And I’m hopin’ you’ll not be makin’ a liar out of me.”
“Si, Capitan. I do my best.” He waved a hand at the shelves and bins stuffed to overflowing with charts. “I have many maps. What is it your fine friends seek?”
“We’re looking for a river.” Cordelia unfolded a sketch Hedda had made of the curves of the snake. “It’s shaped like this. We believe it to be in one of the southern provinces of Mexico.”
He scowled and studied the drawing, spreading it on the table before him.
“This is the whole river?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “What is the scale?”
Cordelia grimaced at encountering yet another unknown. “We’re not sure. We may have to look at all of the rivers, state by state.”
“That will take a very long time, senorita.” He gave a phlegmy laugh that ended in a cough. “There are forty rivers in Veracruz alone.”
“Forty? In one state?” Cordelia’s dismay as she looked around the vast map library turned slowly to determination. “Then we’d best get started. Perhaps you could provide materials for Hedda to make copies of this drawing for each of us. That way we could each take a few maps. That might speed things along.”
As the daylight waned, lamps were lighted and the search of the selected maps continued all over the main floor of the mapmaker’s shop. Some of the maps were old and hand drawn, others were newer and printed on heavy chart paper. All of them were written in Spanish and most contained handmade corrections—which sometimes made it difficult to tell the definite shape of a river. But with the four of them and the captain and mapmaker Gonzales all searching, they had a good chance of finding it. If it existed.
After three unproductive hours, Hedda and Goodnight independently came up with a possibility that turned out to be the very same river. Cordelia, the professor, the captain, and Gonzales crowded around to see both maps, and all agreed it was an amazingly clear match. The fact that two separate cartographers had drawn it with the same exact set of curves lent credibility to both renderings.
“But it’s not an entire river,” Hedda said, looking up at the others. “It’s just a large piece of a river in the state of Veracruz.”
“The head of it is nowhere near a volcano,” Cordelia observed. “And the mouth isn’t in the sea, it’s in a marshy delta that lies north and west of the city of Veracruz.”
“Still, it is a true match for the sn—um—curves,” the professor said. “And it does lead into mountains.”
“Nothing else has come even close to matching it?” she looked from one face to another. Each person shook his or her head or shrugged. “That’s it then. Our idea led to this one possibility.”
The question she did not ask, the question she and she alone had to answer was whether or not they should bet all of their time and resources on that one possibility. It was times like this that she wished she had someone to talk it over with, someone whose experience and judgment… She glanced up and found herself looking into Goodnight’s eyes, which tightened as if probing her intentions. Turning emphatically to Hedda, she saw in her aunt’s face a trust born of shared experiences, but no help for her decision.
One possibility was all they had?
Well—she drew a fortifying breath—one was all they needed.
“We’d like to purchase these two maps, senor,” she said to Gonzales. And she could have sworn she heard a groan from Goodnight’s corner.
Gonzales watched O’Brien and his “friends” leave the shop with the two maps they had found, and his yellowed eyes narrowed. He hadn’t managed to get them to reveal the source or significance of the wriggling line they had tried to match with a river. But he was fairly certain O’Brien wouldn’t be involved unless it were important to the revolutionary forces of Cuba.
Ordering his apprentices to lock up after him, he donned a hat and slipped through the darkened streets to the alley behind the city’s telegraph office. He knocked on a door peeling paint and marked with the hand-painted admonition No Entry. After a minute the door opened, and a pair of dark eyes appeared in the narrow gap.
“Let me in,” Gonzales snapped.
“We are closed, senor.”
“Not for this you’re not. Open up.” The door swung wide enough to admit him and he stepped into a windowless storeroom stuffed with crates, boxes, and bags, and furnished with a bed and a small table. “Where is your master?”
“Upstairs, senor,” the clerk said nervously, leading Gonzales through the main telegraph office, where the sending and receiving keys lay silent, and up a set of stairs to a comfortably furnished apartment on the floor above. The manager of the office looked up from his dinner and raised his eyebrows in question.
“I have to send a telegram, Mendez,” he said.
“So urgent that it cannot wait until I finish my dinner?” the telegraph agent asked. Then, reading Gonzales’s tension, he pushed back from the table.
“O’Brien is here, in Campeche,” Gonzales said, “with some Americanos.”
“Damned meddling yanqui,” Mendez’s face darkened and he rose.
“I could not get him to reveal what they are doing here, but I must send word to Havana, alert them that O’Brien is here and a shipment of guns and supplies for the rebels may be headed their way.”
Mendez nodded and put an arm around the mapmaker’s thin shoulders, ushering him toward the stairs and the equipment waiting below.
“You are a credit to our cause, Gonzales. What would Spain do without loyal sons like you to be her eyes and ears in these far-flung possessions?”
Fifteen
A day and a half after locating maps that contained the curves of the snake, O’Brien’s ship steamed past the port of Veracruz and up the Gulf Coast toward a fishing village called Tecolutla. The upper part of the nearby river and the lower part of one of its tributaries had matched the profile of the snake inscribed on the blocks of the arch. According to the professor, the area was known for its fishing, plentiful fruit, and the production of vanilla. And not far to the south was the mysterious El Tajin, site of the Pyramid of the Niches, which had been known for more than a hundred years but not truly explored.
It was also, Cordelia learned as they dropped anchor some distance from shore, the site of a broad, golden beach that went on for miles and required transporting them and their equipment ashore in longboats. Fortunately, the trip from ship to shore was less frantic than the one that marked their departure from Cuba, and they got a warm welcome from the local fishermen and townspeople who hurried from the village to investigate their arrival.
Upon landing, Cordelia declined eager offers to escort them into Tecolutla itself, drawing puzzled looks from Goodnight and the professor. She declared that they needed to set up their tents and spend a night or so getting the feel of their equipment. O’Brien and his men obligingly helped maneuver their crates to the spot she chose at the edge of the trees, then headed into town with some of the local men to purchase rum and supplies. A number of townsfolk decided to remain behind to watch what the newcomers would do.
Cordelia surprised them all by pulling a pry bar from her
trunk and beginning to open the crates to see what had survived the transfers they had made. The glass chimneys of two of the lanterns had cracked, and one of the rubberized tarpaulins for collecting water had melted and stuck together in the heat, but the rest of their equipment seemed intact. She immediately assigned Goodnight and the professor to raise one canvas tent, while she and Hedda erected another. They would share sleeping quarters, she explained, so they could keep the work of setting up camp to a minimum. After scanning the cloud-spotted sky for hints of rain, she decided to erect a third of their four tents and use it to protect their equipment and supplies.
While Goodnight and the professor struggled with their shelter, she and Hedda made quick work of raising both their sleeping tent and the one intended for storage, then turned to emptying the crates and carrying their equipment and supplies into the tent. As the afternoon waned, she glimpsed some of the locals watching the way Goodnight and the professor were struggling with their tent.
“Trouble, gentlemen?” She strolled over to offer assistance. Goodnight sprang up like a bent sapling to confront her.
“It’s defective—damned perverse hank of canvas—it’s made wrong.”
“I suppose one might conclude that, trying to erect it on its side.”
Startled, he looked from the ungainly structure he was working on to the two properly raised tents. He tilted his head and finally made sense of the shelter’s intended shape.
“Damned bodger—I told him it went the other way ’round.” He stalked back to the professor, who protested huffily that he’d never had to erect his own tent on an expedition before and refused to be held responsible for botching a task that was entirely beneath him.
She left them to argue it out under the scrutiny of a group of incredulous local youths and headed to the equipment tent to help Hedda unpack. An hour later, the professor, looking hot and exasperated, came to say he was heading into the town to search for guides and suggested that Hedda’s presence might elicit a more favorable reaction from the townspeople.