by A. T. Grant
“My father was a very cynical man,” Luis responded, holding Laura’s quizzical gaze. “Maybe that’s why I like it here in the park. Here there’s nobody to pull you down.”
“Are you two brothers?” Felicity was thinking out loud.
Luis and Alfredo looked at each other and once again Felicity caught the moment of tension. It was Alfredo who responded.
“Yes and my brother’s mood can change quickly when he gets tired. I think he should get some sleep,” he added, pointedly.
Luis smiled affectionately at Alfredo. He was right, of course, they couldn’t both stay awake. He also knew his brother well enough to know he was interested in one of the girls. Trying to keep Alfredo out of trouble was like trying to escape the bucket full of crabs. He gave up trying. For the first time he also acknowledged the alien voice within him that was telling him to let go. Que sera, sera. He would set a watch alarm for the small hours, and sort out whatever mess his brother had created then. Beyond filial affection there was also the hardnosed understanding that this party of innocents was in far more danger from Alfredo than he from them. His sentimentality was real, but so also was his propensity for violence.
“Good night.” Luis rose wearily from his chair and bowed pompously. He wandered the few steps to the tent adopted from the porters, who would be sleeping in the shack. Soon it was just possible to discern the regular whistle and sigh of his breathing. Low conversation and the occasional muted flash of torchlight through canvas indicated that several others were settling to their new, basic accommodation. A small group still sat under gaslight and a swirl of insects by the hut, supping beer.
Felicity continued, polite, but persistent. “So how did two brothers come to be doing the same job?”
Alfredo’s eyes dwelt on her, taking in this other girl, whom he had previously barely noticed. “We followed our father. He was perhaps not as cynical a character as Luis suggests.”
“...and you’re happy doing what you do?”
“I can honestly say I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world, at this moment.”
Felicity at last seemed placated and leaned her head on Laura’s shoulder. Marcus, Ethan and David had wandered off for a beer and Cesar looked as though he would very much like to join them.
Alfredo watched those talking to the porter manning the wooden counter, which served as an improvised bar. He thought of Marcelo, then of his father and of Uncle Felipe. The cold reality of his situation made him shiver.
Laura caught the moment of vulnerability and it drew her closer to this strange, slightly out-of-place, and oddly dressed young man. She decided to take up the conversation. For some reason she had yet to acknowledge, she couldn’t sustain eye contact with Alfredo as she spoke. “Can we get you anything else to eat or drink?”
There was no reply and Laura suddenly didn’t know where to look.
“My name is Alfredo.” The conspiratorial whisper drew a veil across the outside world.
Laura tried to cast her glance aside. Now she couldn’t stop staring. They regarded each other for several seconds, as Cesar shuffled uncomfortably beside them. Laura could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, but still couldn’t break from Alfredo’s eyes.
“I’d like a beer.” Alfredo turned towards Cesar, who leapt from his seat as though sitting on a spring.
Laura had a moment to take in Alfredo’s disturbingly familiar profile. Nothing about this person made sense. He was handsome but haggard, almost intimidating. His mannerisms were urbane, but he looked as though he had been dressed by a charity shop. His pale skin against thick dark hair gave the lie to a life in the open air. His ear even looked slightly sunburned. None of this made any difference, however. Laura was hopelessly and completely captivated.
“What is your name?” Alfredo leaned forward, hands clasped, as if in prayer.
“Laura,” she heard herself reply.
“Laura,” he repeated and Laura felt her name run through her as though it was exploring a new home. “Do you like it here?”
“I love it,” Laura enthused. “In England you couldn’t sit outside at this time of year. There would be snow or freezing rain.”
“I know London. I have never felt as cold as when I was there. And I have never seen so many people.”
“I feel the same when I go there, too. I’m from the countryside like you. Here it feels as though it’s just us and nature. I understand you have a problem with poachers, but then sometimes so do we in Britain. I’m a member of staff, by-the-way. If there’s some danger and you want to tell me, I won’t pass it on to our clients.”
“My brother and I are only here as it’s good to show we look after the tourists. There is no real hazard. You can all relax and enjoy the rest of your trip, can’t they Cesar?”
Cesar concurred, and handed over one of the beers he had just brought back. He offered another to Laura, but she declined.
“Why don’t you go and enjoy that drink with the others?” Alfredo suggested.
Cesar nodded in relief and quickly retraced his steps. Laura wondered at the authority which Alfredo already wielded and at her own reaction, as she remained rooted to her seat. She could feel the eyes of those at the bar, and knew she must be careful, but she also knew she was completely under this man’s spell. She hoped that others would join them. She hoped that they would not.
“Can you see those?” Alfredo was pointing towards the back of the beach, where tiny lights danced amongst the first few trees. “They are fireflies. When my brother and I were young we would chase after them for hours with a net. Once we had a full jar, we took it to our room. Sometimes there were so many flies in the jar there was enough light to read by.”
Laura watched the intermittent flashes and meandering streaks of light. She hadn’t previously noticed them and was entranced. She liked the world through Alfredo’s eyes, and he was obviously more of a naturalist than appearances might suggest. She repeated each syllable of his name experimentally in her head and did not, at first, even realise he had gone. Looking around in confusion, she caught the line of his broad shoulders reflecting the moonlight in the shadows at the back of the beach. In the sudden flare of a match he looked preoccupied, almost troubled. Laura sat still and watched as he smoked, the light from the cigarette communing with the insects darting around him. She hugged herself tightly, as cold began to invade her clothing, but did not want to move.
“Come and see.”
For fully ten minutes Alfredo had not spoken. He did not even bother to turn around now. He didn’t need to: the connection between the two had only grown in the stillness. There was a deep sadness in both of them, something that emerged in the quiet and the dark: the sadness of loss and of lost souls; of craving attention from someone long gone; of the little child calling for its mother.
Laura tottered somewhat stiffly into the shadows. Without thinking, she reached out and touched Alfredo’s hand then became aware of what she had done. Shyly, but without regret, she held his gaze as he turned enquiringly towards her. Light played there, just like the fireflies. She barely registered his transient lack of recognition, as though he’d been thinking of another, but responded instinctively to the spreading smile of someone greeting a loved one. Flicking her hair from her eyes, Laura brushed deliberately past his shoulder. It was her turn to disappear.
Alfredo started, as if waking from a dream. He threw away his cigarette and looked long and hard towards those individuals still occupying the beach. He was not being watched. Cautiously, he retreated towards the tent in which his brother was sleeping, slid his gun beneath the ground-sheet and skirted around the furthest canopies to the spot where Laura had last been.
Where had she gone? There was no silhouette along the waterline and no sign of her anywhere beyond the camp. Alfredo felt momentarily foolish, then felt the panicky sense of emo
tional vulnerability that had been growing inside him since London. He needed to find Laura quickly, and to bathe in the calm that her presence engendered before his emotions ran out of control. Instinctively, he made for the cover of the trees. Stumbling across a clearing at the forest fringe, he realised he was following a pair of the sky-dancing beetles he had celebrated. As he approached, their lights failed simultaneously.
“Somebody else who couldn’t find the toilet tent in the dark!” David slurred his words. He was concentrating upon not spraying his shoes with urine.
Alfredo almost leapt from his ill-fitting clothing.
“Sorry... didn’t mean to spook you.
“It’s nothing - don’t worry.” Alfredo was struggling to work out who he was talking to.
“I imagine you camp all the time. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it myself. I have trouble enough getting to sleep in my own bed.”
“Well, if you can’t sleep, I will be sitting out. You are welcome to join me.” Alfredo managed to regulate his breathing just enough to make a careful show of politeness. He turned in frustration and quickly retraced his steps. By the time he reclaimed his chair there was nobody to be seen. Even the tents were in darkness. The night grew heavy and still. He began to feel the chill, but the crisp air cleared his head and helped him to keep watch. David never appeared, but his snoring was soon clearly audible above a range of other somnambulant sounds. Alfredo sat motionless and silent for several hours until Luis relieved him. He thought of very little, but unfamiliar feelings clawed at his innards in a way he found entirely disconcerting. Grunting grumpily at his brother, he headed for the tent. Stretching out thankfully, he reclaimed an image of Laura and drifted towards sleep. Then he thought of his mother. One of these women entered his dreams. As he stirred briefly and turned over in the dark, he couldn’t work out which it had been.
Chapter Forty
Muyil to the marshes
The city had been searched three times at Mulac’s insistence, but still his mother could not be found. One of the girl attendants had seen her slip away. A newcomer reported seeing a hunched old lady, dressed all in black, hurrying towards the forest. The search party had returned without success, its leader dropping to his knees before Mulac, in apology. Everywhere people celebrated the salvation of their city on the streets, but Mulac refused to join his hosts on the main temple pyramid. He sat in semi-darkness, staring at the shapeless form of his sleeping daughter. His son had been presented with a carved wooden sword and was chasing his new-found friends with it, across a small internal courtyard.
The city’s chief priest sat alongside Mulac and listened as he talked of Ah Kin Lo and of his family. They shared a long, thin tobacco pipe, carved in the shape of a minor deity. Mulac talked until there was nothing else to say. It made him feel calmer.
“You know, Mulac, it is hard for anyone to be the last of their generation. Death can be a release, when your body and soul are on different paths. From what you tell me, Ix-Chel will be with your mother. The best of herself in this world she leaves behind in you and your two children. Honour her memory by living the life she would want you to lead.”
Mulac was unconvinced. He was tired of priestly platitudes. He remembered the terror he had felt for Ah kin Lo on his deathbed. What he wanted and needed now was time and space to think. He was also nobody’s hero. He was just a middle-aged man in search of a home.
“Priest, if I play hero to the crowd for a little bit longer, may I ask for a place to live?”
“You may ask for that and a great deal more, Mulac. This city is still here because of you. And, when your exploits reach Coba, your fame will surely grow.”
“That is what I am afraid of. I was hoping you might find me somewhere quiet, away from the city. I am no farmer, but there must be something I can do here?”
The priest smiled broadly. “I don’t think that will be a problem. If I can be honest with you, Mulac, it may also be the best solution for everyone. The nobles here could come to resent both your lowly birth and your popularity. A little physical distance will help to keep everyone happy, although you will almost certainly be summoned to Coba, at some stage.”
“As you know, my wife is buried there, so that is a mission I would welcome.”
“I already have an idea about what you might do here, but I must put my proposal to the right people first. In the meantime, please enjoy our hospitality.” The priest handed the pipe and a small leaf pouch full of tobacco to Mulac, with a slight bow and a pat on the shoulder. “When you are ready, it would be wise for you to show your face to the crowd,” he counselled.
Mulac watched him leave then returned to the pipe and his thoughts, which strayed immediately to his mother. What would he say to his son about his grandmother? He could hear him still playing happily outside. As he listened, the boy’s laughter was steadily drowned by the sound of people chanting Mulac. He examined his newly acquired pipe more closely, preparing himself to placate the crowd. Kan-u-Uayeyab - the god who guarded cities - stared back at him. He offered a short prayer of contrition. As he made for the doorway he realised that this priest had been no less wily than Ah Kin Lo. Everything he had said and done had been carefully planned. Mulac would follow the will of those who understood the world much better than he, as he had always done.
Within seconds, Mulac found himself swept up between the shoulders of two barrel-chested soldiers and carried along the main street towards the central square. From almost every house, people emerged to fortify the throng, and the chanting became so loud it seemed to be coming from inside his still aching head. The pyramid temple came into view, its summit afire in the rays of the early evening sun. Horns sounded and priests called for the attention of their gods. Everywhere, colourful drapes and flags fluttered in the cooling breeze and lines of girls rose and fell in the unity of dance. Once again Mulac was enthroned. The seat was levered backwards up the steep stone steps of the temple, much to his consternation as it jerked erratically from side to side. A tentative, high speed wave to the crowd below nearly turned into a fall, as the chair lurched violently.
Safely at the summit, Mulac stood and paid his respects to the semi-circle of dignitaries around him. Pungent incense swirled from a central burner. A necklace of jaguar claws was placed around his neck, an honour bestowed on only the finest warriors. Walking into full view of those below, facing the fading sun, he raised both arms to the heavens. The crowd stilled. Mulac did not move, savouring the warmth of the rays on his face. He had unfinished business with K’inich. The great cat of light and darkness lingered in the sky, above the distant marshes, casting one last fiery glare before changing form and leaping from beneath the horizon to command the night. Taking his cue from the priest, his words strong and sure, Mulac rotated slowly, chanting a Mayan prayer. He was copied by many of those in the square below.
A naked dwarf covered in green dye and leaves - a forest sprite - was holding out a dark obsidian blade. It caught a light halfway between sun and moon. Mulac raised it for the crowd to cheer then brought it down deliberately across his forearm. Blood spilled from his elbow into a jade drinking vessel. Once full, it was passed around the circle, each noble raising the cup high in prayer, before drawing it down to his lips. Mulac felt the life-force flowing from him, but knew his blood would fortify the city. He grew light-headed. Where once had been a single sun now shone two, hanging low in the sky: the eyes of the crouching jaguar. Their combined light barely found its way through the haze which rapidly enveloped his vision. His body felt heavy and his legs weak, but he fought to stay upright a little longer to prove to K’inich that it was a warrior he was facing. Darkness came upon him, as though the great cat had suddenly snatched away the day. He fell beneath the smothering ebony sheen of it coat, and never felt the grip of the strong arms that reached out to catch him.
Mulac could smell his son’s hair before he opened his e
yes, and knew it was that which had made him dream of his old Tulum home. It was night and he had no idea how long he had been sleeping beside Yochi. His arm was freshly bandaged and his forehead too. There was no sound and no torchlight, suggesting midway between dusk and dawn. He looked around, but nothing gave away his location. A jaguar growled. The sound was unmistakeable and close: the god had taken animal form. It must be inside the city, Mulac reasoned, but how could it be prowling the streets? He turned and put his good arm gently around his son. For his sake, he must not show fear. For a long time he lay alert, anticipating a snarl from much closer quarters, but it was weariness that took him once more. Purring punctuated his sleep. But somehow it felt normal: as though it had always been.
The next time he awoke the low sun of morning was streaming through an unfamiliar doorway. He was alone, but he could hear conversation and calls outside. Mulac found he could stand, then that he could walk. His headache had disappeared. His arm stung a little as he gripped the doorframe, but his main sensation was thirst. As his eyes grew used to the light, he was stunned by the vista of trade and industry set out before him. Pathways of cobbled stone led down to the lake-front. The shoreline disappeared beneath lines of jetties and row after row of watercraft of all shapes and sizes. Either side of each pathway, sacks and crates lay in clearly defined piles. Some were covered in nets and some were the focus of heated discussion between traders. One man was running corn from an open sack between his fingers and nodding sagely. Another was supervising a line of porters, as they cleared a space for an in-coming cargo. Everywhere there were shouts and calls and laughter. Mulac stood transfixed, until he felt his son slip a hand into his. He looked down and smiled. It was a long time since he had felt so happy.
Without a word his son was gone again, weaving his way through the bustle. He disappeared into a grand looking single-storey stone building, fronted by three wide doorways. Mulac took a few steps in the same direction, but was immediately surrounded by grinning faces. Other hands grasped his and a concerned middle-aged woman, who had followed him outside, offered him a long drink of cool water. It lay in a shallow dish, in which floated a single white lily. Mulac studied his reflection. Somehow, he was clean shaven and his face un-painted. His dark hair was freshly cut. Much time must have passed whilst he had been sleeping.