The Book of True Desires

by Betina Krahn

  “I am true bruja. Of real power,” she said to them. “The whole forest is my garden. The whole world is my book of knowledge. I prove it.” She lighted a bundle of twigs, waved the smoke around, and after a moment with her eyes closed, went straight to Cordelia and looked her in the eyes.

  “You tasted the plant called dumb cane,” she said. “Your voice still suffers.” Then she went to Goodnight and looked into his eyes. With a start, she pulled down his lower eyelids and searched them. Then she went back to Cordelia and did the same to her, looking deeply into her eyes as well. Returning to Goodnight, she said with a hint of irritation, “You are a healer. You look for a great cure.” She grudgingly announced: “I will show you things.”

  “The rest of you…I will tell you this much. Our village was once one of three. People came from the whole world to thank the Jaguar Spirit for his great generosity. And our villages served as their gateway. Now you have come to learn about the stones the Jaguar Spirit left behind. But the Jaguar keeps his secrets. Only He knows if you are worthy of such knowledge.”

  Cordelia was so busy trying to discern if there was any real news in that revelation, that she didn’t protest at first when the old witch pushed all of them but Goodnight out of her hovel and told them to come back tomorrow.

  “Wait,” she heard him say with an edge of anxiety. “Anything you have to say or do to me, you can say or do in front of her!”

  Cordelia watched the door slam behind her and was torn between outrage and amusement that the old woman had taken such a fancy to Goodnight. Pacing impotently for a few minutes, she finally sat down on a bench outside the hovel to wait for him. The amusement quickly faded. By the time he exited the cottage more than an hour later, she was roundly furious with both the old girl and him.

  “What did she do to you?” she asked, springing to her feet and looking him over. He had a strange grin on his face.

  “We just had a cup of tea and exchanged recipe–e–es.”

  She sniffed him.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Am most certainly not. Only had a drop of whiskey in my tea. Least, I think that’s what it was.”

  “Sounds disgusting.” She headed off along the path toward the main part of the village, then went back to grab him by the arm and pull him along. “What did you do with her? You don’t even speak the same language.”

  “What kind of criterion is that?” he said in a scholarly tone. “We speak the same language and we can’t seem to do anything together.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah? What have we ever done together? Voluntarily.”

  “You really want to know?” It was partly the moonlight. It had to be. Or maybe it was the old woman’s blatant yen for him. Something about the place or the moment or the tension of the last hour caused her to step straight into him, lock her hands around his neck, and reel him down for a blistering kiss.

  “Yeah,” he said against her lips when he surfaced, “we’ve done that. And this.” He wrapped both arms tight around her, lowered his head. “Hardacre had nothing to do with this.”

  And he pushed her right off the very edge of the world.

  She fell…slowly… sinking… through an ocean of voluptuous swirling sensations that blotted out everything else. His heat, his hardness all around her. Him. This was him. This taste, these sleek supple lips, this velvety tongue—it was her Goodnight, the man to whom her desire was irrevocably binding her.

  This feeling of connectedness, this joining was what she had longed for without knowing she longed. It was unlike anything she had ever imagined. This was the love she had feared, dreaded, and avoided. Just as he had.

  In that moment, she understood with surprising clarity what was happening between them. The fear, the defensiveness, the fascination, the temptation—they weren’t just hers, they were his as well. This force drawing them together was overwhelming and terrifying for them both. But at least they were together in that fear—sharing it, exploring it, sometimes defying it. Like now.

  This was the passion, the need, the completion that had drawn her parents to defy father and society. This was the wanting that made them abandon their secure and predictable lives and commit to a new, unknown, and risky life with only each other, holding nothing back. It was this sense of companionship, of having a mate or partner, someone to rely on, that had sustained them.

  She was in love with Hartford Goodnight.

  And she would never be the same.

  She broke away from him with tears in her eyes and headed for her tent.

  He caught up with her and made her look up at him. She could hardly see him through that haze of collected moisture.

  “Don’t run,” he said. Two words that were instantly branded on her heart.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “How can we not do this?” he asked, pain in his voice.

  “No.” Her voice was a taut whisper. “I can’t—I already—” She bit her lip and blinked to release the tears. “You and I, we’re headed different places. You have medicines to make and I have… treasures to find…and…”

  His eyes seemed to have a rim of moisture growing in them.

  “Now is not enough?” he said in a whisper so soft, its anguished timbre was like a caress.

  Newly awakened emotions pressed hard for release, but the habit of a lifetime remained unshakable and her dependable sense of reason had its way.

  “No.”

  She turned away and a moment later looked back to find him standing on the path, his arms at his sides, looking oddly fragile and alone.

  Just as she was.

  February 10, Day 21

  Bruja’s secrets: $0.35 (No bargain.)

  Arrived in foothills at village called Tierra Rica. Old men. Old ruins. Another jaguar mural. Worst chocolate in the whole history of taste. Old bruja (Mexican version of witch) here claims to know all manner of herbal cures. Seems to fancy me. Also fancies whiskey. Can’t hold her liquor——thank God——or I’d have been ravished within an inch of my life.

  Escaped the old witch’s clutches only to walk straight into O’Keefe’s.

  Can’t take much more of this.

  In way over my head. Gut in knots. Whole body on fire, quivering with heat, and not a cold shower in sight. Tonight she made it clear——she’s got better things to do than dally with a failed chemist/butler with no future. Dammit. When this is over—— who am I kidding——it will never be over for me. I’m going to have to carry this… this wanting with me for the rest of my miserable——

  Still. Got to admire the way she never takes her eye off the prize. Not for a bloody second.

  Not even for a single, sweet instant of might-have-been.

  The next morning, she awakened to find Hedda dressed and already heading out into the gray mist that seeped from the hills themselves each night.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up and rubbing her face.

  “You’re awake. I was going to leave you a note. Itza made that wonderful chicken with peppers and eggs in tortillas again. And Arturo and I are going to interview some of the ancianos and the older women, to see if we can collect some of their stories,” Hedda said brightly. Too brightly for this early hour of the morning.

  “Stories?” She swung her legs over the side of the cot, hoping feet on the ground would anchor her better. “You mean about the things we saw last night? I thought we agreed to keep that quiet so—”

  “No, actually.” Hedda pressed her sketch pad and a smaller bound notebook against her with crossed arms. “We were talking last night and realized there are probably lots of legends and stories here, ones that may be totally lost if not recorded soon. We thought it would make a wonderful project for us.”

  “We already have a project.” She stood up and scratched to get the blood flowing. “We have to find the Gift of the Jaguar.”

  Hedda tucked her chin and settled a look on her. “I meant a little idea for Aurturo and me.
You have your project. So, I thought—”

  “My project? It’s our project. We have always traveled together, worked together, decided things together.” But not any longer?

  “Oh, I didn’t mean we wouldn’t continue helping you search for the Jaguar stones. It’s just that we thought it would be fun for us to do a little something on our own. Together.” Hedda looked as if she were bracing, though she smiled. “Just a little something extra. It won’t take up much time. Besides, you’ve been helping Hartford with his ‘medicinal plant’ business.”

  “Hartford?” It was Goodnight’s given name she realized, but just then it sounded about as familiar as Kubulai Khan. Good Lord. She was thinking “undying love” and she scarcely knew his first name? And what was that about—Hedda honestly thought she was helping Goodnight with his plant search? “Wait!” she said, but her aunt was already ducking through the tent flap with a wave. Following, she stuck her head outside and saw her aunt put her arm through the professor’s. They walked off together, their eyes bright and heads inclined toward some mystical plane of communion.

  How could that have happened? When did “I” and “he” become a “we”? She had seen the glances, the smiles, registered some of the admiration and compliments Valiente had strewn in Hedda’s way. She assumed that her aunt had more sense than to let such things influence her. After all, what did they know about the man? He could have a wife and ten children back in Mexico City, for all they knew!

  But…if he didn’t?

  She had never felt so desolate. Here she was, determined to retreat into the sensible and dependable, and the sensible and dependable seemed to be evaporating around her! Her beloved aunt, her companion and confidante, her anchor in the world, was striking out on her own, reaching for something beyond their comfortable bond of kin and companionship.

  Hedda was declaring that she belonged to Hedda.

  Yazkuz turned out to be not only a top-notch intimidator, but also a knowledgeable herbalist, a wry observer of the human condition, and an unexpected student of English. She had acquired, through her little extortions and nefarious trading practices, three books published in English and had with patience and cunning sat down to decipher some of that foreign script.

  Cordelia arrived at the woman’s hut just as Yazkuz and Goodnight were leaving for the nearby forest to gather materials for herbal medicines. The sight of him filled her with dread, confusion, and worst of all, longing. Plowing determinedly through that slurry of emotion, Cordelia insisted on accompanying them, telling herself she had to pry some answers from old Yazkuz.

  Instead, as they hiked into the forest she found her own brain being picked to correct Yazkuz’s English. The result was an improvement in the old witch’s ability to communicate with the “handsome one” and an increasing buildup of steam in her own veins.

  It was a simmering, low-grade agony to have to tromp through the woods with him after what had passed between them the night before, even more so after Hedda’s revelation this morning. But she was determined not to show how much it affected her. Heaven knew, he didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects. He seemed at the top of his game: full of questions, endlessly curious and focused, all while effectively fending off the old girl’s advances. The one thing he didn’t manage to do was look at Cordelia, except in unavoidable situations such as when she suggested that he apply some of his “tall, handsome” influence to get Yazkuz to look at their rubbings and tell them what she knew about the nearby mountains. He merely gave her a long, unreadable look and went back to examining his latest specimen, too wrapped up in his precious plants and pursing his own private mission to help her.

  She realized, there and then, that one by one her party was deserting her. Goodnight… Hedda… the professor…even the Platanos, who were preoccupied with their “burro stud” business. The expedition’s discipline was breaking down. She was losing control or had already lost it. How could this happen after they had come so far and were so close? She could almost feel the presence of those blasted stones.

  Yazkuz ignored both her presence and her repeated requests, preferring to concentrate on collecting herbs and botanicals and admiring Goodnight’s anatomy. Shortly, however, the old girl made a sharp “accidental” movement with her walking stick that jabbed Cordelia in the leg. Minutes later she tromped heavily on Cordelia’s foot and then pretended not to see her standing in the way when she spit out a wad of cocoa leaves she had chewed all morning.

  Cordelia had had enough.

  Angered and feeling stretched and edgy, on the brink of an explosion that she could ill afford, she shook the gooey mass off her boot, turned on her heel, and left Goodnight in the old girl’s clutches. Her thoughts, emotions, and frustrations were a roiling mass in the middle of her stomach as she headed back to the village. Then as she crested a small, treeless rise, over which the very top of the village was visible, she slowed and felt a strange tingle of premonition that alerted her to her surroundings.

  Something was moving through the grass ahead of her and slightly to the left. A blur of gold and brown gradually became visible, and she knew without understanding how she knew, that it was a jaguar.

  She stopped dead, watching as it emerged onto the well-traveled path and paused, a familiar but no less fearsome figure.

  The gold of the big cat’s coat shone like satin in the bright sun. Its stance was relaxed but its ears were forward, alert, and its eyes left no doubt that it was aware of every element in its immediate environment, including her. As the jaguar continued to stand there, watching something in the distance, but keeping her within sight as well, Cordelia noted in some not yet frozen part of her brain a slight reddish stain around its mouth and on the front paws. It was confirmation of what she already knew in the marrow of her bones: this was the same jaguar.

  It truly was following them.

  “It follows her,” Goodnight said through the hold fear had on his throat, speaking as much to himself as to the old woman. He pointed to the path some distance ahead, where O’Keefe had stopped. Yazkuz gasped and grabbed his arm tightly, holding him as if afraid he might charge in to do battle with the beast. Her hooded eyes narrowed as she watched O’Keefe’s erect posture and surprising calm before the great cat.

  “It is the same jaguar that came before. Three times now it has searched her out.” He held up three fingers and pointed between the woman and the jaguar. Yazkuz nodded gravely, intent on watching what would happen.

  Twenty-six

  Seconds stretched into a full minute. Goodnight’s lungs began to ache for air as the cat started to move toward O’Keefe. His stomach sank and opened a huge, frightening hole in him as she held her ground and watched it come.

  It didn’t seem like an attack, but big cats were unpredictable. It could spot the tiniest unconscious movement, hear the thudding of a frantic heart, or catch a strange scent that alarmed it—and go from serene to savage in an instant.

  If anything happened to her…

  But as the beast passed by her—so near she could have reached out a hand and petted it—she remained as still as a marble statue and the cat showed no inclination to attack.

  “Jaguar Spirit tests your woman,” Yazkuz said in hushed tones, a miraculous improvement over her previous attempts at English. She tapped her own chest. “Jaguar looks into heart.”

  The foot between cat and woman became a yard, then two. The beast moved away, back into the brush on the other side of the footpath. A moment later she was alone on the path, and in the dappled sunlight it was difficult to believe that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

  He gulped breaths. His heart was pounding as he broke free of the old woman’s grasp and began to run.

  Before he closed the distance between them, she had started to run herself and he had to put on a burst of speed to catch her. By the time he reached her elbow, she had heard him coming and looked over her shoulder. Her toe caught on some grass and she stumbled, allowing him to seize her
arm and both pull her to a halt and keep her from falling.

  “D–did—did you see it?” she said, panting.

  “I saw.”

  “I–It’s the same one…it really is.”

  Her amber eyes were huge and dark-centered as she looked up. He could feel her trembling and transferred his grip to her shoulders just as her knees buckled. The only way he could keep her from hitting the ground was to throw his arms around her, grab her against him, and hold her there. Which, in fact, was exactly what he’d wanted to do all morning—when he allowed himself to think about what he wanted instead of what he had to do.

  Moments later he opened his eyes and realized he was murmuring “It’s all right—you’re all right” over and over again. And that Yazkuz was hauling herself up beside them, breathing heavily, looking fierce and resolved.

  “You.” She poked O’Keefe with a finger and after a moment O’Keefe turned her head to look at the old woman. “Bring picture to me,” she said, having to search for every word. “I look.” She pointed from her eyes with two fingers. “I see.” Then she, too, faded off through the trees, leaving them alone on the path.

  He set O’Keefe back a few inches and asked if she could walk. She took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. He put an arm around her waist to steady her and without speaking, they walked back to the village together.

  February 11, Day 22

  Another visit from that damnable jaguar. This cat-and-mouse thing really wears on the nerves. Especially when O’Keefe’s the mouse. Bloody thing just strolled right up to her. Rubbed against her legs like a parlor cat!