The Jaguar Trials

by Ruth Eastham

  Several of them greeted Professor Erskine as if he was a long-lost friend. He shook hands, smiling, exchanging words in the local language. Children were nudged forward so he could pat them on the head.

  Only one person kept his distance, Ben noticed: an older man, with a headdress of yellow and black feathers. He stood by himself, by a large hut in the centre of the clearing, eyeing them suspiciously – staring particularly hard at Ben. It gave him the creeps.

  “That’s the chief,” the professor said, heading for the man. “I need to speak to him.”

  “I remember you.” A girl appeared, hair tumbling to her shoulders, a band of red painted across her forehead and swirling black lines on one cheek. It was the same girl Ben had spoken to from the boat. “I heard about the accident,” she said earnestly, her face clouding with concern. “And that your father is missing.”

  Ben nodded.

  “Word spreads fast,” the girl added. “The sky was strange afterwards – from the smoke, I think. Some of my people went downriver to look, and they found wreckage. And the captain’s body.”

  So it had been his dad he’d seen jump from the boat! Ben suddenly felt guilty for feeling so glad. The captain had been nasty … but had he deserved to die? It seemed Dad had escaped into the water. And so what had happened next? Had he somehow been taken to El Dorado?

  For a moment the girl looked right into his eyes, and Ben felt himself blush. Then she gazed at the marks on his arm. “Many are suspicious of you.” She looked at him, all serious. “They do not believe, or they are afraid. They are calling you Jaguar Boy.” She erupted into giggles.

  Ben grinned back. “How come you speak such good English?”

  “Oil prospectors are always coming to our village,” she told him. “Most of them Americans. I learn quickly!” She half-turned. “So, how is he?” She gesticulated emphatically. “My grandfather! I have not seen him for so many days! They tell me you went to see him.”

  Ben stared at her. “The shaman is your granddad? You’re Yara?”

  “You’ll know all about the legend, then, Yara,” Rafael interrupted, rushing to get his notebook open and his pen poised. “First: what are these unquiet spirits all about? If Ben’s going to free them, he needs to have a bit more info about what he’s dealing with.”

  “Don’t you know?” asked Yara.

  “Those who suffered.” Ben repeated the shaman’s words carefully. “Those who made suffer. Dead because of greed for gold.”

  “They are the spirits of our people, and the spirits of the people who came to do them harm,” explained Yara. “They are forest people – our ancestors and those from other tribes. Soldiers, too. Very bad things happened in the past in the Amazon; to explorers as well. Thousands died over the years – tens of thousands. Now all their spirits haunt the jungle, yearning to be at peace.”

  “Conquistadors as well, I expect?” asked Rafael meekly.

  Ben felt goosebumps on his skin. This was heavy. “But why is all this jaguar stuff happening now?” he asked. “After all these centuries?”

  Yara shrugged. “I do not know. So much forest has been destroyed in these years; perhaps the jungle is no longer a sanctuary. But my grandfather told me he feels the spirits gathering close by, coming together from far places.”

  “But what are they gathering for?” asked Rafael, scribbling notes.

  “That’s why Grandfather went to the sacred tree,” said Yara. “To try to understand.”

  “OK, that’s the unquiet spirits dealt with,” said Rafael, turning to a new page of his notebook. “Secondly: what about the trials Ben has to do, Yara?” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “What exactly are the death trials?”

  “You wanted to know about unquiet spirits!”

  There was a hissing voice from beside Ben and he felt someone jabbing his arm. The chief was standing there, scowling in his white feather headdress. He said something angrily to Yara in the local language and she looked down at her feet, her face flushing. She lifted her head and answered back – only to get another, even sharper-sounding rebuke.

  Others were listening in now as well, and the mood was spreading. There was tutting, shaking of heads; people were staring at Ben so that he felt like a freak, and he hastily pulled down his sleeve to cover the jaguar marks.

  Erskine strode past the children giving them an apologetic look. He shouted something at Luis, who slowly began tightening the straps on the rucksacks as if getting ready to leave; then the two men stood together in quiet, intense conversation.

  The chief faced Ben, speaking to him in deep, stern tones which Yara translated rapidly.

  “I do not agree with the shaman or Professor Erskine. This boy is not even one of us! He does not speak our language – how can he be the One? The search for El Dorado has only ever brought misery and pain! The unquiet spirits must not be tampered with! Come with me and you will see.” The Chief pulled at them as Yara told Ben and Rafael what he was saying. “Put an end to this idea! It will all come to no good.”

  Yara seemed to be trying to convince the chief. Her arms moved in an imploring way – but the elder’s arms were folded firmly across his chest. He jostled the children forward.

  “The chief doesn’t believe what your grandfather said?” Ben couldn’t understand it. “But what about the prophecy? I don’t even want to be the One!” he protested. “Just find my dad. But if we don’t find El Dorado…”

  “Our chief believes my grandfather, but I think he is afraid,” whispered Yara as they were herded on to a track at the edge of the clearing. “Scared for my people.”

  “Forward!” the chief shouted harshly from behind. Yara translated the barrage of words shooting from the man’s mouth. “Nobody in our village has ever seen El Dorado. Nobody knows if it even exists! There are centuries of harm trapped inside the unquiet spirits. The caves will convince you!”

  “Why caves?” asked Rafael, breathing hard. He wiped his glasses vigorously with his sleeve. “I don’t do caves.”

  “It is where our ancestors are,” Yara told him cryptically as they followed the twisting track, the chief at their heels.

  Ben felt Rafael edge closer to him as they were forced on.

  “The chief elder forbids me to help you,” Yara said from Ben’s shoulder.

  Ben stopped and stared at her – provoking a torrent of stern words from the chief.

  Yara was frowning, but there was a defiant shine in her eyes. “Luciky I do only what my grandfather tells me,” she said quietly, giving a small smile as they were marched on.

  Ben touched his arm where the jaguar had cut him. It was good, feeling Yara at his side.

  The trail ended abruptly and before them was the entrance to a cave: pale silver rock overhung with ferns and trailing vines. “Go deep into the cave!” ordered the chief. “See the death the search for El Dorado has brought!”

  Slowly Ben walked forward, Yara and Rafael close by. They were in a passageway, and further along they could see a clay lamp burning on a rock ledge. Shadows wobbled over the stone walls as the passageway widened into a broad, high chamber, lit by more lamps.

  “Is this really necessary?” Ben heard Erskine’s voice carry to them from outside. “The shaman must be obeyed.” Then the chief’s angry voice, and a heated discussion began.

  Slowly Ben moved about the chamber, letting his eyes adjust to the lamplit gloom. Then … his breathing started to speed up as he realized what he was seeing. He felt Rafael’s hands grip his arm.

  Skulls. Rows and rows of them. Each in its own alcove hewn out of the rock wall. He stared at the skulls in trepidation, their ivory-like smoothness, the empty eye sockets. The piles of bones laid alongside.

  The further into the chamber he went, the darker and more pitted the remains became.

  “What is this place?” Ben’s voice echoed strangely as he spoke, as if someone else were there too.

  “Our ancestors have been buried here for hundreds of years,” whispered Y
ara. “Right back to the conquistador invasions, and the ruthless search for gold.”

  Ben drew to a halt. As he gazed at the lines of skulls stretching back in time, he suddenly felt a powerful connection with his own ancestors, all those who’d gone before to make him who he was.

  The moment passed, but the experience had shaken him. Might the chief be right? he thought. Was he really messing with forces that could harm others?

  Some alcoves were strung across with feathers, some with fangs. Some had what looked like monkey skulls in them, all grimacing teeth, shockingly human-like.

  Ben saw Rafael eyeballing a particularly grotesque face. “The chief really wants to make sure we get the message!” Rafael gulped.

  “What are these for?” Ben pointed out the clay figures placed among the bones. They were like the ones he’d seen in the shaman’s tree, a mixture of human and animal.

  “Animals are very important in my culture,” Yara said. “We believe that you can become an animal, take on its skills and attributes.”

  Ben was reminded of what the professor had said about the shaman. What was it again? A bridge between the human and spirit worlds. “That’s why your grandfather was dressed like a bat,” he said. “To become like the animal and be able to communicate with the underworld and…” He stopped, his heart beating fast. He still hadn’t asked Yara! How could I have forgotten?

  “Yara,” Ben began excitedly, “your grandfather said you’d know where to find the bat’s wing.”

  She turned sharply to him. “Is that what my grandfather said? Did he really tell you that?”

  Ben nodded. “He said it would be the door to the trials.”

  Immediately Yara’s eyes lit up. She glanced back towards the cave entrance where the professor could still be heard arguing with the chief. She snatched a burning lamp from its hollow in the wall, then tugged on Ben’s hand. “Come. Before we are seen!”

  “But where are we going?”

  “I know these caves,” she said breathlessly, pulling him forward. “Hurry, Rafael! I have been in here many times to collect ingredients for my grandfather’s medicines.” She led him and Rafael through one rock chamber and into another.

  “But the chief elder!” cried Rafael. “You’ll get into very big trouble!”

  But Yara just urged them forward more quickly, deeper and deeper into the dark labyrinth of tunnels.

  On Yara led them, deeper into the twisting maze of caves. Ben felt the humid, hot air of the forest turn a clammy cold as they hurried along the downward-sloping passageways. The lamp lit one sharp turn after another, and at each bend the path branched. Ben was already lost – but Yara seemed certain of where she was going, never hesitating as she chose which direction to take.

  The air got even colder and Ben noticed the flame of the lamp shrink as it started to burn itself out. He didn’t fancy their being plunged into total darkness in this place. And how were they going to get back with no light? He just had to trust that Yara knew what she was doing.

  “The trials, Yara,” Ben called as they continued on. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word “death”. “I think it’s time I knew what I’ve let myself in for.”

  “Yes,” exclaimed Rafael nervously. “What comes after the Trial of the Drowned Ghosts?”

  “The others we do have names for,” Yara replied. She took a right into another tunnel of rock. “But they are difficult to translate. Next is…” – she hesitated – “the Trial of the Hanging Shroud.”

  “And then?” asked Rafael.

  “The Sapphire Streak … the Howling Heights … and the Trial of the Guardians of the Dead.”

  “Guardians of the Dead?” Rafael repeated, and Ben saw him stumble a little on the rocky ground. “And what will Ben have to do?”

  “Nobody knows.” Yara raised the lamp to check a junction in the path, then moved hastily on. “Our legend does not tell us what the trials are, only that one must be completed to find the way to the next.”

  “And to find El Dorado,” whispered Rafael.

  “Yes.” Yara paused to feel the rock surface before taking a right fork. “And once in the City there will be one final trial – but that will be revealed only face to face with the golden king himself.”

  “The golden king?” Rafael took a tumble and Ben had to shoot out an arm to steady him.

  “Yes,” said Yara. “But that’s all I know. The story doesn’t tell any more.”

  “Wish I had a bit more to go on,” said Ben, his voice sounding faint in the echoey chamber.

  The tunnel tapered, channelling them into a line – Yara first, then Rafael, with Ben at the back. They arrived at a wall of rock and a narrow gap, and Yara stopped so suddenly that they got bunched up, one behind the other.

  “What now?” panted Rafael, his trembly voice amplified in the small space.

  “I have only been once this deep into the caves,” Yara whispered. “And only then with my grandfather. It is forbidden for my people to venture further without the shaman.” She slipped through the narrow chasm.

  Ben waited while Rafael squeezed through, then followed. They just had to hope the chief never found out about this.

  The roof got lower, forcing them to duck their heads to move forward. Then they were crouching, Yara’s lamp making shadows flicker all around them; then shuffling through on their knees. Ben saw Yara go down on to her stomach with the dying flame held out in front, and she disappeared through a tight opening in the rock. Rafael mumbled away in Portuguese as he went next. Ben wriggled along the smooth, cold surface, following the soles of Rafael’s boots. His hands shook; he felt the heavy press of rock as it enclosed him.

  “Here!” Ben saw Yara standing smiling in the pool of faint lamplight as he scrambled to his feet, but beyond her it was too dark to make out anything out. He heard Rafael cough and saw the glint of his glasses. Yara darted away, and the space was bathed in a soft glow as she used her flame to light other lamps placed in alcoves along the walls.

  The place Ben had stepped into revealed itself, opening up in front of him like the vault of a church. He looked around and let out a laughing gasp, nudging Rafael in the ribs with his elbow until he smiled too.

  Awesome! Ben tilted back his head. The soaring roof was covered in stalactite spikes. Water dripped from their tips to form round-topped stalagmites, and in places the rock had joined up to form bony columns, spangled with beads of light from glow-worms. At the far end a high waterfall poured smoothly through the chamber, the cascade disappearing into a sinkhole with hardly a sound.

  Yara’s lamp died with a stream of smoke, and she placed it on the floor. She pointed up the sheer rock face of the falls, and Ben saw an alcove holding a dark green plant, with strangely shaped leaves hanging from it.

  “Bat’s wing fern,” Yara said excitedly. “It is the only place Grandfather and I have ever found it. But we could never reach it. The cave-wall cliff is much too dangerous to climb.”

  Ben looked at the rock face, and his heart pounded as a thought formed in his mind. He stared at the falls’ white lattice of water. It reminded him of the net curtain they had in the front room back at home.

  “The Trial of the Hanging Shroud,” he said. Little needles pricked at his stomach.

  “The waterfall – that’s what’s meant by the shroud, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” cried Rafael. “It must be!” Then he gripped Ben’s arm as he saw his friend step towards the cliff. “No! You can’t climb up there! It’s certain suicide!”

  “I have to,” Ben said simply. The words of the shaman whispered through his head and he felt their power: Find El Dorado and find your father.

  He went to the side of the falls and tested the rock with his fingertips. The surface was slimy, and there were patches where water oozed from the rock and trickled down. “I need to get to the bat’s wing fern. The shaman said it was the door to the trials.”

  Yara nodded with a frown. “If that’s what my grandfather told y
ou.”

  “But without ropes or anything?” said Rafael, pacing about. “What if you fall? You’re bound to fall! You’ll be totally dead, Ben, for sure – it’s a twenty-metre drop, at least! Your skull will get bashed on the rocks and your brains will splatter everywhere.”

  Yara had levered herself up the first section and reached out for the next handhold, but Ben called her down. “Thanks, Yara, but I’m the one who has to climb,” he said. “You know that.”

  With a sigh Yara slithered to the ground. “But how can we help you?” she asked, biting her lip.

  “Stand back and look at the rock,” said Ben. His stomach churned as he thought about what he was about to do. “Tell me if you see any good handholds above me. Or anything dodgy.” Mouth dry, he peered at the slick grey stone, illuminated by lamps. There were clefts up the cliff surface where he should be able to get a grip, that was true, but the flickering flames made it look as if the rock was moving, and also the surface was covered in patches of deep shadow where it was impossible to see what was going on.

  “The torch, Ben!” cried Rafael suddenly. “You have one from the canoe, remember?”

  “’Course!” Ben felt around in his trouser pocket, and pulled out the head torch Rafael had given him. “Nice one, Raffie! Here, you take it. Right, shine it where it’s needed. No, not right in my eyes! OK. That’s it.”

  Rafael’s chest stuck out proudly as he trained the beam. Then his voice was all worried again: “Please don’t die, Ben!”

  Ben took a long breath. He tried to psych himself up for what he had to do. He knew the danger; Rafael had put it pretty vividly, and if he thought about all that brain-pulping stuff too much he knew he’d never leave the ground. If this was his next trial, then he had to face it; just get stuck in.

  Ben wedged the fingers of one hand experimentally into a small cleft. He found a small bump of rock near the base of the cliff and took a first step up.

  Five or six metres into the climb Ben was panting, but he felt he was getting into his stride. He pushed his boots into toeholds, and continually adjusted his position to gain better balance. Spray from the waterfall gathered on his skin and his clothes, thousands of tiny spheres, slowly soaking into the fabric. Yara shouted up helpful instructions and the light from the head torch enabled him to pick out where to put his hands. His legs bent and straightened in a kind of rhythm, pushing him higher.