by Betina Krahn
As the sun set, long planks were set around a communal campfire in the middle of the village, and the women came by with dishes of various kinds and a fermented drink akin to homemade beer. Cordelia accepted a cup but didn’t drink it until the professor assured her it contained enough alcohol to kill anything unhealthy in the water.
In gratitude for their hospitality, Cordelia presented the three elders with teacups and saucers, then pulled out her tin kettle and brewed them some of her favorite breakfast tea. The professor transmitted her suggestion that it was often sweetened with honey, and one of the women fetched a jar of it from her house. Their first sips produced doubtful looks, but after several additions of honey, they began to smile and even ask for seconds.
It was then that Goodnight appeared in the middle of the village, looking for them. He had just awakened in their camp at the edge of the huts and was holding his head as if afraid it might roll off his shoulders. He shuffled into the firelight and froze as he caught a whiff of the tea Cordelia had made.
“Is that what I think it is?” he said, lurching over to her, sniffing.
“These people shared with me; I wanted to share with them.”
He glanced at the three scruffy, sunbaked elders sipping tea from dainty flowered cups and nearly choked on his own juices. She gave him a dark look and pulled him down onto the bench beside her. When he was settled, she handed him her cup of tea. He sipped, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“Nectar. Pure nectar.” He finished the cup and held it out for more.
The women present tittered at the longing visible in his face. Or perhaps it was his spectacularly long and well-knit body that warmed their eyes and made them grin and nudge each other. Whatever it was, Cordelia found herself wanting to give them a shake and tell them to quit it.
The elders apparently didn’t like their wayward gazes either and soon sent them off to secure the children and other livestock for the night.
“We were hoping you could direct us to any stone ruins in this area,” Cordelia said to the head elder. The man looked to the professor, who translated.
The fellow didn’t know of any ruins, but said, “The hunters say there are hills with doors a day’s journey to the south and west.”
“Hills with doors?” She frowned.
“They’ve been chewing too many cocoa leaves,” Goodnight muttered, drawing a covert “shhh” from her.
The professor repeated “hills with doors” and widened his eyes so that only she and Goodnight could see. From his reaction this was good news.
The elders were eager to drag out stories that had been passed down through the generations, some of which strained credulity. Several times she had to interrupt or elbow Goodnight to stop him from pointing out how implausible a story was. Then Cordelia asked if they had any stories about jaguars or the Jaguar Spirit and everything fell deathly silent.
Even without translation, they understood the phrase and sensed what she’d asked. One of the three elders abruptly withdrew to his hut. The others waited until he was gone to say that some months back, his son had been killed by a jaguar in the upland forest.
“Near here?” She looked with fresh concern at the darkened jungle visible beyond the edges of the village. “There are jaguars around here?”
“Si,” the man informed them through the professor. “Every few years, the Jaguar Spirit—he comes down from the mountains to see what the people do. Sometimes he finds people’s hearts weak or finds them doing evil and he must punish them.” He leaned closer and jerked a thumb at the hut his neighbor had entered. “His son is a bad boy. A thief and a forcer of women. The jaguar punishes him.” Again, he pointed. “He does not wish to hear it, but it is true.”
“The jaguar judges humans and metes out punishment?” Goodnight said wryly. “A pity we couldn’t take him back to Havana. Better yet, Tampa.”
“For heaven’s sake, Goodnight, watch what you say around these people,” she admonished, as they left the center of the village for their tents.
“They can’t possibly have known anything I said,” he protested.
“They may not know your words, but they read your face,” the professor put in scowling. “They know you are not believing of their stories.”
“Don’t tell me you do believe them,” Goodnight responded.
“It is enough for me that they believe it,” the professor said with a shrug. “My respect for their ways helps to get the informacion we need.”
“And what information was that?” Goodnight halted in the middle of their fireless camp. “Beyond the fact that they’re superstitious as hell?”
“We learn of the hills with doors, a day’s walk to the south and west.”
“Hills with doors?” Cordelia was even puzzled by that one.
“A better description of buried ruins I never hear,” the professor said with a grin. “Look.” He stooped in the moonlight to draw in the dirt. “Over time, the buildings of the old ones”—he drew the outline of a stepped pyramid—“crumble outside and are covered by dirt. The tops grow a blanket of grasses.” He drew a curve over the tops of the pyramid steps. “Look like little hills. But on one side, openings of doors are still seen.” He drew openings in the side of the drawing. “They look like hills with doors in them. Yes. Truly. These people must see real ruins to describe them so.”
Cordelia laughed and threw her arms around Hedda and the professor.
“Hills with doors. Let’s just hope when we get there and knock, the Jaguar Spirit answers.”
February 2, Day 13
Two days without spending a cent. A bloody miracle.
Snakebit. Not sure how I went to sleep, but woke up in a village. Head and arm hurting like a toothache. Cocoa leaves ——found out that’s what they gave me to chew. Felt damned good for a while. Feels lousy now. Can hardly bear to open my eyes. Snakebite getting worse——ripening into huge, nasty sore. Tried everything in my bag. No idea what might neutralize the poison. Just pray Itchy is right and the arm doesn’t fall off.
Brighter note: Spotted several species of borage, edible ferns, mother-in-law’s tongue, and a strange form of laurel. Arnica and aloe vera everywhere. Cocoa leaves effective, but already known.
Also——O’Keefe got to give away some of her blasted teacups. She kept looking at me strangely. Like I did something to her. Don’t remember much after the snake incident. Hope I didn’t kiss or grope her while I was out of my head. If I’m going to humiliate myself, I should at least get to remember it.
For the second time in a week, a shore party from a ship anchored nearby entered the fishing village of Tecolutla and took over the town’s only cantina. But this second crew, unlike the first, was a volatile mix of Spanish Navy and hired mercenaries—loud, crass, and spoiling for a fight.
Curiously, their leader was a dark, slender man whose dress and manner were as elegant as the men he led were crude. For a time he watched his men overwhelm the tavern, demanding beer and liquor, pawing the serving girls and threatening the patrons who objected to being displaced. Then he had two of his men bring the cantina owner to him. The little man’s gaze kept fleeing to a far corner where some of the sailors were harassing one of his daughters.
“Please senor,” the owner pleaded. “She is a good girl.”
“Undoubtedly,” Castille said with a menacing chuckle. “And if you don’t cooperate, she will be ‘good’ to all of them. Was there a ship here recently?”
“Si, senor. A few days ago… three… four.”
“Americanos aboard?”
“Si, senor.”
“Where did they go?” Castille sat forward, his eyes as black as obsidian.
“The one they called ‘professor,’ he asked for guides.” His daughter cried out and begged for someone to stop. “To go upriver—please, senor.”
“Where upriver?” Castille grabbed the owner’s shirt. “Tell me!”
“I do not know, senor, I swear it! Please—”
“Ho
w do they travel?” Castille shoved to his feet. “By boat? Overland?”
“I told them of the Platanos—brothers—from a village up the Ataxacal River. I do not know more, senor… please…my daughter…”
“Who in this stinking boil on the ass of creation”—he slashed a look around the cantina—“can take me up the river?” When the girl screamed and owner lunged against the hands restraining him, Castille struck him hard across the face. “Pay attention, dog. I need guides to take me up the river and into the mountains. Who knows the area best?”
The owner covered his bleeding lip with his hands and mumbled something, a name Castille forced him to repeat.
“Hector Varza. He has a farm…on the river road…”
Castille looked around. “You!” He snagged a young boy crouched near the door, hauling him up by the hair of the head. “You know where this Varza lives?” When the boy nodded, Castille’s face became a mask of pure malice. He dragged the boy to the cantina owner and pulled a knife from Yago’s belt. Under the boy’s frightened gaze, he punctured the skin at the base of the owner’s neck several times, circling the man’s throat with small gashes, causing the man to cry out and the hard-drinking sailors to call for their employer to cut deeper.
“Run, boy. Fetch Varza. Tell him if he does not come, I will connect these dots… and this man and his very accommodating daughter will die.” His voice took on a lilt of pleasure. “Do you understand?”
The boy swallowed hard and nodded. The moment he was released he raced out the door, and Castille’s henchmen sent up a howl of approval.
The next morning Cordelia and her party headed out just after daylight, on a path that was well worn and relatively dry. The altitude was changing noticeably; they were starting a slow climb that would eventually carry them to the source of the river in the mountains. From the distance they could hear the water rumbling over another set of rapids on its way to the Gulf. Fortunately, the buzz of insects seemed to lessen as they made their way through this drier zone of forest. Every turn, rise, and slope of terrain created a different set of growing conditions that hosted a unique array of flora and fauna. Around every bend, there were new plants to discover, some quite spectacular.
Hart zigzagged back and forth across the path trying desperately to take it all in and still keep the main party in sight. Several times over the day’s trek, he went back to his bags and journal to record his discoveries and unload the specimens in his pockets. As he passed Rita, she never failed to nip at his rear and sometimes tried to turn and follow him. Itza and Ruz were baffled by her behavior, but soon began to tease him about his new “sweetheart.” Another good reason, he thought, to spend time off by himself, looking for medicinal plants.
Then midday, he discovered a whole grove of small yellow and green orchids that had covered the trunks and branches of a stand of trees, turning it into a serene, lightly scented bower. He went running back to call the others to come and see, and before he realized what he was doing he had O’Keefe by the hand and was pulling her along.
When they reached the orchid grove, he found himself watching her reaction to the orchids more than the flowers themselves. There was an unabashed sense of wonder in the way she touched them and put her face against them, nuzzling the creamy petals, luxuriating in their silky coolness. It was beauty drawn to beauty. When he made himself look away, his gaze ran straight into Hedda’s perceptive regard and he smiled nervously, telling himself she couldn’t read minds.
They were vanilla flowers, Itza and Ruz declared, and proved it by locating bean-like pods forming on the vines. Hart smelled and tasted the developing pods eagerly, but their bland, starchy taste was a disappointment. The professor chuckled and informed him that the beans had to be harvested, fermented, and aged before they developed their characteristic flavor and aroma.
As they absorbed the tranquil atmosphere, the professor rolled up his sleeves and climbed partway up a tree to pick several of the flowers. With a mischievous smile, he presented them to Hedda. She blushed like a schoolgirl when he put one in her hair.
The old boy was really turning on the charm, Hart thought, surprised by the annoyance it generated in him. Hedda was a handsome, capable, and thoroughly pleasant woman. She deserved better than the flattery of an aging Latin lothario who probably had a wife and ten children at home in Mexico City.
Hart looked at O’Keefe and found her watching the same interaction with a similar surprise. Clearly, she hadn’t noticed what was developing right under their noses either. It was reassuring to learn she had at least one ordinary human failing. When she looked up and saw him watching her, she seemed unsettled, and after a moment, struck off through the brush on what appeared to be an old animal trail. Neither Hedda nor the professor seemed to notice her departure, and Itza and Ruz chose that moment to head back to their animals. He stood looking after her for a moment, deciding.
He struck off after her, intending to remind her—as she had been reminding him for days—not to stray from the rest of the group. The moist, spongy ground retained her footprints and out of habit she was bending back branches and fronds that were in her way; it wasn’t difficult to track her. It didn’t occur to him that he might not be the only one interested in doing so.
When he caught up with her some minutes later, she had come to a stop in a sunlit spot at the bottom of a break in the tree canopy. He could tell by her tense stance and the canting of her head that she was listening, and thought for a moment she had heard him moving up behind her. But he was still some distance back and, oddly, she didn’t turn or call out to him.
He stopped, his face heating as his gaze roamed her. He had no idea what he was going to say to her; when he started after her he hadn’t exactly had conversation in mind. This was a bad idea. Very bad. If he had an ounce of common sense he would backtrack to the vanilla grove and abandon all ideas and intentions where she was concerned. But standing there in the sunlight, with her hair shot through with fiery strands and her curves warm and beckoning, she was a possibility that he couldn’t make himself abandon.
So he stayed and listened, too, imagining he could feel her heart pounding against his, could hear each passionate breath…
Wait—he could hear her breathing? Over the last few days he’d gotten used to the constant noise of nature around him. The stark silence in the clearing was so complete—absent even the ever-present hum of insects—that he could indeed hear the raspiness of her breath. She sounded as if she had run a distance and was winded, but he couldn’t see her chest moving at all.
It took another minute for him to realize she hadn’t stopped randomly, she had halted to look at something in the trees on the far edge of the clearing. He searched the scrubby undergrowth and missed it at first; the color was almost indistinguishable from the brown-edged yellow of the aging vegetation all around. But the shape—rounded— and the luster—glinting in the light—
A pair of eyes. Golden. With vertical slashes for pupils.
His heart seemed to rise into his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t swallow. Then he saw the nose, the ears, the open mouth, and the wickedly sharp, meat-tearing teeth.
A cat. Huge. With brown and black spots. Panting.
That was the breathing he heard. Not hers at all.
“Sweet Jesus,” he prayed on an indrawn gasp.
It was a jaguar.
Twenty
The silence was almost deafening as Cordelia stood in that pool of sunlight, staring into a pair of eyes that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle and her flesh shrink inside her clothes.
Cat eyes. Huge. Sizing her up. Probably deciding on condiments.
The spots registered next. And a pair of rounded ears. And huge feet. It was more golden than she expected a jaguar to be. It was probably too much to hope that it was just old and yellowed with age. The beast’s mouth was open enough to show a horrifying set of carnivore teeth and a shocking pink tongue. It was breathing heavily, al
most panting. Cat’s weren’t supposed to pant, were they? But then, maybe nobody told the prince of the jungle here. Or maybe he just figured he could get by with bending a few ru—
For God’s sake—she tried to rouse her own stunned and floundering responses—don’t just stand there—RUN!
But her feet wouldn’t budge and her mouth had gone dry. She was afraid to make any movements, sudden or otherwise. An old-timer’s caution surfaced out of the nuggets of lore she had collected in her travels: “Big cats chase runners. Don’t run. Because they also catch runners.”
So she stood silently, trembling, praying for help and wishing she had heeded her own blasted rule about not venturing off alone. She told herself not to look the jaguar in the eye—she’d heard somewhere that was dangerous. But she soon found herself doing just that: staring helplessly into the creature’s tawny gaze and suffering an insane stir of curiosity. What was the beast doing there? Watching her. Flicking its tail. Looking almost…relaxed?
She was no expert on jaguar hunting techniques, but this one seemed to be stretched out comfortably on a mat of grass, not bunched, coiled, and ready to spring. It was watching her. Just watching. She imagined it saying: “You were curious about me; I thought I’d have a look at you, too.”
In spite of her better sense, she took a half-step sideways.
The beast followed her with its eyes and flicked its tail, but otherwise didn’t move.
She took another half step, and then a full one. Still, it only looked.
She glanced over her shoulder, searching wildly for a possible escape route and thought she saw a form, an outline in the vegetation behind her. Her heart leaped at the thought that she might have help in escaping this terrifying situation. She took a step backward and saw the great beast spring to its feet, its eyes sharp and ears forward, alert now. And formidable.