Find the Feathered Serpent (Winston Science Fiction)

by Evan Hunter

  “They are earth gods,” Talu explained. “One is the chief and ruler of all the rest. For each god there is a direction: east, north, west, and south. And for each god there is a color: yellow, red, white and black. In Yucatan there are many forests, and Yumil Kaxob, lords of the forest, are lords of all the country.

  “The earth is good,” Talu continued, “and the earth is ancient. It was here before we came, ever since the beginning. The lords of the forest are old, too, and they are very wise. We are their grandchildren, and they look after us the way grandfathers do. They send the crops. They fill the woods with things to hunt, and they give us their permission to hunt them.

  “They are gentle, and kind, and good. And they ask that we, their grandchildren, pray to them.”

  Talu paused. “They are also the gods of the rain, and the thunder, and the lightning. They send water from the skies to nourish our plants. When they are angry, they send thunderbolts among us to punish us.

  “Each of the gods,” Talu went on, “keeps water in a small calabash. He also carries a bag filled with the winds, and a large drum. When he would make it rain, he sprinkles water from the calabash, and the earth is blessed with rain. When he would send a wind, he opens the bag a little. When he would cause the wind to stop blowing, he forces it into the bag again.”

  “And what of Kukulcan?” Neil asked.

  A puzzled frown crossed Talu’s face. “Kukulcan?” he asked.

  “Is there no god named Kukulcan?”

  “No,” Talu said, shaking his head.

  Neil felt a great disappointment wash through his body. No Kukulcan. A time trip wasted.

  “We are about to pray,” Talu said.

  Neil looked out over the field where the laborers stood at attention, their eyes glued to the sky. Talu touched his hand to his forehead, then lifted his hand to the sky.

  His voice rolled from his throat like a rich peal of thunder.

  “Oh, god,” he intoned, “my mother, my father, Yumil Kaxob, lord forest, be patient with me, for I am about to do as my fathers have ever done.”

  A Maya standing near Talu began to burn copal incense in a large cup. Talu took the cup and held it to the sky.

  “Now I make my offering to you that you may know that I am about to trouble your very soul, but suffer it, I pray you.

  “I am about to dirty you — to destroy your beauty — I am going to work you that I may obtain my daily food. I pray you suffer no animal to attack me nor snake to bite me. Permit not the scorpion or wasp to sting me. Bid the trees that they fall not upon me.

  “And suffer not the spear or knife to cut me, for with all my heart I am about to work you.”

  He touched his forehead again, and the men in the fields did the same. They stood erect for a moment, the silence covering the land like a warm, heavy blanket. And then they began to work, one man walking with a stick and poking holes into the prepared field, the other following behind with seeds which he dropped into the holes.

  “The gods will be good,” Talu said, looking out over the fields, and watching the teams of Mayas walking rapidly along, sowing the land. “And soon you will be able to go home.”

  “Amen,” Neil muttered under his breath.

  They burst into his room that night, Olaf leading three Norsemen and a handful of Mayas.

  Olaf seized Neil by his shirt front and yanked him to his feet. Neil shook his head, trying to ward off the sleep that still lurked behind his eyes.

  There was no light in the room. The moon cast its dim rays through the window, and long shadows danced on the wall.

  “Where is he?” Olaf demanded, his fist tightening in Neil’s shirt.

  “Who?” Neil asked, glancing from face to face, hard, drawn, desperate. Weapons were out, ready to do murder. The cards were on the table, and Olaf was making his play.

  “Erik!” Olaf said. He spit at Neil’s feet. “Our proud captain. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Neil said, looking around the stone chamber.

  “We are sailing,” Olaf boasted, “as soon as we get the food we need.”

  “You can’t. . .” Neil started.

  Olaf’s open hand slashed across his face, and Neil tasted blood in his mouth.

  “But before we leave,” Olaf went on, “there are three people to dispose of: Erik, your friend, and you.”

  Neil lashed out with his fist, reaching for the point of Olaf’s jaw.

  The sword shaft came down with blinding speed, crushing against the base of his skull. He felt the strength drain out of his body, struggled to keep his feet for an instant, and then toppled to the stone, waves of blackness smothering his senses.

  Chapter 12 — Mutiny!

  TICK. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Blackness. I

  Tick. Tick.

  Immense black walls, leaning sideways, about to topple.

  Tick.

  Neil stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He lay like a stone, heavy, solid, incapable of moving a muscle.

  There was a ticking near his left ear. On and on, relentless. Tick, tick, tick, in the blackness.

  He moved his head a little and the ticking grew softer. Tiredly, he dropped his head again. The ticking increased in volume, seeming to be right inside his head now, louder and louder.

  He opened his eyes wide and stared around the chamber. He was lying flat on his stomach, his head resting on his left arm.

  The ticking went on.

  He realized, suddenly, that he had his ear pressed to his wrist watch. He moved his arm and the ticking stopped. In the darkness he looked at the luminous face of his watch. Twenty minutes to one.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around the chamber for Dave and . . .

  Erik!

  A wave of remembrance splashed into his mind. Olaf had been here. He was raiding the storehouse! And he was going to kill Erik!

  Neil jumped to his feet and sprinted for the door. He leaped down the steps, stumbling once, picking himself up, and running onward.

  Where? Where did they go?

  The storehouse! That’s where they’d be.

  He stopped momentarily, his head twisting from side to side in panic as he tried to determine his surroundings.

  To the left. The storehouse was to the left.

  Like a worried ant, Neil spurted off to his left. The streets were deserted. Night hung over Chichen-Itza like an inky cloak. The storehouse loomed ahead on its earthen platform, silhouetted against the moon.

  Neil started up the steps, two at a time, his breath raging in his lungs. At the top of the steps he found the two soldiers sprawled out. One had a dagger jutting out of his chest at a curious angle. The other’s head had been split down the middle.

  Neil’s heart leaped into his throat. Quickly he darted inside the building.

  The place was a mess, baskets strewn all over the floor, meat lying in the dust, fruit rolling under his feet. He stepped on a tomato, squashed it, almost fell.

  They had been there already. Where did they go? Where now?

  The ship! The shore!

  Turning immediately, Neil ran from the room and down the steps again. His footsteps echoed hollowly through the night as his boots clattered against the stones of the city. He ran fast, faster, through the city, in and out of the streets, into the forest.

  His feet padded swiftly on the forest floor, the sounds of the insects around him. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the surf as it swelled against the beach.

  Erik, his mind shouted. They’re going to kill Erik.

  He stopped just inside the forest, and ducked behind a tree. His eyes swept the beach. The time machine glistened in the moonlight, one of the rotors straightened already, the other still twisted. Bobbing gently with the waves was the Norse ship, a graceful curve of blackness against the moon.

  His back to the ship, his hands behind him, sitting in the sand, was Erik.

  Olaf hastily addressed a group of armed Norsemen.

  “To t
he wells! Fill jugs, cups, bags, anything. Bring back water, all the water you can carry. Hurry! I shall stay with our captain.”

  He laughed maliciously and kicked Erik, then strutted before the helpless man. Neil watched from the forest as the Norsemen fled toward the city.

  “We are sailing, my captain,” Olaf said. His ax was drawn and in his right hand. “Do you remember when you said you would hate to leave your second officer buried here?”

  Erik remained silent, and Olaf kicked him viciously.

  “Do you remember, Captain? It was a joke. Everyone laughed. Do you remember?” he shouted.

  “I remember,” Erik said softly, his teeth clenched.

  “It’s still a joke,” Olaf continued, chuckling a little now. “Only the joke is on you. It is the captain who will be buried on alien soil, and not the second officer.”

  Erik stared at Olaf, the hate in his face drawing his lips into a tight line.

  “Laugh, Captain,” Olaf commanded. “It is a joke.”

  Erik continued staring.

  “Laugh,” Olaf shrieked, and his hand came down in a powerful blow that caught Erik on the side of his face.

  “Untie me, you scum!” Erik said. “Then we will see who laughs.”

  Untie! The word ran through Neil’s mind like a blaze of fire. Quickly he picked a large stone from the forest floor. He stepped out from behind the tree and threw the stone with all his might. It arced overhead, clearing the deck of the Norse ship and splashing into the water on the side opposite Erik.

  Olaf’s head snapped back.

  “What was that?” he shouted.

  Neil picked another stone from the leaves at his feet, and waited.

  “Who’s there?” Olaf shouted at the water.

  “A ghost,” Erik taunted. “Are you afraid of a ghost, brave one?”

  Olaf gripped his ax tightly and started to walk cautiously toward the spot from which the splash had come.

  As soon as his back was turned, Neil darted out of the forest. He didn’t look back. On silent feet he ran swiftly across the wet sand. He flopped on his belly at the water’s edge, looking over his shoulder then for the first time.

  Erik had seen him, and a smile covered his bearded face.

  But Olaf was on the other side of the ship, searching for a stone in the Atlantic Ocean.

  Noiselessly, Neil slithered into the water, holding his breath and swimming beneath the surface for a short distance.

  When he came up for air, breaking water silently, Olaf was standing before Erik again.

  “A fish,” he said. “It was nothing but a fish, Captain.” He laughed loudly. “Soon you will be food for the fishes.”

  Neil braced his feet on the bottom, reared back, and let the second stone fly toward the forest. It landed in the top of a tree, began dropping, and, in the stillness of the night, sounded like many men tramping through the woods. It rustled the leaves, cracked against the branches, dropped recklessly, and landed with a sharp crack on the forest floor.

  Olaf turned quickly.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  “Your fish has moved into the forest,” Erik said.

  “Silence,” Olaf commanded sharply. He took a step toward the forest. “Speak up!” he roared. “I am armed.”

  There was no sound from the forest.

  As Olaf stepped closer, Neil ducked under the surface of the water, swimming toward Erik. Reaching the shore, he gripped the bottom with his hands and, still underwater, pulled himself up in the shadow of the Norse ship. He lifted his head. Erik was directly in front of him and Olaf, his back to the water, still walked toward the forest.

  Quickly, without saying a word, Neil moved his fingers over the rope binding Erik’s hands. He found the knot and tugged at it.

  Olaf turned, and Neil ducked his head.

  “Watch, Captain,” he said, more to his unseen foe in the forest than to Erik, “I am about to cut off the head of an eavesdropper.”

  “A fish,” Erik shouted back, as Neil worked on the knots. “A flying fish with his nest in the trees.”

  The rope fell from Erik’s hands, and he moved his wrists behind him as Neil ducked into the water again. Olaf swaggered back and stood before Erik. “It must have been a bird,” he said.

  “And did you not behead it, brave one?” Erik asked.

  Olaf’s face went solemn. “Do not joke, Captain. Right now my men are getting water. The Mayas have gone to gather up your unconscious Neil and his friend.”

  “And then?” Erik asked.

  “Then I will have the pleasure of watching three beheadings.”

  He was standing very close to Erik now. In the water Neil held his breath.

  “Would you behead a bound man?” Erik asked.

  Olaf grinned, and drew back his hand to slap Erik, but as it descended swiftly, a look of sudden surprise crossed his face.

  A strong arm had leaped out and seized his wrist!

  Erik was on his feet, his hand tightly clasped on Olaf’s wrist.

  “Get him!” Neil shouted as he ran onto the beach.

  The ax in Olaf’s other hand drew back. With viciousness Neil had never seen in the Norse captain, Erik turned suddenly and pulled down on Olaf’s wrist. The squat mutineer let out a startled cry and then tumbled head over heels into the sand, thrown over Erik’s shoulder and landing in a tumbled heap.

  Erik was on him in an instant. He drew back his big fist, smashing it into Olaf’s face. Olaf wiggled under the grip of Erik’s legs, squirming to free himself. He rolled over then and reached for the ax lying in the sand.

  Erik brought his fist down like a hammer, the fingers bunched into a solid iron ball. The fist smashed into Olaf’s forearm, and he drew his arm back in pain.

  Erik’s arm lashed out and his fingers gripped the ax handle. Catlike, with one supple movement, he flicked it across the beach and yanked Olaf to his feet.

  Another tremendous fist slashed into Olaf’s face.

  “No,” Olaf shrieked. “It was a joke, Erik. We were only . . .”

  But Erik was no longer joking. His face was dead white against the brilliance of his beard. His blue eyes had taken on the cold tone of steel, and his nostrils dilated as he punished the squat Olaf mercilessly, driving him back toward the water with powerful blows.

  Neil remembered the fight with Dave and the dagger Olaf had pulled. And a second later, it seemed, Olaf remembered too, slipping it from its sheath with startling speed, cold and bare in the fight of the moon.

  As soon as he saw the shining, sharp blade, Erik moved forward. He reached for Olaf with widespread fingers, and there was a cold deliberateness about his move. The dagger slashed downward in a metallic arc. A line of crimson magically appeared along the length of Erik’s arm, but his face remained unchanged.

  He reached for Olaf again, this time clutching the knife-hand and twisting it.

  Olaf screamed as the knife toppled to the sand.

  Erik’s voice came like a rasp on the night air. “Come, Olaf, we will swim,” he said.

  He picked up the shouting Olaf, lifted him over his head and threw him into the water. Olaf landed in the low water, a splash gushing up around him. He stumbled to his feet as Erik staggered into the water, his arm turning a bright red with the blood that covered it.

  Olaf waited, the water up to his knees.

  Suddenly Erik leaped the distance between them. Neil strained his eyes as the water covered both men, the blood on Erik’s arm washing away in a billowing red cloud.

  Like two great sea animals, the figures in the water thrashed wildly. Olaf got to his feet first, clubbing at the water with one hand as he held Erik’s throat with the other.

  Erik’s head bobbed to the surface, followed by a tremendous upheaval of his shoulders. As Erik’s fist shot out again, Olaf staggered backward, hands raised to his face as the blood spurted from his nose. Again Erik’s fist connected.

  Olaf swung back venomously, his fists pumme
ling Erik’s face, but, once again, the blond giant lifted Olaf and slammed him down against the water with backbreaking force. Erik waited while Olaf struggled to his feet, then his powerful hands went to work again, forcing Olaf out, out, far into the deep water.

  Olaf cried out as the bottom dropped from under him. He began to swim, trying to outdistance Erik as the big Norseman’s arms reached out again. This time the powerful fingers tightened around Olaf’s throat. A strangled cry echoed in the darkness. There was a slight splash as Erik thrust Olaf’s head beneath the water.

  Neil watched the two figures in the moonlight.

  The water rose in tormented splashes as Erik’s powerful fingers held their grip on Olaf’s throat. Neil saw Olaf struggle to the surface, saw Erik plunge him under again. Olaf’s fingers clawed at the captain’s back, and his feet lashed out, sending cascades of water into the air.

  Erik held on, squeezing, squeezing.

  Suddenly the thrashing ceased.

  Erik stood like a big bear in the water, his hands below the surface, his head bent, watching the water in front of him, the muscles on his gigantic arms still bulging with the power behind his grip.

  Then he released his hold and lifted his arms from the water, his eyes still watching the spot before him.

  There was no thrashing now, no muted cries. There was only a vast stillness of sky and land and water.

  Slowly, breathlessly, Erik pushed through the water and staggered onto the beach.

  He flopped onto the sand and sucked in huge gulps of air.

  “He is dead,” he said to Neil. “I have killed Olaf.”

  Neil nodded silently.

  Erik had rested for no more than five minutes when the other Norsemen came laughing onto the beach, each of them carrying water.

  Erik got to his feet, picked up Olaf’s fallen ax and stood before them like a king.

  “Olaf is dead,” he said, his voice booming over the sound of the surf. “I killed him with these hands, and I shall kill any other man who disobeys my orders.”

  The Norsemen hesitated, wondering what course of action to take.

  “Return the water to the wells, and the food to the storehouse,” Erik said.