by Betina Krahn
“Get moving,” he snarled.
Loaded with enough gold to make her steps heavy and uncomfortable, she fell in beside Hedda in the column. As they trudged down the road that led around the lake and down to the cavern, she managed one last look back at Hart. And felt her heart break into a million pieces.
Hedda reached out for her hand and gave it a squeeze. For a minute neither of them could see through their tears, but they kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other at the point of Yago’s gun.
Ruz reached over to shake Itza awake, motioning for silence and pointing to the party emerging from the canyon. Their eyes widened as they took in the fact that both Senorita Hedda and Senorita O’Keefe were with that devil Castille and his henchmen. They were surprised to see there were only three men besides the ever-vigilant Yago left in his group. They watched as the group laboriously climbed the rise to the trail and set off toward the village. They moved sluggishly, awkwardly, as if their packs were much too heavy. Shaking his head, Itza looked at Ruz and then at the professor, who had not yet returned to consciousness. Deciding, he pointed at Ruz and then at the professor, then connected himself with the party fading into the forest across the ravine.
Ruz understood. He nodded and made the sign of the cross on Itza, who nodded and did the same for him. Then Itza, always the better tracker, crept off down the ravine and was soon climbing the other side.
Yazkuz crept around the side of the pyramid, holding her head, cursing with the eleven torments of Hell the Spanish devil who had struck her and rolled her off the back side of the pyramid, leaving her for dead. But the old woman knew a thing or two about survival and had managed to stop herself from rolling down the steps and lie still as death until she was certain they were gone. Then she had dragged herself down into the gardens, found healing herbs to treat her cut and bruises and a little fruit to keep up her strength.
She had watched in horror as the devils packed up the offerings stolen from the Jaguar’s lake and left to carry it back to their world. She had seen, even from a distance, the pain of the O’Keefe woman as she parted from Handsome One. He was still alive, still mending she hoped. Now that all was quiet, she hurried out onto the beach beside him and began to pull fruit from her pockets. He would be hungry as a hound when he awoke.
The sun was beginning to set when Hart finally opened his eyes. They felt like they were full of sand as he tried to focus. Yazkuz filled his vision and, though he should probably be pleased to see anyone at all, he couldn’t help being disappointed that it wasn’t Cordelia who greeted him on his return to the world.
“Ah, Handsome… you back.” The old girl smiled with a wicked edge and stuck a banana out at him. “Eat. Go soon. Woman in trouble.”
“Wh—what kind of trouble?” he rasped out. Even his voice felt rusty.
“Big trouble.” She gestured broadly. “Men. Guns.”
He sat up, his joints popping and creaking strangely.
“Men and guns. Well, that figures.”
It took a little while for him to get his feet under him and some nourishment down him. Yazkuz insisted he drink something that tasted like it was made from the lining of a dirty pocket. He shuddered at the thought, but soon felt considerably better. He rose and stretched and moved around, brushing the sand from him. There was a slight soreness to a couple of his ribs. When she brushed at his back, he realized it didn’t hurt and glanced over his shoulder. From what he could see, his back was mostly healed. He ripped off the bandage around his arm and his whip-snake bite was gone. There was only a small, pink, healthy looking scar.
“I’m well? How could I have healed so—” He remembered the red orchids, some of which lay dried and shriveled on the sand around him. “It worked! Ha-ha—it worked! It worked!” His first impulse was to grab Cordelia and—he grabbed Yazkuz by the shoulders instead. “Where is she?”
“Spanish devil take. Also gold.” She made a sign. “Jaguar angry.”
“He’s not the only one.”
The old girl handed him something from behind her back: his boots. As he pulled them on, she opened her apron, which was looped up and tucked into her waist to carry something. It was full of fresh specimens of the red orchids.
He smiled, grabbed the old girl, and swung her around once.
The minute her feet touched the ground, she pulled him down the beach toward the drying lake bed and the old road that led out of the caldera.
“Damn.” He stood for a moment gaping at the changes. “What happened to the lake?”
The trip back along the cliffs and down the ravines and across the hills seemed to take forever. The women were constantly being prodded or admonished to keep up or to move faster. Cordelia didn’t protest, just kept on trudging along the path, following Castille as he struggled to find his way back along the path they had taken from the village. It wasn’t especially difficult; the trampled vegetation should have been a dead giveaway. But Castille was not used to the jungle and kept ignoring the signs of passage until one of his men finally pointed out the obvious and agreed to scout out the trail.
By the time they dropped their packs of gold and sank to the ground, just after dark, no one had the energy to try to build a fire or try to find food. Cordelia knew exactly how dangerous that attitude toward the necessities was, but couldn’t bring herself to care. She huddled close to Hedda for warmth in the cool air and found herself remembering the sight of Hart lying in front of the pyramid. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Hedda said nothing, only patted her.
Then later, after the others had gone to sleep—after posting a watch who soon began to doze himself—Hedda crept on all fours across the small clearing to the stack of bags of gold that Castille had insisted on mounding in the middle of them. She located the rucksack and quietly undid the buckles on the thin outer pocket. Holding her breath, she slid her hand inside and there it was. She pulled out the leather-bound journal and with painstaking care, reclosed and fastened the pockets on the pack. She retraced her path to Cordelia, who had felt her leave and sat up, watching what she was doing. When Hedda slipped back onto the trampled grass beside her and handed her the journal, she knew instantly what it was. For a moment she could scarcely breathe. Hedda put her mouth close to Cordelia’s ear and whispered quietly.
“You can’t go on like this, Cordie. Whatever happened to him, he would want you to survive, to live. Maybe this little piece of him will help you go on.”
Tears filled Cordelia’s eyes as she ran her fingers over the worn cover of the mysterious little book that had come to symbolize Hart to her—his secrets, his scholarly and insightful nature, and his stubborn pursuit of his dream.
In the moonlight she opened the book at its midpoint and was just able to make out drawings of flowers and leaves of various kinds, dotted with sections of notes written in his strong, masculine hand. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the pages, as if she could absorb some remnant of him from them, as if she could conjure his presence and vitality within her heart.
She closed the book and lay back, cradling it, holding it as if it were him.
“I love you, Hart. I always will,” she whispered to the still night air, so softly that not even Hedda heard it. It made her ache with regret that she had never said that to him, never seen the pleasure it would create in his eyes, or the triumph. Right now she’d even settle for some gloating…
The next morning, she tucked the journal under her shirt and into the waist of her breeches. As they moved out she felt it there, poking her with a corner to make her keep up with the others, just as he would have done.
Later, when they stopped, Castille made them deposit their packs in one place before he would allow them to head off into the trees one at a time for relief. Cordelia waited until she was well out of sight before sitting down to pull out the journal. This time, the words, written in his impeccable hand, were perfectly clear. She started on the first page and began to read… his thoughts his frustrations… his des
ires… his fears…they were all there… the mind and heart of the man she had come to love.
And on every page…
Her smile… her legs… her gun… her kiss…her courage… her capability… her inner conflicts…his humor… his fascination… his frustration… his desire… his temptation…
His love.
Thirty-five
Hart stood in the middle of the cavern where they had camped only two nights ago, looking back at the tunnel they had just traversed and then ahead at the arch of stones that would mark their exit. It was as if a fanatical Mother Nature had swept through in a frenzy of spring cleaning, a flash flood as mop and pail.
Yazkuz had tried to explain what had happened, but it made little sense until he saw the lake basin, the road leading down to the tunnel, and the passage through to the jaguar’s cavern. The well-scoured tunnel had been abruptly and violently unblocked that morning. Further surprises awaited when they stepped out into the canyon, glimpsed the destruction caused by the water, and looked back to find the stone arch now complete. The cat’s head was again in place above the rest, looking eerily lifelike and ready to pounce.
“You’re right,” he told old Yazkuz. “That is not a happy cat.”
Yazkuz scowled and pulled him along. Whenever he spotted manmade debris and paused to investigate, she got annoyed and tried to hurry him along. But there was method in his madness. He needed a canteen, some matches…a shirt would be nice… not to mention a weapon or two.
“Why is there never a damned machete around when you want one?” he muttered, poking around through some smashed crates and finding nothing but tin cups and bags of soggy flour and beans. He was about to abandon the equipment search and go after Castille bare-handed when he spotted a relatively undamaged crate wedged between a rock and the canyon wall. It was long, narrow, and oddly familiar. He was shocked to recognize both its contents and origin before he reached it. What the devil were O’Keefe’s guns doing here?
He turned and looked back at the jaguar’s head, then at old Yazkuz.
“Your boss has a very odd sense of humor.”
He snatched up three guns and handed one to Yazkuz, who held it out from her as if afraid it might go off at any second. He took it back and slipped the canvas sling over his shoulder with the second one before stuffing his pockets full of ammunition.
They headed out of the canyon and started to climb the side of the ravine when the sound of his name nearly dropped him in his tracks. He whirled with his rifle half aimed, and there was Ruz Platano standing on the other bank, waving frantically. Behind him, seated and looking rough, was Arturo Valiente.
It didn’t take long for Hart to plow across the stream to the other side.
“You don’t look so good, Valiente,” Hart said, bending down to search the professor’s bloodshot eyes.
“My head.” The professor clapped both hands to it. “But I live. These brave young men”—he gestured to Ruz and his absent brother—“they find and save me.” He glanced at the canyon. “Do you see others alive?” When Hart shook his head, Valiente sighed and pointed at the trail to the village. “Ruz and Itza…they see Castille take Hedda and Cordelia that way.”
“How long ago?” Hart asked Ruz directly.
“Several hours,” the professor translated again, looking troubled. “Itza follows. He leaves signs for us.” He grabbed Hart’s arm. “Once Castille reaches the village and gets to his burros and horses, he will not want anyone left to tell what he has done.” He looked truly miserable as he glanced at the guns. “He is not a man to show mercy.”
“Can you use one of these?” He offered the professor a rifle.
“I shoot mostly ducks,” Valiente said, shrugging apologetically.
“Same principle. Aim lower.” He looked at Ruz. “What about you?”
“He says he has hunted wild boar,” Valiente translated.
“Same principle,” Hart said, handing over the gun. “Aim higher.”
As they crossed the ravine to join Yazkuz, Hart spotted something caught on one of the bushes ravaged by the floodwaters and his eyes lighted.
“Hey—isn’t that a bandana?”
Every muscle in Cordelia’s body was crying for relief before their first full day on the trail was half over, and she could tell from the grim faces of Castille’s men that they felt the same. For the first few hours yesterday afternoon, the men had raucously traded plans for spending their newfound wealth. But by last night’s camp the reality of the backbreaking work that lay ahead had become clear, and lack of proper food and sufficient water began to take its toll.
Then, this morning, they had focused on watching for springs the guides had said were safe water. By afternoon the heat and humidity had risen enough as they descended in altitude to make exertion downright miserable. They began to demand longer and more frequent stops. When Castille fumed and insisted that such delays meant another whole day on the trail, they defiantly shed their burdens and stopped to rest anyway.
Cordelia stole a few minutes at each stop to read more of Hart’s journal, drawing strength from it, convincing herself she had to find the will to survive—if not for herself, for Hedda. On the trail she studied the men Castille had left and realized that of them, Yago was the most formidable. But every man had a weakness and in front of the temple yesterday morning, she had glimpsed his. He was a believer in the power of the old ways.
“You will never live to spend this gold,” she said to him in front of the others, not knowing how much English they understood. “It is cursed. It was stolen from the Jaguar and he will come to reclaim it. The old bruja said so.”
At the words gold and bruja, the others came alert and demanded Yago tell them what she said. He clearly tried to pass it off as the rambling of a stupid woman, but she regarded them so confidently, so knowingly that they could not dismiss her. When she said that the jaguar would be coming for his gold, they looked immediately to the forest around them. Clearly, they understood enough of what she said to make them nervous.
For the rest of the day, whenever one of the men looked at her, she narrowed her eyes and looked to the brush and grass as if telling him to beware. By the time they reached the first set of cliffs, the men were edgy enough to refuse to wait to tie their packs to a rope and lower them; they just dropped their packs over the edge before climbing down themselves. Castille was furious and struck with his crop—swerving at the last minute to slice air instead of flesh.
Complaints of hunger and a slowing pace caused Castille to send Yago out to forage for food and he came back with an armload of bananas. Cordelia had never been so happy to see food in her life. She and Hedda each ate three without stopping. Then thirst set in.
It took some time and going off the trail to find potable water. One of the men, in leaning to cup his hand under the trickle of water coming from the rocks, grabbed not a vine, but a whip snake, which did what whip snakes are wont to do. The man howled, thinking he’d been struck by a rattler. When they located the culprit, he seemed relieved.
“This is how it starts,” Cordelia declared to Yago. “The Jaguar’s curse. He sends his friends the snakes to punish his enemies.” To the bitten man she said, “I hope your arm doesn’t turn black and fall off.”
Castille heard her and grabbed up his pistol and shoved it point-blank into her face. As his finger twitched over the trigger, he looked at the pack she carried and weighed her life against the trouble of having to redistribute its contents. Then from the corner of his eye he glimpsed disapproval and uncertainty in the men’s faces. Lowering his gun, he began to stalk back and forth, intent on impressing the men with his bravado and refocusing their attention on his goal.
“The Jaguar will never hurt me. He has guarded the house of Castille for generations. He is my brother… blood of my blood…a part of my family.”
“Your family? Then beware, for you stole his gold,” Hedda said bitterly. “And how well did you treat your cousin when he stole from yo
u?”
For her insolence, she got a slap across the face. But from the secret smile she gave Cordelia afterward, she counted that it was worth it. Castille was growing more nervous. And nervous men made mistakes.
That evening, off the trail and floundering for direction, Castille’s party finally collapsed at dusk by a stream that flowed down from the mountains and provided both water and fish. They had to build a fire to roast the fish, and a fire in the dark attracts all kinds of attention.
Cordelia made a show of watching the grasses on the small clearing by the stream. But then she caught a genuine glimpse of reflected light in the grass nearby and went perfectly still. Watching for signs of movement, she caught the odd reflection twice more, circling the campsite at a distance. Her skin turned to gooseflesh; she was no longer pretending. Something was out there. When she looked back at the others, Yago was watching her. He had seen the genuineness of her reaction and held his rifle closer and began to watch, too.
Haunted by thoughts of her encounters with jaguars— for this couldn’t be the same one—she had difficulty falling asleep. Through the night she kept hearing a faint panting sound that seemed to grow closer and closer.
The next morning, the men were so hungry and dispirited that Castille had difficulty making them get up and shoulder their packs and bundles. They didn’t trust his leadership, and his contempt for their weakness grew more visible, only adding to their resentment. Cordelia saw Hart’s journal on the ground where she had slept and registered dismay before she could check her response and retrieve it. Castille saw her reaction and rushed over to grab whatever it was she was trying to hide in the band of her trousers.
“No—it’s nothing! Give it back!” She fought furiously to keep it, but he smacked her with his crop repeatedly, until she recoiled from the pain and he was able to yank the journal away. He looked it over with a snort of derision.