Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  Her pack couldn’t weigh more than fifteen pounds, but it seemed to double and triple in weight as the afternoon wore on and the humid heat grew oppressive. Mercy had chosen her divided muslin skirt and blouse as the most practical garments, and the change she carried was the poplin divided skirt and another thin blouse. The skirts were long, somewhat full, and terribly in the way, catching on roots, vines, and taking on the hue of mud.

  Tripping as a hem caught on a fallen log, Mercy reached for her knife and was going to hack off the encumbering material at the knee when she remembered that the cloth was some protection from chiggers, mosquitoes, and scratches. She compromised, ripping and cutting away the bottom five or six inches. Relieved of several yards of cloth, which she buried in a hollow tree trunk and felt much freer without, Mercy promised herself a rest and food at the next sight of water.

  This was a spring slowed to a trickle by the dry season, but sweet to the taste. She made a hollow to accumulate enough to soak her weary feet, mixed water into the sour cornmeal in her hollow gourd cup, and savored the pungent gruel, rather liking the taste, though she smiled to imagine what Pierre would have said.

  The sun was slanting low to the west. She reckoned she’d been walking for most of the past eleven hours and was thoroughly tired. Should she stay all the night near this water?

  In the short time she had been resting, all kinds of rustling sounds had seemed to multiply. She heard a scuffling above and a crashing sound as something struck the ground a short distance ahead. A scream pushed to her lips, but she swallowed it as she recognized the monster shape as an iguana, which lay stunned for a moment before it raised its thick, dragon-like body and darted into the brush. It must have been after birds or birds’ eggs and ventured onto a limb too thin for its weight.

  Iguanas were harmless and reputed to have excellent chicken-like meat, but the startling materialization of a four-foot-long lizard convinced Mercy that she’d be stupid to stop any sooner than she had to and be devoured by taut nerves and imagining. There were enough real dangers without fantasizing any. So she rubbed in more salve, changed sandals in the hope that differently angled straps would discourage blisters, and started out again.

  The sun dipped lower and lower. She was beginning to think she should have filled the waterskin, because she was going to have to stop soon before real darkness, when she heard the sound of water and found a stream welling from the roots of a huge cedar.

  She drank gratefully, then secured her hammock out of sight of the trail and far enough from water so that, she hoped, any creatures that wanted to drink would be neither frightened nor tempted by her.

  Jaguars weren’t supposed to attack people, but if one got curious and came sniffing around, she’d probably screech and scare it into jumping on her. And spider monkeys could be unpleasant if threatened. She refused to even think about snakes.

  Her clothes were sodden with sweat and she felt muddy, as if the dust of travel was glued to her. Undressing, she hung her things to air out over a limb, stood in the stream, and washed all over. She had no towel so she dried by the air, rubbed on some of the resin Chepa recommended to keep off mosquitoes and chiggers, anointed her feet, relieved that she had no blisters or open sores, and decided to sleep in her clean clothes.

  In the twilight that thickened swiftly in the forest, she sat in her hammock and slowly chewed spiced dry meat and sipped sour corn gruel. It was highly concentrated food and very satisfying. Spreading her soiled clothes over her pack at the end of the hammock, Mercy covered herself with the light poncho and seemed to fall asleep.

  She awoke to stealthy padding and lay frozen as something touched the lowest-hanging part of the hammock, then nudged her hip. Opening her eyes slowly, she could see nothing in the darkness. The nudging came again, reminding her of a rooting pig’s snout.

  A wild pig? Peccaries could be dangerous if cornered, but if that was what was inspecting her, she could treat it as she would a barnyard pig at home.

  “Scat!” she hissed.

  The animal fled, taking with it a flurry of other boundings and slitherings. Mercy tried to sleep, but her nerves responded to every rustle. A long trill came from above her, swelling till it seemed to fill the night, then stopped abruptly. Only then did she realize it was a screech owl. She would have given her change of clothes and half her food for Flora’s protection—and company.

  What time was it? Would it never be day? Her muscles ached, but she longed for it to grow light enough to travel again. She thought of Elkanah, how he used to stay by her bed when she was afraid at night or had a bad dream. “We’re all afraid of the dark,” he’d said, not making fun of or shaming her. “But it can be a warm, friendly place, too. All depends on what you feel about it.”

  So she thought of Zane, remembered their nights, and tried to imagine the ones they would have—if she got home, if he came back safe from the war, if he still loved her. She forced those fears away and pretended the curve of the hammock was his arm, that his other hand was stroking her.

  When she heard muffled sounds by the spring, she told herself it was only shy, small brocket deer. Gradually she slipped into a sleep that lasted till dawn.

  She didn’t know how many miles she had come and didn’t remember the frequency of water on the route between the House of Quetzals and Bacalar, so she drank deeply and filled the water bag half-full before starting out, rubbed her feet well with ointment, and dressed in her dirty clothes.

  Eating dried meat as she walked along, she told herself it was a good thing she had a few days to get used to the woods before she came to the Cruzob trail, where wild things would take second place in her anxieties.

  Eric might return this evening or the next day, but surely even he wouldn’t insist on exhuming a pestilent corpse, and who’d believe a lone woman, a foreigner, would start out through Cruzob territory?

  No, he’d believe her dead; there was no one to blame. And if it meant she couldn’t go to Mérida for fear of meeting his Aunt Elena or someone else who knew him, that was a trifle. She must run no risks of his learning that Celeste and others of the estate had helped her get away.

  Zane, of course, might want to kill him, but she hoped to dissuade him from that. They’d been separated long enough; there’d been too many dangers. If they were ever reunited, it would be a long time before she’d feel comfortable about his riding to the fields without her. But he’d laugh and kiss her, tell her not to be silly. Only sometimes he’d not leave right away.…

  She let her thoughts settle on him and a pulse within her quickened to dream of how it would be. One day was gone—one-tenth of the journey if made by horse, she thought, remembering the trip to the House of Quetzals those months ago. And by foot? Was she one-twelfth of the way home, perhaps? Whatever, today brought the goal closer, and the woods didn’t seem as alarming as they had yesterday, when Pablo dropped the vine curtain and she’d been suddenly by herself.

  It was a time of flowering. Besides the many vines, there were copal trees with pyramids of flame-red flowers, wild cotton trees with big poppy-like yellow blooms, rosewood thrusting its pink blossoms high into the air, and many others she couldn’t name.

  About mid-morning she found a spring, washed her feet, drank, and filled her water bag with fresh water. A few hours later, hungry and tired, she found a rock hollow that held a fair amount of water accumulated from a drip in a crevice. She washed her drawers and skirt, spread them on a limb that caught the sun while she bathed, mixed corn gruel from the drip, and, clad in clean underwear from her pack, ate and rested. Her washed garments were still wet when it was time to go on, so she rigged a sort of holder from vines and fastened this to the top of the pack so she could walk while the laundry dried. She wanted to save her clean skirt for arriving at La Quinta, and she decided that for now her drawers and chemise were adequate, as well as much cooler.

  Late that afternoon, the narrow trail joined one that ran north and south, and which showed mule tracks. She knew
she must have now passed Bacalar, and that this was the Cruzob trade route she sought. Mercy’s heart turned over and then beat faster. Though her skirt was still slightly damp, she put it on, then pulled her knife from the sheath to be sure it moved easily. There was nothing else she could do to prepare for the Cruzob, so she turned left and kept herself alert.

  Please let there be no Cruzob traveling down to the Hondo or returning. Please let her maneuver past Chan Santa Cruz without detection. It was probably fifty miles to the city of the Talking Cross, and Mercy figured that the next seventy-five miles were the most dangerous, because surely the farther north she got from the city, the less likely she was to encounter scattered Cruzob villages and patrols.

  With any luck, five or six more days should get her through the worst part. She was no outdoorsman, but she could move quietly through the woods, and it seemed certain that she’d hear any groups of people before they could hear her. This should give her time to hide off the road. Since it was for trading that the Cruzob went south, they weren’t likely to travel alone.

  She was beginning to convince herself of all this when she heard voices. Slipping into the trees, dodging vines, and dropping to a crouch, Mercy scurried behind a thick mass of morning glories and bushes and lay close to the ground as the men came nearer. She couldn’t see through the growth and prayed that they couldn’t, either.

  There were at least three voices. Their owners must have been barefoot because she could detect only a faint padding. For some time after the men had passed, Mercy lay with her heart thudding like a scared rabbit’s straining her ears.

  At last, when she heard and saw nothing, she got cautiously to her knees and worked her way to where she could see the trail. Empty. And she couldn’t skulk in the brush all day.

  But what if they came back?

  She’d hear them, wouldn’t she? Forcing her unwilling legs to carry her back to the road, Mercy walked nervously along, glancing over her shoulder every time she thought she heard anything, which was often, and wished she knew better the calls of birds so she could be sure that was really what they were.

  One stretch of high grass rippled. Frozen, she stood as if rooted to the trail, then gasped with relief at the curassow’s distinctive curly black crest and yellow knob above the bill. Later on there was a crashing through the trees and she saw a large, thin monkey flash through the limbs and vines, eerily, like a small, hairy man with a tail. Mostly, though, the jungle was quiet, though she had a sensation of secret teeming life.

  Twilight was settling in. It was time to look for a camping place. Hoping for water, she went on for a while, but she found none. She knew she’d better find a hidden spot for her hammock while she could still see. She could stretch her water through tomorrow, but if she hadn’t found any by noon, she might have to follow a stream bed to hunt for a spring or natural cistern.

  Constantly turning to fix in her mind the major trees she was passing, Mercy got well out of sight of the trail, found two suitable limbs, and slung her hammock. Perched in it, she chewed meat and corn dough, preferring to drink her water plain till she found it brackish from the skin and mixed in enough corn to flavor it: She rubbed salve into her feet and on some scratches on her arm, then brushed her hair and braided it. Since she couldn’t wash, she wouldn’t change to her clean skirt. Stowing her pack at one end of the hammock, she pulled the poncho over her head and dropped out of consciousness, as if leaping from a bridge.

  If peccaries rooted around her that night, or monkeys chattered questions, or jaguars sniffed, or snakes glided past, she didn’t even dream of it, but slept till light pressed insistently against her eyelids.

  Yawning, stretching, the feel of the hammock oriented her at once. She gazed cautiously around, listening. When nothing seemed unusual, she mixed gruel, broke camp by the simple action of putting her hammock into her pack, fastened on her sandals, and made her way back to the path.

  She must be vigilant, ready to run for cover at any moment, and she must watch for water. Either she was getting used to the woods and more confident of surviving, or fear of the Cruzob left her little worry about natural perils, for she began to see thick brush and trees as her refuge now, the trail a focus of danger that she had to follow.

  Not as stiff as yesterday, she felt comparatively free of aches after an hour’s travel. Her feet were toughening, too, and she had been tremendously fortunate not to get blisters, for which she credited the ointment and switching sandals.

  A brocket deer, dainty and rust colored, sprang across the path. Mercy hoped if something pursued it that the sight and smell of a human would frighten off the hunter. In the sky she saw black vultures circling and caught the sweet-sickish smell of carrion: leavings, probably from some predator’s night kill. Mercy shivered and quickened her steps.

  when would she find water? There’d been several dry watercourses, one boggy stretch, and a hollowed rock with mineral rims, showing that it held water some of the time. She’d thought herself lucky to travel before the rains began, but if water became a problem and searches for it added to her journey, she’d rather have waded through mud and been soaked so long as she could drink.

  The dried, salty meat made her thirsty, so she left it in her pack at noon and sipped gruel, treating herself also to some honey. There were only a few cups’ worth of water left in the bag. At the next promising place, she’d better leave the trail and hunt for the liquid, which, like air, was so necessary to life that it was taken for granted till there was none.

  It was strange how fears changed and shifted. At first she’d dreaded the jungle, then Cruzob, and now the lack of water. But she’d never wished herself back in Eric’s power, and she didn’t think she would even if she perished miserably. She’d rather take her chances with the soldiers of the Talking Cross, though, than die from lack of water. With them there was a chance of living, of getting back to Zane.

  She sipped carefully and walked on till she came to a wide slough. It might just go on like this, slimy mire, but there could also be a pure source of water. She had to see.

  Leaving the track, she found herself sinking into mud concealed by myriad orchids and other plants. She retreated to firmer ground but kept the mire in sight. Before long she saw a few inches of mucky fluid, but she could have used it only as a last resort, for it looked stagnant and vile enough to precipitate the black vomit, malaria, typhus, and all the other jungle plagues.

  Sometimes sinking into ooze above her ankles, she brushed aside mosquitoes that swarmed from stale puddles and pushed through entangling, claw-like branches. Dear God, wasn’t there a rock with a comparatively clean supply of water, a source to feed this morass? Or was it from some underground seepage?

  A snake slithered past her like a liquid dagger. She barely choked back a scream. How far should she go on? She must be over a mile from the road. There was no certainty that this bog would lead to good water if she followed it for another day. Water might be up the path, clean, clear, easily reachable, just a bit farther on.

  That was the maddening part—not to know. She could turn back from this quest, with water only a little way ahead, or she could waste the rest of the day and be caught by darkness with only a cup of water. A wrong choice could mean death. And she didn’t know. She didn’t know.

  Panic rose in her. She took a deep breath, then fought it down. She still had some water left. A person could live several days without any. At the worst, she might drag herself as far as Chan Santa Cruz, where there’d be water if they spared her life. She’d go on for about fifteen minutes. Then, unless prospects improved, she’d go back to the trail.

  She started on. In a few minutes, as if to reward her decision, she was staring down at a long, narrow pond fed by a lazy seepage from what seemed to be a cave or grotto almost hidden by massive cypress roots. It would take time, but she could fill the bag there and wash herself, though she’d get muddy again on her way back to the trail.

  Moving around the bank, Mercy took
off her sandals, put them beside her pack, and waded toward, the rock with her gourd and bag. A log detached itself from the mud of the bank, and another, and another—logs with eyes, with long, slit mouths, logs that swam toward her.

  Crocodiles!

  Mercy was trapped between them and the grotto. There was no place to scramble up. They were on all sides, a dozen, twenty.… They must have been basking at the banks and edge of the water, so indistinguishable from the mud that only motion could make them take form.

  Frantically, she tried to remember what she’d heard about them. They would snap at anything that came their way; they were attracted by motion. She told herself that they were curious rather then hungry or hostile, but if one gave her a questioning nip and her blood flowed … she went ice cold with the terror of what would happen next.

  One immense creature was close to her now. Mercy stared at it, believing her end had come. She had only her gourd and water bag, and no weapons except her knife. But one of these might divert them for a minute, give her a whisper of a chance.

  She swung the bag back and forth, then tossed it toward the middle of the pond. The nearest crocodile snapped at it, others dived in, and the big monster closest to her churned about. She threw the gourd to encourage it and then splashed for the shore, floundering in water up to her waist, then trapped in mud.

  She knew the awful things could move on land. She heard a thrashing behind her. Jerking her knife free, she turned, determined to at least fight the horror before its teeth did what they must. She would give it a slash to the throat or belly if she could thrust that far while she still had an arm.…

  There was a crashing sound. The animal convulsed. A man with a rifle fired again. Mercy clambered up the bank, her garments heavy with mud, as another shot resounded. By then the crocodiles were devouring the dead or wounded ones.