by Betina Krahn
“Can you breathe?” he demanded. “Is your throat swelling?”
She nodded, unable to hide her fear.
“Camp’s not far away. Can you make it there, or is it getting worse?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She pointed ahead.
A moment later, they were running across a grassy slope and up toward their camp among the mounds. He shouted for help and the Platanos came running. He sat her down on a camp stool and began to plow through their cooking supplies, pulling out things and tossing them aside. He came up with a tin of English tea and held it up in triumph.
She was incredulous—she was fighting for breath and he was making tea? She jumped to her feet and started flailing her arms and pointing to her throat.
“It’s all right—you’re going to be all right!” He rushed back to her and grabbed her shoulders forcing her back down onto the stool, looking into her eyes, willing her to listen. “If you were going to die, you’d have done it by now. I’m getting you something to reduce the swelling. Trust me, Cordelia. I can help you. Just trust me.”
She was trembling. Her laboring heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. She was having to work for every breath. But when she looked into his eyes, all she could see was his promise—his capability, his caring. If anyone could help her, he could. She bit her swollen lip and nodded.
A moment later, he was emptying dried tea into a tin basin and pouring water left over from the morning’s tea into it. As the leaves softened and uncurled, he began stuffing them into her mouth, telling her to hold them there and to swallow any juice or saliva she produced. Soon her mouth was full of damp tea leaves, and he was kneeling in front of her holding her hands.
“Tea,” he said in a level, reassuringly knowledgeable tone, “contains a constrictor. It causes swollen veins to contract and draws excess fluid from tissues. It works just the opposite of the chemical in the dumb cane, which is a ‘dilator.’ Thus the swelling you’re experiencing.” He smiled tightly.
“Funny how nature likes to pair opposites. Dilators and constrictors. Purgatives and antidiarrheals. Sedatives and stimulants. Poisons and antidotes.” He paused for a minute. “Men and women.”
She couldn’t help trying to smile. Her lips felt like they would split.
“So, to answer your question, I’ve studied plants and families of plants that have been used in medicines for thousands of years. I can recognize a lot of them by sight. Plants related to one another often have similar effects.” He grinned sheepishly. “So, I’m really looking for long-lost relatives.”
He kept talking to her, distracting her as the tea worked, until Hedda and the professor arrived, summoned by the Platanos. Hedda was frantic at the sight of her swollen lips and was astonished by Goodnight’s explanation of what had happened. For the next few hours, attention focused on her recovery. Her breathing returned to normal, and the swelling subsided everywhere except her larynx, which remained inoperative and reduced her to using hand signals and writing. She couldn’t complain or reply in kind when Goodnight quipped about her being a near-perfect woman now that she was silent.
They gathered around the campfire for supper later, and it was only then that Cordelia wrote a note informing the others of the second jaguar sighting.
“Another jaguar?” Hedda looked to Cordelia, who shook her head.
“It looked like the same one,” Goodnight spoke up, looking to her. She nodded, agreeing with that opinion. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was following us.” He looked at Cordelia, who appeared unsettled by the prospect.
“It’s stalking us? Do jaguars eat people?” Hedda shivered visibly.
“Remember the legend—the jaguar comes down to see the people and judge their hearts.” The professor took a drink of his coffee. “Maybe it was deciding about us.” He looked to Cordelia. “Or about you.”
It wasn’t a comforting thought as she sank onto her cot in her tent later: being judged by a big, tawny-eyed beast of the forest.
She tossed and turned replaying in her mind the events of the afternoon and thinking of the threat lurking in the darkness around them. She had taken what precautions she could; a big campfire, everyone armed, a watch posted, and the burros brought between the tents and put on a tie line for the night. The Platanos were taking turns dozing beside the campfire as they watched the animals. But her chagrin over her behavior—Good Lord, she knew better than to eat anything strange in the jungle!—caused her to question her own judgment.
The night went by without an incident, but it was still a relief to all to see the morning light.
February 7, Day 18
Had the scare of my life today. O’Keefe followed me when I went out to do some collecting. Pestered me and took a bite out of a dieffenbachia——dumb cane!!! I nearly had a stroke. Thank God she didn’t swallow more than a trickle ——she’d have suffocated before my eyes. Wanted to shake her and kiss her and——and—— never been so frantic in my life. Every bone in my body turned to rubber. Thought I was going to puke. Felt like the whole world was tilted up on its corner——on the head of a bloody pin!
Was able to drag her back to camp and pack her mouth with wet tea leaves to get the swelling down. Turns out, she’s lost no more than her voice. Damned bloody miracle is what that is. It’s got me twisted up in knots. Can’t look at her now without feeling gut-shot and oozing inside.
The woman’s making me crazy!!!
Also found ruins. Interesting. May not be on wild goose chase after all.
“You’re sure their trail goes inland?” Alejandro Castille demanded of the guide he had extorted into taking him and his men up the Tecolutla River. They stood on the bank of the muddy flow, staring down at boats resting half out of the water. “How do you know they didn’t take boats?”
“Because their guides know, as I do,” Hector Varza said, keeping his gaze averted to hide the anger simmering in it, “that boats are no good past the next bend. Fast current. Many rapids. They go by foot.” He pointed up the path, away from the bank. “See the tracks of the burros for yourself.”
Castille followed him, searching the tracks as the guide pointed them out, his hand caressing the butt of the pistol strapped to his thigh.
“They cut away branches,” Varza said, holding out a branch that had been hacked recently. “They leave a big trail.” He glanced at the surly, heavily armed men who accompanied this man. He thought again of his Helena and their children, being held prisoner by another of this man’s thugs to insure his cooperation. “They do not know you are coming.”
“We will see that it stays that way,” Castille said with a smirk, “until I am ready for them to know.” He turned to his men, each of whom led a burro loaded with supplies and gestured forward with the riding crop he carried. “Move out!”
As the lead burro passed, he reached out with the crop and struck it to make it move faster. The animal flinched and brayed. Castille pushed Varza into motion, and the farmer saw blood welling on the rump of his favorite burro.
Twenty-three
While Hedda finished making her sketches in the Hall of Records, the rest of the group packed and took care of camp-related chores. The drawings in the ruins had confirmed their direction and given new impetus to their search. They were able to leave before midday.
The terrain, as the Platanos had predicted, grew increasingly hilly. They had to climb awkward slopes at times and cross deep, treacherous ravines lined with moss-slick rocks and springs seeping water. Progress slowed and Itza declared that at this rate, they might have to camp several nights before locating the village they sought.
On the brighter side, Cordelia’s voice was beginning to come back. She could whisper now, and that small achievement reassured her that she would recover. But she could hardly bring her self to look at Goodnight, who to his credit hadn’t uttered a single taunt about the incident itself. His refusal to take advantage of her impetuous behavior was totally unlike him.
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br /> He looked so serious, and when his gaze drifted her way his expression darkened in a way that made her revisit everything she had said to him. She couldn’t help thinking that her revelation of reverence for her physician father had somehow put him off. Or worse, made him pity her.
Cursed man. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never figure him out. Not that she intended to be around him for one day longer than necessary.
When they rose on the second morning out, the air was less humid and the heat had moderated. The trees here were both more familiar and more strange: soaring hardwoods towering over beds of ferns, and stands of bamboo growing so thick they had to detour around them.
The change in altitude had brought a corresponding relaxation in attitude; as they left behind the oppressive heat of the jungle, they seemed to be leaving behind its dangers as well. By afternoon, when they spotted a crystal clear stream flowing beneath overhanging trees in a rocky swale, they were all ready for a bath, a good meal, and an uninterrupted siesta.
It felt good to be clean again and have a full stomach. Cordelia saw the others settled comfortably on massive, low-hanging branches and rock outcroppings, and she climbed onto a large flat rock shaded by a large tree. Spreading her wet hair out to dry she fell into a drowsy, pleasant state between waking and dreaming. In that delicious almost-sleep, she recalled a secluded doorway in Havana…a palm tree on the beach at Tecolutla…the relief she’d felt when the jaguar left and she found herself in his arms… his eyes as he talked calmly to keep her from panicking after she tasted the dumb cane…
Hart watched her spreading her hair out on the rock around her and groaned. What had he done to deserve this punishment? Watching her…wanting her…knowing that he had nothing to offer…knowing that she responded to his kisses as if that didn’t matter.
But it did matter. He was virtually indentured to Hardacre for the next five years, and it was his mission to find something on this trip to take back to barter for his freedom. Squeezing his eyes shut, he revisited the array of plant materials he’d encountered. The forests here were chock-full of extraordinary vegetation. If he only had more time… more resources… more…
It was the story of his life. Too much of some things and not enough of others. Too much breeding and wealth, too little choice and encouragement. Too many expectations and restrictions, too few resources and allies.
This recitation of old conflicts didn’t solve anything, he told himself, sliding down from the tree branch he occupied. He was here. He had now.
He went quietly to retrieve his collecting box and rifle, then scanned the sides of the stream bed below and the trees along the uplands on either side. Glancing up at the sun, he set off, telling himself he wouldn’t be gone very long.
He strode quickly along old animal trails in the multilayered tree canopy, searching the plants, categorizing and dismissing most of them. Orchids were prevalent, though different species than in the lowland jungles, and yellow bellflowers and fragrant vining jasmine replaced the sight of pitcher plants and the more bizarre bromeliads. Aloe and odd bits of cactus were wedged in rocky crevices, bottle-brush trees and what looked like another species of laurel.
The tree canopy was so thick it blotted out much of the sun. He was starting to lose track of time when he saw a flash of red tucked high in a tree and stopped. Even from the ground he could see it was a rare specimen. Epiphytic—air-rooted—undoubtedly an orchid. Dropping his gear and propping his rifle against the tree trunk, he charted a path up the tree and began to climb. The bark was covered in lichens and slippery, but he managed to reach the limb and flatten on it, easing out along the branch. It was just beyond his fingertips when a flash of something below distracted him.
Something gold. And moving. His heart stopped as he watched a sinuous form pad across the ground directly beneath him. From twenty feet up he could see every movement of its shoulder blades, every expansion of ribs caused by its breaths, every variation in its asymmetrical spots.
It was huge. And captivating.
And down there with his gun while he was stuck up a tree.
He held his breath as the jaguar slowed beneath his perch, stretching and sniffing. He was too far from the others to call out for help, and his gun was out of reach. Then the big cat’s head swung up and those entrancing golden eyes fixed on him matter-of-factly, without malice, without pity.
Jaguars were panthers. Panthers were terrific climbers. He was in a tree.
He was probably toast.
Or crumpet.
He just hoped he snuffed it proper before the cat headed for his tasty bits.
Just as he was trying desperately to remember which shoulder to touch first when crossing himself, the beast gave his gun a swipe with a huge paw and sent it clattering across tree roots into the underbrush. Then the beast turned to his haversack and gave it a sniff. Nothing of interest there, he pleaded silently. On the other hand, it’s a lot more interesting than what’s up this tree.
As if in response, the beast looked straight up, and he could have sworn it curled a lip into a half snarl. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow.
The beast turned to stroll down the path, but stopped several feet away, raised its tail, and removed all doubt of its gender as it sprayed a potent blast of urine all over Hart’s haversack and the tree trunk beneath him. With the area duly marked, it padded off down the trail with what he fancied was a spring in its step.
It took a full minute after the cat faded from sight before Hart could pry his arms from around the tree limb and inch his way back down the trunk. His legs were rubbery by the time he reached the ground. The area stunk like— well, it stunk. His canvas haversack was a goner. He retrieved his rifle from the brush, pulled his collecting box, journal, and writing materials from the smelly bag and— suddenly realized where the jaguar was headed!
“Shit!” Shouldering the rifle strap and clasping the box in his arms, he stuffed the rest inside his shirt and began to run toward the ravine.
The beast had a head start and was probably already making his approach. Hart slowed as he neared the little valley, trying to minimize the noise of his footfalls and panting, dropped his gear and pulled the rifle from his shoulder.
When he reached the upper edge of the slope above the small ravine, he halted to search the trees visually. Below he could hear the burros stirring and Goodnight Junior braying nervously for his mother. The animals had caught the scent of the predator; he just hoped someone was awake to notice it.
Then he spotted movement on a rock ledge above the bank where Cordelia and the others rested. Crouching, he crept forward, then he dropped to his knees and crawled until he spotted the big cat inching out onto a ledge ten feet above the rock O’Keefe was on, still asleep, vulnerable. Above her, the jaguar looked straight ahead, tensing, gathering. Hart’s blood was roaring in his ears as he braced himself on his elbows and sited down the rifle at the jaguar—and froze as he spotted movement that had nothing to do with the big cat.
On the branches of the tree over O’Keefe was a monstrous brown and tan snake with diamond-like markings, a boa constrictor, fifteen feet at least… shifting, sliding, lowering its massive coils, preparing to drop. He shifted his gaze back to the cat and realized it wasn’t looking down at O’Keefe, but across at the boa. Every muscle in his body contracted. Was it planning on attacking the snake or the woman? Either way, in two seconds O’Keefe was going to have a ton of trouble drop in her lap.
He squared himself, took aim, breathed out, and pulled the trigger. The crack echoed off the rocks and around the valley. The recoil was more than he anticipated and cost him a second’s recovery before he could regroup and aim again. The snake was nowhere to be seen and when he swiveled the gun, the ledge where the jaguar had been was empty, too.
An unearthly cat roar blended with Cordelia’s scream of surprise, and in a blur she rolled aside and dropped off the rock onto the ground below. A moment later, she saw Goodnight careening down the
hillside, shouting and pointing, and scrambled for her gun.
“What was that?” She rasped out as she pointed her pistol toward the low, spine-tingling growls coming from the thrashing brush. “What’s happening?”
Running full tilt, he bounded up onto the big rock and just managed to stop himself in order to stare down at the dense vegetation where the snake had fallen and the cat had apparently pursued it.
“Boa,” he panted, “in the tree.” He pointed to the thick branch above the rock. “Dropping.”
“Boa constrictor?” Her astonishment was echoed by Hedda and the professor as they came running. “Then, what is that growling?” She climbed onto the rock and looked down into the trembling bushes. “It sounds like a—”
“Jaguar.” He finished for her, then took a deep breath. “There was one up there.” He pointed to the ledge above them. “I think it went after the snake.”
She looked at him in dismay and then at the underbrush that was still trembling from the passage of whatever had moved beneath it.
“What you shoot?” Ruz said, nudging between them to scan the area.
“I have no earthly idea,” he said truthfully.
Quiet descended as the distant thrashing and growling ceased. Even the incessant shriek and caw of birds and the chatter of monkeys stopped. Everything in the forest seemed to be attuned to the passing of a great predator. But if the big cat had gone after great boa and they had battled, which had won?
“Damned eerie.” Hart scowled. “A fight between jaguar and snake.”
“Especially after what we saw in the ruins,” she said, nodding, her still-healing voice giving her words a hushed quality that suited the moment.
They stood listening, with tension raking spidery fingers up their spines. The noise of the forest slowly began to return. Whatever had happened was over.