The Jaguar (28 page)

The rainforest pressed in to left and right. Sections of wall and piles of stone betrayed the presence of ruins. Soon they reached a clearing, bathed by the midday sun. It was surrounded by a cluster of single-storey stone structures, in various states of disrepair. Beyond them a tall pyramid, busy with towers and ramparts, rose steeply skyward. People descended carefully from the minibus, daysacks slung over shoulders, blinking in the intense sunlight and looking curiously about. Three porters emerged from one of the buildings to greet them, and were soon busy pulling bags from the back of the van and tying them together with rope. Laura occupied herself helping others adjust various items of kit, and apply repellent and sunscreen. Some held up their water bottles with mock seriousness as she approached. She did not need to ask.

Marcus gathered everyone in the shade of a giant Ceiba tree, its tall buttress roots curving around the group like an open embrace. They would spend an hour here exploring the remains of the city then walk through the jungle to the campsite. He counselled against going too far, or going alone. The structures were insecure and could be wet and slippery with moss. He would check the path up the pyramid. If necessary, he could set a rope to provide a handrail, but it should be O.K. to climb. Several people followed him in that direction.

Laura hung back with David, Ethan and Felicity. David was struggling with his new walking boots, whilst Ethan appeared content taking photos of the scene. Laura sat down on a large tree-stump, next to Felicity.

“Feeling better?”

“Definitely: it was good to get that particular jungle experience out of the way.”

“Do you want to explore?”

“I suppose we should now we're here. Do you think there are snakes?” Felicity looked around nervously.

“Probably, but I'm told they usually disappear long before people get close.”

“I'd love to see a snake or two,” Ethan added, unhelpfully. “Now smile please, you two.”

Laura and Felicity hugged and smiled dutifully. Laura felt the sweat generated of high humidity breaking through her jungle shirt as their bodies connected.

“Ready, David?” she chirped, as soon as she and Flick had disengaged, hoping that David had been sufficiently distracted by his footwear to miss the mention of snakes.

“Yes, I think so.” He fumbled to secure the laces to the cleats at the top of one boot, stood up and marched around the clearing experimentally. “Let's go.”

The foursome poked their way through a few of the musty buildings. None looked particularly inviting and it was difficult to ascertain what they might have been used for. The main trail continued, deeper into the complex and they followed, scattering insects in all directions. Marcus, John and Darryl were climbing cautiously towards the circular tower on the summit of the main pyramid. Ethan hailed the lofty adventurers and took a few more shots. A long cut log in a shady corner seemed to function as a seat. All four sat along it and dove into their packed lunches. David chomped his way through his first cheese and ham sandwich then marched around the others, stopping periodically to adjust his socks and boots.

“They told me in the shop that they wouldn't need breaking in,” he complained, “but it was all such a rush I'm still not sure they actually fit.”

“They're bound to feel a little awkward at first,” Laura reassured him. “It's probably partly the heat.”

David looked unconvinced and clambered cautiously onto a particularly large boulder, sat between two trees.

“What an ugly looking chap,” cried Felicity.

David was about to take offence then realised she was pointing at the rock-face between his feet. He jumped down and traced his fingers over the carefully carved grooves in the stone, but couldn't make out what she had seen.

“Stand back a bit” Ethan instructed. “Let me take a picture.”

As soon as David stepped backwards, the image of the warrior emerged. Head in profile, he stood beneath a broad crown of feathers. Spreading rays rose beyond it, in imitation of the sun. His nose was full and slightly hooked; his eyes deep and painted. From a bulbous ear dangled an enormous pendant and a chain looped across his chest. The figure seemed to be smiling at something unseen, an image reinforced by the upturned curve of his heavily painted cheek.

“I know who that is,” David exclaimed.

The others looked no more than mildly curious.

“His name is Mulan Hatupek, or something like that. Do you remember? I was speaking about him to the children on the bus? I must find them. He was the one who led the defence of this place against the Spanish. The guy in the souvenir shop told me all about him. He said that his image was here.”

David strode off to find Hannah and Lloyd, now totally unaware of his troublesome boots. The others lost interest and returned to their grazing. When the conversation flagged, Laura took a closer look at the scene about her. She twisted around to examine a long avenue cut into the jungle. At the far end, two figures were hurrying across the open space, one clutching a hold-all. She turned again and gulped a few mouthfuls from her water bottle. Marcus and the others were eating their sandwiches too, and Laura began to wonder who she had seen. They hadn't looked like the porters who were, in any event, well ahead by now. As far as she knew, Cesar was back at the van, and there weren't supposed to be other tourists around. A call from the circular tower distracted her ruminations. She looked up to see Hannah and Lloyd waving joyfully from the summit. David stood at its base, hands on hips in obvious frustration: he would have to wait to impart his discovery.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Muyil

“Tourists!” Alfredo spat in frustration as David's party arrived in the van, a short while earlier.

Luis didn't respond. He watched as two female figures climbed out of their vehicle and looked around as though lost. He knew how they felt. Worryingly, they made a beeline straight towards the brothers' lair. He gestured his sibling backwards, deeper into the undergrowth, then slapped at the mosquitos which settled on his nose and chin. The girls kept on coming, so the brothers had no choice but to hunker down behind the nearest large tree. Close by came the sound of giggles and swearing.

Alfredo put a hand over his eyes. “Not bloody English again,” he whispered.

Once all was still again, Luis peered cautiously around the trunk of the tree. He toyed with the idea of stealing the minibus, but holding up foreign tourists would bring much trouble. Perhaps they could wait until the tourists left again and talk their way onto the van. If that didn't work, they could give them no choice. That might be their best way across the border, into Belize. In the meantime, they must keep out of sight. The brothers didn't look like tourists and the last thing they needed was someone reporting suspicious characters. They backed further into the forest. Where the jungle was at its darkest, there was little vegetation and walking was relatively easy. Luis sank gratefully onto the wall-like root of another large tree. Both he and Alfredo were tired. Alfredo's ankle ached with every slip or turn of foot. They sat back-to-back, discussing their options, until both fell drowsy and silent.

Alfredo arose from a fitful doze. He was sitting on the forest floor and his neck was stiff from his hard root pillow. Luis was shaking him.

“The van has gone, without the tourists. They must be hiking deeper into the jungle. There are lakes around here and I'm sure some are connected to the sea. That must be how they're going to get out again. Remember the boat trailer in the car park? If they can take a boat, then so can we.”

Alfredo looked blearily up at his brother. He was far from convinced. “Why don't we just walk back to the road?”

“And do what, exactly? Stand there and hitchhike? Everyone will be looking for us on the highway. It's far too dangerous.”

Alfredo shrugged his shoulders. He had spent enough time in the jungle the previous day to last a lifetime, but it looked as though he had little choice. His brother reached out and Alfredo winced as he was pulled upright. They scouted around the temple complex, ducking quickly across open spaces. Gradually the ground became heavier until it was spotted with small peaty pools. Alfredo felt he was being led back into the swamp that had almost consumed him. As their options got ever more limited, he knew he was losing heart, but he would rather be led to hell than disappoint his brother.

A sign marked the start of a boardwalk, clearly the way the tourists must come. It was old and in a poor state of repair, the occasional plank and whole sections of handrail lost to beetles and ants, but it was relatively dry. Suddenly able to progress easily, Alfredo began to feel better. Perhaps there was a way out. After a few hundred metres the land rose from the swamp again. The boardwalk ended abruptly. At the top of a short grassy bank a lattice of open beams marked the base of a tall wooden observation tower.

“Shall we take a look?” Alfredo enquired, but Luis shook his head.

“They're probably only a few minutes behind. We look no more like bird spotters than we do tourists, so I don't want to get caught up there. “We'll climb away from the path and wait and see what they do. At least we can sit and eat.”

It was as much as the brothers could do to maintain their position, as an ever growing cloud of mosquitoes descended. It was nearly thirty minutes before snatches of childish laughter caught their attention. Moving colours signalled the arrival of the group. Two diminutive figures raced up the tower steps, ignoring appeals for caution. A girl's face appeared at the summit and, for one long second, the brothers thought they had been seen. Then she leaned further over, boasting that she had won the race to the summit. Others joined her, binoculars and cameras appearing periodically over the parapet. Luis and Alfredo sweated profusely in the shadows, fists and teeth tightly clenched.

“Why don't we keep going, and take one of their boats?” Alfredo recommended.

Luis forced himself to think above the persistent whining in his ears. He too was desperate to move on, but they were too close not to be seen. He thought again.

“We still don't know where they're going - I don't want to get lost. Besides, someone will be with the boats. If we take one, we'll be reported straight away. Fancy trying to outrun the police in a canoe?”

“So we use the tourists as cover?”

“Yes, I don't like it, but I can't see any other way.”

It was Alfredo's turn to pause and think. “You know we'll get done for kidnap?”

“I know. But, if Eusabio hasn't told the police who we are yet, he will do soon. It wouldn't surprise me if Xterra had connections in this area as well. So, give me an alternative, brother?”

Alfredo didn't respond.

Luis continued. “We're not going home to Rancho Morales. We can't even stay in Mexico. This is a one way trip. That's O.K. for me: I'll find Alex and start again, but what about you, Alfredo? Luis paused, once more marooned by doubt. “If you want, we can double back and take our chances on the road.”

Alfredo sighed loudly, his shoulders heaved, but then he shook his head. “I know it's too late for that. They'll be all over us if we show our faces. If Eusabio or Xterra get us, we're dead. If the police get us then we're dead in prison. Whatever happens, I'm not going to be locked up, Luis. Not after what happened to Uncle Felipe. We still have money and there are places we could go to from Belize. Do you remember Father telling us he started a car business when he married Mother? I could do that. Maybe I'll start my own family. Somewhere in these forests we lost Las Contadonas for ever.”

“But not each other,” Luis corrected.

“But not each other,” Alfredo echoed, reaching across to Luis and pulling playfully at his beard. “Let's move on. I'm worried we're going to be seen.”

They picked their way through the undergrowth and up the hillside. As the ground grew rockier, it also grew drier and the forest more sparse. The mosquitoes were left behind and, for the first time, there was the hint of fresher air. The horizon edged away until they had a view. Beyond the furthest trees a vast lake of intense blue stretched between horizons. Its colour gave it a depthless quality, like some vast chasm. Alfredo turned to the forest behind and below them. The largest trees punched skyward through the smothering green of the canopy, the strongest of these standing proud, like clenched-fist salutes. Those with slender trunks swayed gently in the breeze. Animals repeated alien calls, each with its own pitch and rhythm, the loudest uncannily like human screams. Alfredo shuddered and told himself that he would never enter a rainforest again.

“Come on,” called Luis, who was making for the lake.

Act VI: Mired in the Marshes

Chapter Thirty-Six

Muyil

A flight of geese swung low around a familiar clump of trees on a small, round island surrounded by a sea of rush and grass. Far to the right, the ocean sparkled in the low, early morning sunshine. The birds descended further, skimming the surface of the large circular lake, one of several to break the sway of the reeds. As they skated to a noisy halt other birds in the trees echoed their calls, and began to jostle for position amongst the branches. A few small fishes jumped in the shallows and the first of the day's dragonflies launched from a stem.

Across the lake, the human world was also waking. A cockerel responded instinctively to the challenge from the geese. A dog barked, and then another. Two figures wandered to the quayside to fish. Another arrived and began loading a boat. Further from the shore, weak streams of smoke were rising from tiny farmsteads. Further in still, guards could be seen walking the wooden outer walls of Muyil.

On the long, low, rocky hillside to the right of this scene stood Jeronimo de Aguilar. He had climbed early from a camp hidden on the farthest side, and now marvelled at the tranquil scene below. Everywhere people had either fled before him or petitioned for his protection. This town was doing neither. Although hundreds must have fled beyond its walls, there was no sense of panic, indeed nothing out of the ordinary at all. This left him with much to ponder, for he had sent his scouts to the doors of the city just before twilight and their entry had been refused. His translators reported no fear and no threats, simply the words that they could not enter. What did this mean? The scene before him offered no clues. The ramparts on the lake-side of the city were of timber, not stone, and only lightly manned. A large double gate in the walls spoke more of trade than defence. A wide highway processed from it across farmland and scattered patches of forest, to a busy harbour of boats and quays.

Jeronimo knew his party was not equipped to mount a siege. He had only twenty horsemen, some of whom were too weak from illness to do more than sit astride their steeds. Others had already taken to the waggons, hidden from view, so as not to threaten the Spanish illusion of invincibility. His native conscripts were malleable enough. They might fight if there were the prospect of easy plunder, but they were no warriors. His war party had already bypassed Tulum, as reports from the sea spoke of impressive fortifications. They were now running short of food. Taking this city would undoubtedly please Cortes. There would be new provisions, fine women and probably gold. They could rest and re-supply before returning north, but how to get in?

His bodyguard noticed the new source of smoke before he did. The sight left him no more time for strategic planning. It was instantly thick and black - of pitch or tar - and red flames punched hurriedly through it. Within seconds it was glowing white and huge, crowning the round tower of the temple in the centre of the town. Conch shells blew, there was the distant yet distinct sound of chanting voices and the wooden gates began to turn inward. Jeronimo could see men running from their rural homes towards them, as birds panicked and scattered in the opposite direction. Without waiting to see what would emerge, he turned and sped back towards his encampment. They would have only minutes to prepare.

Mulac came around to the sound of laughing girls. As he struggled to open his eyes, he felt his blanket being carefully folded backwards, and then cool water, as somebody washed his face and neck. The smudge of moving objects resolved itself into his mother, shooing the girls away. She was holding a cup to his lips and appealing to him to drink, but Mulac could only focus on her feverish brow and sunken eyes.

“Good morning, Mother,” whispered Mulac, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

“God bless you son,” she acknowledged, tousling his hair, her eyes full up with tears.

“How are the children?”

“Yochi is well. He is playing with the local children outside. Already he likes it here. Your daughter has a new wet nurse and is feeding well. “

“Where are we? Is this Muyil?

“Yes, you were brought across the swamps by boat and now an army prepares to follow you.”

A group of nobles had entered the building. They wore blue paint, war skulls and fine feather headdresses. Each bore the scars on his arms of recent blood-letting.

“How is our patient, mother?” The man who spoke was the eldest and tallest. His fingers fiddled with another headdress, which was clearly intended for Mulac.

“Well, I think, my lord.” Mulac's mother bent low as she spoke.

“Then it is time to defend our city. Mulac, will you join us?”

Mulac clenched his eyes tight shut and managed to raise his head a little. His mother helped him sit upright. Four men appeared behind the nobles. They bore an ornate litter of blue, white and gold, on which sat a gilded chair. As Mulac eased his limbs to the floor, he fought off sudden dizziness, but he was proud and determined to play his part. He forced himself to stand erect. A girl placed a fine red robe around his swaying shoulders.

The warlord fitted the crown upon Mulac's head as his fellow nobles chanted and then declared, solemnly, “It is your example, Mulac, which gives us the strength to fight. Your courage shows the touch of the jaguar. With K'inich working through you we have nothing to fear from these foreign devils.” He stretched an arm across Mulac's back and led him slowly to the litter.

Once seated and raised high on willing shoulders, Mulac reached back, took his mother's hand, compressed it gently and beamed. She grinned at him like a little girl, her teeth a chequerboard pattern of black and white.

Mulac felt the rays of the sun and looked up. Before him two to three hundred soldiers filled the square, which bristled with bows and clubbed swords, sling shots and short spears. All around, incense was burning and priests were giving up offerings and prayers. A conch was placed in Mulac's hand. The feel of its cool, sleek curves instantly calmed his nerves. Now he was back in his element, patrolling the great fort of Tulum. He raised its tip to his lips and blew as hard as he could, though his head was splitting from the pressure of his wound. Instantly, fire sprang from the apex of the great temple pyramid. Other conches responded to his from around the city walls, and the soldiers raised their weapons and cheered. Mulac almost lost consciousness, his head sagging into his lap. As he came around, the entire square was chanting his name and Yochi had been brought up to him. He took his son proudly in his arms and kissed him, as the little boy reached for the feathers in his hair.

Orders were barked. The army assembled into ranks and clans and began to move forward. Mulac could feel himself being carried along, as though on a raft in a stream. Warriors constantly drew close and reached up to touch him, convinced of his magical powers. As they swept through the gates of the city, women and children hung from the battlements, cheering and throwing flowers.

Why couldn't the fools hear him? He was shouting at the top of his voice, but nobody reacted in the camp below. Most were still sitting around fires, cooking breakfast, or lazing in one of the waggons. Guards leaned upon their weapons, or sat on rocks, smoking. Within ten minutes the Mayans would be upon them. Jeronimo was about to call again when his captain drew his sword. Wiping it once upon his britches, he held it high to catch the sun. Almost immediately the reflection brought a guard to his feet. He wheeled around as soon as he saw the runners and alerted the rest of the camp. As Jeronimo burst upon them, men were already throwing saddles upon horses or priming their guns.

The ground was not ideal. The camp clustered within a scattering of small trees and could easily be outflanked along the ridge they had just descended. Jeronimo knew, however, that there was no time to regroup. “Cavalry mount,” he screamed. Only two or three were ready to ride. There was a clatter of breast plates, helmets and swords. Horses began to panic, bucking and kicking and refusing the saddle. He flung himself upon the bridle of the nearest horse, whilst his captain struggled with the straps. “You go,” he commanded. “As soon as you have ten men, I want you to charge. You must meet their warriors as far from our camp as possible. Hold them for as long as you can, then retreat if you have to. Hopefully, our horses will be enough to make them panic.”

The captain swung up onto his mount and saluted. Then he tugged heavily at the reins and turned his attention to the others.

Jeronimo wanted all four carts in a line to make a defensive wall, but it was too late to bring the heavy horses to the shafts. They would have to move the waggons by hand, but where were his native troops? A cluster of nearly fifty men stood some distance to the rear, most of them traditional enemies of the Maya, from northern border tribes. They clutched nervously at bows and knives, but looked more likely to run than to come to his assistance. Jeronimo sensed his own panic was as nothing compared to that of those who were seeing their new gods in disarray. Where was his interpreter? Jeronimo leapt upon the nearest cart and turned towards the crowd. This has to be good, he thought.

“For God, gold and glory,” he thundered, well aware that none bar his companions had a clue what he was saying, but he gained everyone's attention. I'll show them something they'll understand
,
he thought, remembering tales of gruesome ritual. He held both his sword and his other arm aloft then slowly, deliberately, drew the blade across the white of his skin. Blood spilled profusely down into his armpit. He felt faint, but knew he must stay erect. He grabbed a helmet and began to collect the stream, at the same time barking to the sick, still lying in the waggons, to prepare to defend themselves.

The interpreter appeared from the midst of his fellows. As he strode forward, other natives followed. Jeronimo drew fingers dipped in blood across his own cheeks then passed his interpreter the blood-spattered vessel. The interpreter copied him faithfully then others too, the helmet snatched by one conscript after the other. Quickly Jeronimo outlined his plan: waggons in a line, archers behind, muskets and sling-shots inside, along with the wounded; everyone else to the fore, with the remaining cavalry. Suddenly the field was a sea of purposeful activity. Jeronimo stooped briefly to bind his wound. The sick conquistador beside him offered up a soldier's prayer. Jeronimo made the sign of the cross. As his equerry tugged at the reins, he leapt for the saddle of his horse. It broke free and swung in a tight circle, Jeronimo struggling upright, aware that blood had started to flow again. Without spurs, he had to dig deep into the horse's flanks to gain control. Next moment he was flying forward across the uneven ground, towards his foe.

Mulac turned painfully. Behind him several other nobles were being borne on litters, each carrying a totem to lead the war cries. The party swung to the left, still tight to the city walls and increasingly channelled towards a wooden bridge traversing a marshy stream. Shoulder to shoulder and looking vaguely ridiculous, the warriors shuffled over the span, which creaked alarmingly at the sudden excess weight. Mulac reflected that if any enemy were to attack them here, there would be little they could do to defend themselves. Fortunately, the ground beyond the bridge was open grazing land. The troops spread out across it as family units, each determined to out-do the others in showmanship and bravado. Now they had the opposite problem: there was too much space between each group. This time it was serious, as thundering hounds of hell had rounded the distant ridge and were sweeping across the plain. Everybody stopped. There was nervous shuffling at the front, in a half-hearted attempt to close each breach. Nobles screamed contradictory instructions. Warriors looked from the attackers to their masters, then to Mulac, and back again. Using every ounce of the strength he could muster, Mulac forced himself to stand and bellow, “Charge.”

Sufficient troops heard the call for momentum to be regained. The bravest sprinted ahead, spears and slings trailing behind ready to be unleashed, but it was still clear many would be trampled in the stampede. The speed of the animals descending upon them was like nothing Mulac had witnessed before; their legs barely troubled the earth. The lead rider drew his silver blade and prepared to strike, but next moment he was grasping wildly at the neck of his beast as his seat slipped from under him. With a clatter of metal on stone he was gone, spinning wildly across the ground, teeth and armour scattering in all directions. His horse veered away from the line of warriors, reared upon its hind legs and bolted. It was scared. The shock of it went through the crowd at the same moment as the shock of the other animals smashing through the front line. Almost without resistance, the creatures dove into the heart of the army. Warriors were mown down, others cleaved by devilish blades, but their spell had already been broken. As soon as momentum was lost, the crowd surged around, stabbing and clubbing and unleashing spears and arrows at close quarters. Back legs buckled, arteries burst and the screams of the animals only added to the crowding frenzy. One soldier was pulled down by a leg and clubbed until his brains oozed from his helmet. Another took a spear point to the groin and screamed a cold scream, louder even than that of his steed. Only two were able to extract themselves from the melee, one speeding away, the other endeavouring to follow, though his horse was fatally wounded. It slowed, teetered then fell heavily to one side, trapping its rider. Warriors were instantly upon them both, but these were now trophies, so the victors raised their weapons only to celebrate.

A gruff and stocky noble descended from his litter, swapping his totem for a heavy, embossed, wooden club. Slowly he walked around the head of the beast, crouching to feel the distended veins in its neck and the hot, panicked breathing from its snout. He stood again and placed a foot on the horse's head. Carefully he took aim. His club swung high then smashed down between an ear and the white of its eye. The carcass began to twitch, but lay still once the club was swung again.