The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  “Changed my mind. I want to climb Maderas again.”

  She ground out her cigarette. “In case you haven’t noticed, señorita, it’s raining. Ravines are flooded. There could be rockslides, lightning. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Fine, I’ll get someone else.”

  “No, no, I’ll take you. My car’s over there, but first I need to make a phone call.”

  I buckled into her Datsun and twisted around in time to see Paco hurrying into a building that housed the Targa Rental Car Agency. Blanca finished her call, hopped in, and started the engine.

  “Still searching for your old Indios?” she asked.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re delusional. Nothing lives in that forest except monkeys and birds.”

  She remained silent during the drive, and by the time we reached Maderas and parked in a grove of eucalyptus trees, the rain had stopped. Paco drove past in his rental car and kept going. Blanca stepped out and strapped her pistol around her waist. “Let’s do it.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to go.”

  “That trail is slippery, señorita. You could hurt yourself.”

  Off we went, hiking past brush that was dappled with raindrops. The climb was easier than before, with cooler weather and fresh air, and for once I enjoyed the view of the lake and port below. A rainbow appeared in the distance, and I was thinking I was so much in love I could fly up the mountain when Blanca began wheezing and gasping as if we were climbing Mt. Everest.

  “Damn cigarettes,” she said, and plopped down on a boulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but if there’s ghosts up there, I don’t want to see them. Go ahead.”

  I trudged up to the tree line, took off my pack, and waited as if I were at a bus stop. Frogs croaked. Monkeys howled. Mist rose around me. I took out Alan’s binoculars and looked around. Nothing above and nothing below. Only Blanca who was up and pacing.

  With a cell phone to her ear.

  The hoots and croaks grew louder. Things shrieked and moved about in the overhead foliage. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should forget the old couple and go back to the hotel. Yes, what was I thinking? How would they know I was coming?

  I reached for my pack and was hitching it up when the foliage parted and there they stood—the old woman with her basket and the man with his machete, looking as if they’d stepped out of the artist’s sketch. “We knew you would come,” said the woman.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because we know these things.”

  As before, they dropped to their knees and prayed to the monkeys and birds of the forest. I joined them, begged the good Lord to get me safely back to Alan, and followed them again into the forest with its mist and odors of decay.

  Water dripped. The foliage seemed greener than before, the noise louder, and when we came to the Place of the Speaking Stones, I barely recognized it. Nothing looked disturbed. No cut vines or trampled-down foliage. No sign of our earlier visit.

  The man stepped to a boulder and began stripping off moss. On it appeared the same young woman I’d seen before. But something was wrong. In the last glyph, she’d been having the same kind of volcanic sex I’d been enjoying with Alan. Now her lower lip was downturned. She should be happy. Like me—with a contented glow.

  The old man wiped it with his dirty handkerchief. When he backed away, I saw what was wrong. Glyph Girl was pregnant.

  “A love child,” the woman said.

  The next glyph showed a counterclockwise spiral.

  Counterclockwise, meaning the relationship was coming unraveled.

  In the final glyph, the woman was having her child.

  Alone.

  What a downer, I thought. Put out, get pregnant, get dumped.

  Grumbling, wondering if that was my future with Alan, I snapped a few photos and was measuring the sizes when the rain and lightning came back.

  Chapter 31

  Volcán Maderas

  We gathered our things and trotted along a narrow trail, jumping a swollen ditch here, straddling a fallen tree there. Thunder crashed. Water drenched my hair and ran down my back.

  Finally, we rounded a field of boulders and came to a tiny wooden shack that could have been my abuelita’s house in the Yucatan. It was nestled in the shade, covered with creepers and had an earthen floor, crude wooden furniture, potted flowers and the smell of wood smoke.

  The same smell I remembered from my dream.

  The woman handed me a dirty towel and got a fire going, and within minutes we were huddled at the table around a pot of coffee, listening to the patter of rain.

  “Last night the moon had a circle,” said the woman. “Our world is coming to an end.”

  “Soon,” said the man.

  I waited for an explanation. It didn’t come. I drank a second cup and a third, and before long felt as pumped up as a new battery. The roof leaked. They ignored it. A rooster fluttered up and sat on the window. They ignored it too. Then I saw a calendar on the wall.

  From last year.

  In time the rain stopped; the thunder receded. Frogs croaked.

  I reached for my pack. “I should go.”

  “But we cannot leave this world until we tell our secret,” said the man.

  I sat back down. The man looked at the woman. She nodded, and he began his story.

  “We lived on the morning side of a distant island,” which was his way of saying east. “A drought came. The wet season came and went without rain. Trees turned brown and died. Springs dried up. Our only drinking water came from the lake.”

  He stared into the shadows and spoke slowly, recounting one horror after the other: birds falling dead from the sky, people starving, animals dying.

  “One day the island caught fire. Some said it was lightning; others that it was a witch. Who knows these things? When it was over, the island lay naked and smoldering.”

  “That was when we found it,” the woman said.

  “Found what?”

  “The cave that you seek.”

  I stood and paced around, too excited to sit. The woman went on. “It is an evil place protected by witches. Everyone who enters comes to a bad end.” She glanced at her husband. “We were there when evil came. Two men. Bad men.”

  “What happened?”

  The man picked up his machete and tested the sharpness. “They are still there.”

  Thunder shook the cabin. “If you go,” said the woman, “you must protect yourself.”

  “How do I protect myself?”

  “With a blood offering.”

  “What kind of blood?”

  “Your own blood, child.”

  Goosebumps crawled up my arm, and the old man was saying something about bat dung and strange markings on the wall when a cramp hit my stomach.

  The woman noticed. “It is a sign.”

  I knew what she meant, but wasn’t about to acknowledge it. I excused myself, took a quick trip to the outhouse, drank a sip of water, and came back.

  “The story is not finished,” said the man.

  I sat back down. “How does it end?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  “What more can you tell me about the cave?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. I used to hear the same babble in the village of my childhood—Follow the trail where it will lead. Listen to your heart.

  Again I reached for my pack.

  “We saw them take her,” said the man.

  “Take who?”

  “The ix-dzul, your friend, the woman who disappeared.”

  I sat forward. “Catherine? You saw them take Catherine?”

  He leaned back and told me in his Indian tongue that she’d been taken near the foot of this same volcano, in early morning. “She fought them, but they still took her.”

  “Who took her?”

  “Soldiers.” He described them, and when he
finished, it was clear who they were—Captain Gonzales, Lieutenant Fuentes and Prudencia.

  “Did you report them?”

  “Who would believe the story of old Indians?”

  “Didn’t she have a guide?”

  “Her guide was the cascarabia with the pistol. She helped the soldiers.”

  Blanca? A cold fear came over me. I remembered the phone calls. Damn that Blanca. She was probably with Gonzales this very moment, waiting.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, and hitched up my pack.

  I thanked them and hurried down the trail, stumbling here, jumping ditches there, praying Paco would be waiting for me. With an AK-47.

  I took out the Beretta, chambered a round, and slipped it into my pocket.

  Behind me, something moved.

  I whirled around—and there stood the old couple, no more than twenty or thirty paces away.

  How could that be? They were old. I’d been running.

  “Go,” said the woman, motioning with her hand.

  On I trotted, past the sulfur spring and along a narrow trail, confused and scared. Volcán Concepción rose up in the distance, its summit covered in swirling mist. Now I could see the trees where Paco should be waiting. Was he there?

  I jumped another rivulet, rounded a large boulder—and came face to face with Blanca.

  Chapter 32

  “Well,” she said. “Did you find your old Indians?”

  I turned to point them out, but where they’d been before, there were now only boulders and steam vents. “You must have scared them,” I said. “They were right there.”

  She yanked out her pistol and gazed up the trail.

  “Would you put that gun away?”

  “Not until we get out of here.”

  She motioned me ahead with the pistol and followed behind, glancing now and then back up the trail. “Move it,” she said. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  I hastened my step, hoping she’d fall on her face.

  Please, dear God, let Paco be waiting.

  I couldn’t see him, not with all the trees and bushes near the bottom, but I saw an army jeep speeding along the road from the direction of Moyogalpa. Gonzales. It had to be him.

  Blanca saw it too. “Slow down,” she yelled. “This place is slippery.”

  Right, I thought. She wanted to time our arrival with the jeep. No way. So I rounded an outcrop of boulders, hurried in and out of a small ravine, and was about to break into a run when Blanca fired a shot.

  With a yelp, I dove for the cover of a boulder and pulled out my Beretta, my heart in my throat. Behind me, Blanca was crunching out of a ravine, waving her pistol.

  “Damn you, bitch. I told you to slow down.”

  I waited, breathing hard, adrenaline flowing.

  Shoot her in the leg, I told myself. Get away before that jeep arrived.

  Her footfalls came closer. “God, give me courage,” I muttered, and sprang out with my pistol.

  Before I could shoot. Before Blanca saw me, a hideous shriek rent the air.

  Pebbles rained down around us.

  Blanca swung around as if under attack by ghosts, which in a way she was.

  I broke into a run, zigzagging here, jumping a steam vent there.

  Gunfire detonated behind me.

  On I went, hoping, praying Paco would be there.

  Yes, waiting next to his rental car, only about fifty paces away. “Come on!” he yelled.

  Blanca was well behind now, stumbling, firing over her shoulder like a character in an old cowboy movie. The army jeep hadn’t arrived yet, but Blanca’s Datsun was where she’d left it.

  Directly to my front.

  In a burst of rage, without thinking, I shot out the front tires. I pumped another round into the radiator. And I might have smashed in her windshield except for the oncoming jeep.

  I swung the pistol in its direction. Only one person—Prudencia. She saw me, slammed on the brakes and skidded into the tree line. Then Paco drove up beside me.

  “Come on. Get in. Nelson’s at the landing, waiting.”

  Chapter 33

  Granada

  It was almost dark when I arrived back at the Alhambra, pumped up with victory and ready to share my story with Alan. “You,” Sabio said, his eyes wide. “I thought you’d gone home.”

  “Changed my mind. Is the gringo back yet?”

  “The gringo’s gone home. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He what?”

  “Gone. Left with his suitcase.”

  I dashed up the stairs and let myself into the room. Alan’s note was on the pillow.

  My dearest Jen: An emergency has come up. I have to leave. I’m so sorry. I’ll track you down at the Smithsonian. Contact numbers below. Please wrap things up and go home.

  All my love, Alan.

  Alan gone? What emergency? Why not tell me?

  I stripped off my damp clothes, showered, put on fresh jeans, and fell back on the bed. I wanted to cry. Or to scream. But I had to tell someone what I’d learned. Now, in case Gonzales or Prudencia came after me at the hotel. But who to tell?

  Alan would know, but he was on a plane, winging his way home, and I was the girl in the glyphs. Lonely Girl. Stupid Girl.

  I picked up the phone and tried to call the US Embassy in Managua. No connection.

  Damn, damn, damn. What if Gonzales or Prudencia showed up? Maybe I should take a taxi to Managua. No, not at night. There were military checkpoints.

  Using hotel stationary, I wrote a three-page account of what the old couple had told me. It took another page to summarize my experiences with Blanca. Then I listed all my contact numbers, signed the letter, went downstairs, and asked if the line was open to Managua.

  “Who knows?” Sabio said. “We can try it.”

  He put my fax in the machine and dialed the embassy’s number. The fax signal kicked in. The pages went through the machine. Just to be sure, I followed up with a phone call.

  Yes, said the lady who answered, the fax was in her hands.

  “Would you please ask the duty officer to call me? It’s important.”

  “Sí, señorita, just stay near a telephone.”

  I ordered soup and a fruit plate from the kitchen and returned to my room. The power went out. The food came, but not the phone call. I tried to call the embassy again, but there was no connection. Damn the contras. Probably blew up a transmission line.

  And Gonzales was out there somewhere.

  I slid a piece of furniture against the door and put the loaded Beretta next to my bed.

  The wind howled. The balcony doors rattled. The candles flickered and cast spooky shadows on the wall. Why hadn’t Alan waited for me? Was this his way of saying goodbye?

  The tears came at last, and I was wiping them away when the phone rang—a Mr. Holbrook Easton from the legal division of the US Embassy in Managua.

  “I read your fax,” he said in a deep, official-sounding voice. “Can you tell me more about the old couple? No one lives on that volcano. It’s a national preserve.”

  “They’ve got a cabin in the forest, south side at the tree line, easy to find.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “I have photographs.”

  “Can you fax them?”

  “I’ll have the Smithsonian fax them.”

  “You say in your report that your guide shot at you?”

  “Several times. You should report her to the authorities.”

  “She’s already reported to the authorities. Her story is that you shot at her. She’s filing a complaint for damages to her vehicle. She may even file an assault charge.”

  “Are you serious? That woman is—”

  “I read your report, Ms. McMullen. You didn’t mention you were also carrying a firearm. That’s a serious matter. Foreigners aren’t allowed to—”

  “If I hadn’t been armed, I’d be dead.”

  “I need to get that in writing, also an account of where you got the gun. Ca
n you come by the embassy? We need to discuss this face to face.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Not tonight. I wouldn’t advise you or anyone else to be on that road at night.”

  We set up a tentative appointment and then I asked about Alan.

  “I’m told it was an…emergency at home.”

  “What emergency?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, Ms. McMullen. It’s a private family matter.”

  Chapter 34

  It took a long time for me to fall asleep, and when I did, I dreamed of Alan, holding me in his arms next to a vintage airplane, telling me goodbye and saying we’d always have Nicaragua. Then I was back on that damn volcano, running from Blanca. She pulled out a stick of dynamite, lit it with the burning end of her cigarette and flung it.

  The explosion woke me, but it was the fireworks of that crazy old priest.

  Worse, the nausea in my stomach reminded me that all was not well.

  I dragged myself out of bed and read Alan’s note for the hundredth time.

  An emergency at home. What emergency, Alan? Why didn’t you ask me to go with you?

  I reached for the phone and was about to call him when I realized it was four in the morning in Colorado. So I called Victoria, using her home number.

  She didn’t answer.

  In desperation, I called our official photographer, Niro Defalco.

  “Do you know what time it is in Maryland?” he said in a raspy smokers’ voice.

  “Sorry, Niro, but it’s important. That guide Vicki arranged for me—Blanca. She’s dangerous. Works for the depredadores, the same ones that nabbed Catherine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just tell Vicki. Right now I need to know if you got the photos I sent?”

  “Got them. They’re good.”

  “Did you see the ones with the old Indian couple…on the volcano?”

  He coughed his hacking cigarette cough and came back. “Describe them for me.”

  “Old couple in native dress, standing next to a boulder.”