The Book of True Desires

by Betina Krahn

  And curses.

  Cordelia awoke well after sunrise to the sound of a fire crackling and the smell of bacon frying and tortillas baking. But it was the sound of Spanish from unfamiliar male voices that caused her to throw on clothes and burst from her tent with her boots in her hand. There, she stopped dead.

  “What on earth?”

  By the fire, tending a skillet and a native baking stone, squatted two shaggy-looking men with broad, sunbaked faces and eyes so dark they were almost black. They were barefoot and wore ragged trousers and shirts from which the sleeves had been ripped. They looked up at her and their toothy smiles faded to looks of awe.

  The taller, thinner one sprang up.

  The shorter, stockier one joined him, nodding shyly.

  They produced artless grins of appreciation. “Hola! Senorita.”

  “Professor!” She headed for the men’s tent. Valiente nearly cracked heads with her as he came barreling out. “Talk to them.” She flung a finger in their direction. “Find out who they are and what they’re doing here.”

  A fast exchange of Spanish that was peppered with occasional less familiar sounds resulted in a marked easing of the professor’s tension. He turned to Cordelia moments later with a smile.

  “These are the two guides they told us about,” he said with no little pleasure. “Itza and Ruz Platano. Not only brothers, but twins as well. They say they know both jungle and mountain country and can take us to the ends of the rivers.”

  “Do they know of the legend of the jaguar?” she asked, eyeing the brothers. “Do they know of people who keep the old ways?”

  The professor translated and there were several exchanges and some pointing over their shoulders before he came back to her with heartening news.

  “They say they hear stories of people who see the Jaguar Spirit, that he walks these lands. Some people in the villages tell stories.”

  “Tell them we’re looking for stones, an arch of stones that lead to a temple or holy place dedicated to the Jaguar Spirit.”

  The brothers shrugged and shook their heads at the professor’s words.

  “They know of no such place,” the professor reported back. “But they say many secrets sleep under the feet of the trees. They agree to help us look for it.”

  “Then they’re hire—”

  “Aghhhh!” Goodnight came barreling out of the tent wearing one boot and carrying the other, his hair standing on end, and his face gray with stubble.

  “What the hell?” Distracted briefly by the newcomers, he quickly dismissed them and pointed at the tent behind him. “There’s a bloody beast of some sort eating the back of the tent!”

  After a quick translation, the Platanos apologized profusely and scrambled for the back of the tent to rescue both shelter and culprit.

  “And,” the professor added happily as he turned back to Cordelia, “they have burros. This means we do not have to buy any.”

  Goodnight groaned as Itza and Ruz ushered a shockingly fat donkey into the center of the camp, talking alternately to her and the professor, apparently explaining the situation to both of them.

  “They are very much sorry for her behavior,” the professor relayed to Cordelia and Hedda with a chuckle. “She is— how you say, ummm—pregnant. And she eats everything she sees. But she is their lead burro and they cannot leave her behind. They must be with her when her time comes.”

  The beast proved the brothers’ veracity by ambling over to the stack of fresh tortillas lying on a banana leaf beside the fire and devouring the lot of them. Itza and Ruz pleaded, chided, pulled on her halter, and even whispered in her ear. But the determined burro, Rita, would not be moved until she had finished her breakfast.

  With a strangled sound, Goodnight retreated into his tent. The professor took a seat on a nearby crate to stare forlornly at the disappearing flatbread, and Hedda glanced at Cordelia with rueful expression.

  “I have a bad feeling about that creature,” she said.

  “I’ll see your bad feeling,” Cordelia murmured, watching the brothers assure the professor that they would make more tortillas, “and raise you a full-blown sense of dread.”

  Since the moment Cordelia had shaken hands with Samuel P., nothing had gone quite as she’d expected. They lurched from one predicament to another, always just one step ahead of calamity. Now they were headed into fierce and unforgiving terrain, guided by a pair of toothy yokels whose surname—according to her phrase book—meant “banana,” and who had a bizarre, almost familial attachment to a pregnant burro.

  She had to face squarely the possibility that they might not find what they sought. And if they did find it, it might prove to be a huge disappointment, robbed generations ago by locals who turned from the old ways, or not a treasure at all, except in the minds of primitive and superstitious people.

  Moments later, her own negative thoughts shocked her. Goodnight must be rubbing off on her! Now that they were about to embark on the arduous part of the journey, she had to brace herself for the work ahead and quit dwelling on the results. What was truly important was that she could look Samuel P. square in the eye when she returned and say she had done everything possible to uncover the truth about the stones and the legend they proclaimed.

  Seventeen

  It took the better part of the morning to pack the equipment properly, balance the loads on the Platanos’ six burros, and prepare to move out. Hedda, who had been through this before, donned her broad-brimmed hat to ward off the sun and patiently rechecked her boots and bags and made certain her gloves and machete were accessible. Goodnight grumbled under his breath and stood with his arms crossed and his legs spread, refusing to recheck anything—a monument to the hidebound aspects of British character. The professor channeled his tension into impromptu lectures on everything from edible fruits of the region to boot care in damp climates, to the telltale signs that marked locations of ancient ruins. Then there were the Platano brothers, who went from burro to burro, talking earnestly, informing their charges of the journey before them and pleading for cooperation. None of which boded well for the path ahead.

  Cordelia set her jaw and struck off at the head of the group with the Platano who called himself Itza, which she learned was the name of a fierce group of Maya warriors from the west who conquered other Mayans. Before long, they were skirting the town and winding through pastures and around maize and melon fields, headed for what appeared to be a wall of vegetation.

  Entering that thick forest canopy on the narrow cart path was like falling into a deep, green well. The temperature dropped and the air grew thick and heavy with odors of vegetation in various stages of life and decay. It was surprisingly noisy. Birds cawed and chirped; insects buzzed, hissed, and clicked. Monkeys chattered and screeched overhead, and frogs trilled continuously. The sounds seemed to be coming from every side. Even—Cordelia shivered and watched her steps more closely—from underfoot.

  But the most amazing thing to her was the fact that many of the plants she knew as common house plants in Boston were abundant and living free here, some growing to the size of trees. Not even her experience in Hawaii had prepared her for the sights of such massive vines, towering cycads, palms of endless variety, gigantic ferns, and bushy flowering plants run amok. Not a single inch was left bare of life. Tucked away in every accessible niche—the crotches of trees, the branches of shrubs, and the coils of thick vines—were flowers with thick, fibrous leaves and pale roots hanging bare. Orchids, the professor announced in answer to her question, after which he spent some time lecturing on the astounding variety of them in the forests of southern Mexico.

  She could hardly drink it all in: the spongy carpet of organic matter that cushioned every step, the huge leaves all around—shiny, rubbery, blade-like, or feathery—the sinuous vines and bracts of hanging blossoms, the orchids growing in profusion, and the birds darting and monkeys swinging back and forth sixty to a hundred feet overhead. She found herself lurching along with her head back and he
r jaw drooping. It was truly another world, and for the moment, the thrill of discovery was just too delicious to bother with appearances.

  An hour later, they emerged from the forest into afternoon sun and found themselves trekking along the bank of a broad, silt-laden river flowing sluggishly toward a marshy delta. Goodnight came sprinting up from the rear with a reddened face and a point of contention.

  “See that?” He pointed to dugouts and flat-bottomed boats being paddled on the river and to others resting empty on the banks below. “Why the devil couldn’t we have taken boats upstream? We would have saved time and energy, and wouldn’t have had to deal with these wretched beasts.”

  One of the burros let out a fierce “eee-haw” in protest.

  The professor called to the Platanos, who provided the answer.

  “The river, she is a deceiver.” Valiente translated in spurts as the brothers talked. “She is gentle and easy here, but she tricks you. She leads you upstream until you are too far to turn back. Then she changes her mind and becomes a raging torrent. She pours over the rocks and dashes boats to pieces. By then you are too far to return, and there are no burros to help you.”

  “She is a bad woman, our river,” Ruz said through the professor. “But she is our woman. And so, we stay close to her when we can.”

  Goodnight was skeptical.

  “That poetic bit of balderdash wouldn’t be inspired by the fact they’re charging a pretty penny for the use of these cursed burros, would it?”

  “Your protest wouldn’t be inspired by the fact that you developed a marked aversion to donkeys and chickens on the road from Havana, would it?” Cordelia responded in kind, then turned to the professor. “We have to know if what they say is true. Boats would be a faster way to get upriver.”

  Valiente took the Platanos aside and from the looks and sound of their interaction, he spared no bid to drama in making them feel the honor of both their families and their ancestors was at stake in their judgment. The men stuck to their story, looking bewildered by Goodnight’s hostility and shamed by the professor’s challenge of their assessment.

  “A few miles. The river, she turns fast and treacherous,” the professor reported to Cordelia, then shrugged. “I believe them, senorita. For all their simple ways, they are men of honor.”

  “Then we’ll give them a few miles,” she decided, “and we’ll see for ourselves.”

  “Well, that settles that.” Cordelia stood looking at a set of rocky obstacles in the river that turned the silty water into a churning mass of dirty white. Though it was clear there was calmer water ahead, there wasn’t a single part of the channel that was free of the rocky decline that caused the dangerous rapids. “We would have had to get out and portage around this area.” She looked up at Goodnight, who was taking in the sight with more resignation than she expected. “Luckily, we won’t have to test how much weight can you carry over your head while climbing the side of a hill.”

  “Fine.” Hart frowned. “We’re stuck with the burros. But, I’m telling you: if one of the blasted things bites me, I won’t be held responsible.”

  He reseated his pith helmet on his sweaty hair and stalked back to his appointed position at the rear of the line of burros. As he passed the vaunted Rita, she turned her head to sniff at him, then curled her upper lip and made a judgmental braying sound.

  Lovely, Hart said to himself. Not only did he have to put up with O’Keefe’s jibes and changeable temperament, he now had to bear the taunts of a prima donna burro who looked like a battleship on stilts and eyed him as if he were a juicy carrot. Ahead of him, he saw O’Keefe and Itza leading the column toward the brush and the jungle beyond. He pulled out one of the bandanas she insisted he bring and swabbed his face and the back of his neck.

  The forest canopy provided much-needed shade and relief from the late-afternoon sun. Unfortunately, the light–dark interface drew swarms of gnats that tried to invade his nose on every breath. He found relief by tying his bandana over his nose and mouth. Another use for that ubiquitous scrap of cloth.

  It annoyed him that O’Keefe was right about the bandanas. Just like it annoyed him that she captivated their guides, who hadn’t been able to take their eyes from her trouser-clad legs and bottom since the trip started. She seemed not to have noticed their bulging eyes and doltish grins. She was too busy consulting their main map and thinking two steps ahead to worry about what others saw or thought. Too busy being competent. Too busy pursuing her mission.

  Take a lesson, he chided himself. You have a mission here, as well. And it’s high time you began attending to it.

  As the daylight filtered through the high canopy overhead, he began to scrutinize the area visible from the path for specimens of exotic species of plants he might recognize. There were all manner of ferns and Areca palms, plants that looked like the dieffenbachia of Victorian parlor fame, only larger—much, much larger. And there was a tree with slightly hairy leaves and bright orange clusters of blooms that looked for all the world like Borage, tisanes of which were useful for treating dyspepsia and diarrhea. He fought his way through the undergrowth and was soon investigating the showy tree and its blooms, the nicest examples of which were clearly at the top, nearest the sunlight. He estimated the height and began to climb.

  The path they followed narrowed and in some places grew difficult to see. A few days’ growth in that climate could obliterate a footpath, unless you know just where to look, which was where Itza and Ruz came in. They knew precisely where to look; they could read the subtlest nuances of the forest. That fluency assured Cordelia they had made the right choice in hiring the odd pair. By the end of the day, they were faced with paths that were all but invisible. The humans had to go first to clear a path for the pack animals and the only way to clear a path was to hack some of the vegetation out of the way.

  “You’re sure this is the best way to get upstream?” she asked Itza, who looked puzzled until she called back to the professor for a translation of “best way.” “Camino mejor?” she asked waving at the dense foliage in their path.

  “Si, si. El camino mejor,” Itza declared, heading for Rita and pulling his machete from the bag draped across her broad back. Immediately he began to chop the fronds and scrubby branches that grew over the path.

  With a huff of resignation, Cordelia went to her own bags and fished out her gloves and her machete. She knew full well how taxing it would be to have to chop their way through undergrowth. She called back to Hedda to pass along the news to the professor, Ruz, and Goodnight that all would be taking turns in the lead until they came to thinner vegetation.

  Hedda dutifully passed the word to the professor, who passed it to Ruz and turned to tell Goodnight—who wasn’t there. He shrugged, assuming the tall Brit had stepped into the undergrowth to take care of personal business and that he would see what was happening when he came back.

  But later, when the professor tired of swinging his blade and called for Goodnight to relieve him, they discovered that Goodnight still wasn’t there.

  “When did anyone last see him?” Cordelia demanded, looking from Hedda and the Platanos to the professor. All shook their heads.

  “I think he goes into brush for… relief,” the professor said apologetically. “I think no more of it.”

  “Curse his hide,” Cordelia muttered, reaching for her machete with one hand and beckoning to Ruz with the other. “You come with me. Itza, take the rest and go on to that campsite you spoke of near the river. We’ll catch up.”

  She and Ruz retraced their path without speaking. Seeing the way the vegetation had been flattened by their feet and the burros’ hooves into an unmistakable trail, she was tempted to simply go on with the others and leave him to catch up on his own. But there was always the possibility that he couldn’t follow, that he had fallen or stepped in a hole…or been bitten by a snake, spider, or scorpion… or walked into a fire ant colony…

  She glanced at the dense rainforest around them. Beneath the dis
guise of a lush, green paradise was a savage arena where everything battled for survival. Everything that had legs also had fangs, claws, stingers, or venom of some kind. What would a starchy Oxford chemist know about the dangers of such a place? What if something had happened to him? Anxiety constricted her chest.

  She walked faster and began to call out to him.

  Almost a mile back down the trail, she thought she heard something and stopped dead, pulling Ruz to a halt as well. Through the normal screech and hum of the jungle around them came the sound of passage, something moving, disturbing foliage. She raised her machete as the bushes to the side of the trail thrashed wildly and parted.

  Goodnight broke onto the narrow path, bashing clinging leaves and branches from his clothes. He barked a startled “hey!” at the sight of her standing there with her machete upraised and her face fierce with tension.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he demanded, holding up both hands, palms out, and spitting out the twig he was chewing.

  “Me? What are you doing—out here in the jungle by yourself—sneaking around?” She lowered her blade, her arms weak from a surge of relief.

  “I wasn’t sneaking around. I was investigating some of the local flora.” His hands went protectively to his pockets, which were bulging with all manner of twigs, leaves, flowers, bracts of blooms, and dried pods. He looked like he’d swallowed a packet of seeds and was sprouting. “I must have lost track of time.”

  “Darn right you lost track of time,” she snapped. “And us, as well. If we hadn’t realized you were missing and come back to find you, you’d have been lost out here.”

  “I wasn’t lost,” he protested. “Just lagging behind.”

  “Going off on your own—lagging behind—it doesn’t matter, it’s still unacceptable. We’re having to cut our way through this growth. Not only have you not been there to do your share of the work, we had to spend precious time and energy coming back for you. We have a mission, Goodnight, and it takes precedence over”—she snatched a specimen from his shirt pocket, glared at it, and tossed it aside—“picking flowers. Is that clear?”