The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  She was right. We had to film Yago telling his story about his close encounter at the ruins. The camera should have been ready, but that guifiti we’d been drinking had put us all into a semi-comatose state.

  “We’ll do it first thing after breakfast,” I promised.

  We lay listening to the rain falling.

  “Jack.” Valeska reached over and gave my hammock a little push.

  I pulled my hammock up against hers. “What’s up?”

  “I think that I like sleeping beside you in a bed better than a hammock,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “And I’m really in the mood.”

  “I think that would be mission impossible in this thing and if we go outside, the mosquitoes will eat us alive. But we can always dream.”

  “Maybe you can, but I think the real thing is better,” she whispered.

  I pushed her hammock lightly with one hand.

  “Keep going, I like that.”

  At first light, I quietly rolled out of my hammock, slipped through the sleeping bodies and stepped outside. Right away I noticed that the light had an eerie warm glow to it. The soft rain felt good on my skin so I walked down to where the boats were pulled up onshore and watched the morning come alive. The air was scented with flowers and soon different songbirds started to chirp. When I turned to go back to the hut to wake the others, I noticed that I wasn’t alone. Yago was crouched underneath a broad-leafed bush not far from where I was standing. I could barely understand his Spanish, but I’ll never forget what he said: “The river is our lives. It is our blood. It gives us our food. But it gives us death as well. We accept that. Death is as natural as life. It is part of our religion. That is the only way to survive here.” Then he looked up at me and smiled. “Buenaos dias, señor Jack.”

  Breakfast was a heavy pancake drowned in a sweet thick sauce with the texture of axle grease. When Eddy saw what was about to land on his plate, he went down to the pipante and returned with one of the cans of maple syrup he had brought from Québec. Chili-Chili punched a hole in it with his machete, and soon smiles of satisfaction appeared on faces that had never before tasted such a succulent sugar. The Hondurans could not believe it came from trees in the north.

  After breakfast, I set up the interview with Yago. As he fed his chickens, he retold the story of his encounter at Ciudad Blanca. It was even better this time around. I was careful not to reveal his face on camera, since neither of us wanted him to be recognized. One never knows where a film will end up.

  ANTON

  Back at Barra Patuca, the sound of the pounding surf had kept Anton awake a better part of the night. As he lay in bed listening, he could also hear a new noise: It was the wind making a deep humming sound as it blew through the shrouds of the schooner docked in front of the house. It wasn’t a good sign. This was not just a late October storm coming in. It was way bigger.

  When Anton got up and peered through the shutters, he could see that the sailboat was far too heavy for the old dock. The twenty-ton steel hull was beginning to pull on its lines, making the entire structure of flimsy wooden posts and boards sway. The old man watched for a while, hoping things would settle down, but they only got worse.

  At first light, he put on his shirt and went out onto the balcony. The rain had ceased, but the low-flying clouds were dark and threatening. Anton needed to find help and move the boat into the mangroves before the dock broke up. A piece of tin on the roof overhead began to make a rapid clicking noise. Later, after he had dealt with the sailboat, he would go up and nail it down before the whole piece blew off.

  But there was something more important on his mind. Anton looked again toward the point. A huge swell was coming in from the east, but there was still time for anyone caught offshore to risk running over the bar for shelter before the big waves began stacking up at the mouth of the Patuca. Something was brewing offshore.

  Anton went back inside the house and calmly woke up his grandson. The boy threw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and ran off barefoot in the direction of the village. Ten minutes later, he returned with three friends. Anton had already fired up Numada’s engine and was standing on the deck beside a pile of hawsers that had been left there in case of a storm. The grandson untied the small fishing boat next to the dock, and with one paddle sculled it around to the other side of the schooner and gave a ragged nylon bow line to Anton. Then the kid climbed on board and joined his grandfather. The old man looked over at the other boys and gave them a signal to slip the two remaining lines that held Numada to the quay. Once free, the schooner backed off, turned and headed upriver toward the safety of the mangroves.

  Squinting into the rain, Anton pushed the throttle forward almost to its maximum. The mood of the river seemed to be changing fast, with boughs and branches floating by. In a few hours, the current would be too strong to navigate against. Near the big mangrove patch, Anton carefully maneuvered Numada up into a narrow arm of water that led into the thick cluster of trees. When it bottomed out in the soft mud under the keel, he gunned the throttle and pushed in even further until the leafy branches growing on each side of the clearing were touching the boat. It would be safe here in this secret place.

  For the next hour, the old man and his young crew worked methodically, looping the big hawsers around the tangled tree roots. After that, they could do no more. The schooner would have to fend for itself. The river was rising fast when Anton and the boys left in the lancha they had towed behind. Once outside the shelter of the mangroves, the small boat turned and ran with the current, cutting into the growing whitecaps as it headed for home. As the spray washed over the boat, the boys yelled with glee. They were glad to wash down their mud-covered bodies with river water, but old Anton wasn’t thinking about washing off just yet. His eyes were riveted on the blue-green hull of a large sailing yacht coming toward them. The sight displeased him. Not too long ago, when Anton had been out fishing in the river, he couldn’t help but notice as the same big yacht had taken on cargo from a low-slung black motorboat. Looters had always come in many shapes and sizes, but the elder sensed that this gang meant trouble. As the latecomer approached, Anton observed the men on deck preparing a big storm anchor. They were obviously looking for a safe place to drop the hook. As they came alongside, a ragged gringo with a beer belly and dark glasses leaned over the flying bridge and yelled to him in English, “Hey, old man, where is it safe to anchor in this kind of weather?”

  They could put the hook down anywhere in the river when the weather was good. But with a hurricane on the way, the mangroves were the only safe place, and that pretentious-looking yacht was far too big to slip into the creek where Numada was hiding. “Go further upstream and stay close to the riverbank, off to the left, just before the bend in the river. That’s the best place; everywhere else the bottom is very soft. Aqui es peligroso, el coriente es muy fuerte, mas largo.” (It’s too dangerous elsewhere, the current is too strong.)

  The big ketch motored by, and as it passed, Anton’s grandson read out loud the name inscribed on its transom. “Esmeralda.”

  “Esmeralda,” repeated Anton under his breath. “Problemas.”

  The wind was blowing hard when Anton and his young crew hauled their small boat up beside the solid little house. Rolling gobs of white spindrift had started to collect in the saw grass above the riverbank. Following Anton’s instructions, the boys removed the outboard from the boat and put it inside the house. Then they flipped the lancha upside down and lashed down the hull to blocks of cement so it wouldn’t get rolled over by a heavy gust. After the job was done, Anton yelled to his grandson over the din, “Chico, get the hammer and nails from the tool box.” He pointed to the roof. “We have to secure that loose piece of tin before it blows off and kills somebody.”

  He looked back upriver as the big yacht disappeared around the bend, the exact opposite of what he had suggested. A typical gringo move, he thought. They would probably have a hell of a time trying to anc
hor where the bottom was thick with silt, certainly not the best holding ground. Anyway, it was too late to give the gringos a hand; soon the wind would hit with full force. It was time to look after himself.

  In a few minutes, the grandson appeared with a hammer and a few rusty nails, but their only ladder had been lent to a neighbor on the other side of the village. It had completely slipped the elder’s mind, and it was too late to get it now, he reasoned. Anton looked windward in the direction of the village wharf, where he could see men struggling to haul their boats up to the high water mark. He asked his grandson’s friends to go and give them a hand. In this kind of weather, everyone had to pitch in. The old man and the boy went inside, filled the lamps with kerosene and made breakfast. There wasn’t much more they could do but hunker down and wait.

  BARKER

  Shortly after the crew dropped anchor, the rain began to pick up, followed by the wind. Barker sat at the chart table with Ronnie and looked at the path the storm was taking. The satellite connection was working fine, providing a clear picture of the storm’s progress toward the Yucatán.

  “Ronnie, it looks like it’s going to pass north of us, after all. In a day or so, we’ll be out of here with a hold full of cargo, exactly as planned.”

  “Boss, I warned you about hurricane season. This storm could go anywhere.”

  “Relax. We’ve done great so far. If I had listened to you, we’d still be hiding in Puerto Lempira without anything to show for it. Business has been great so far, and if it continues like this, we’ll be able to get the fuck out of this country without leaving a trace, and the boat will be full of enough cargo to make us even richer. Storm or not, we’re going to get this job over with, so stop freaking out about a little bad weather.”

  Rackman hid his face behind his binoculars and peered at the mangroves off the port bow. Something caught his eye through the driving rain. In the distance, he could see two masts.

  “Shit.” He nearly dropped the binoculars. “There’s a sailboat tied up in the mangroves.” He squinted though the glasses. “It’s the Frenchman’s boat!”

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Dog exploded.

  “Take a look for yourself.” Rackman handed the glasses to Dog, who went over to the port light and adjusted the focus.

  “Amazing, the Frenchman brought his boat right in there. Just wait, we’ll give them one hell of a surprise after the storm blows over. He’s going to wish he’d stayed in dry dock.”

  “They’re probably just sitting out the storm like we are,” said Ronnie.

  “He’s doing more than that. I bet that they’ve gone upriver looking for our little treasure chest.”

  “You think so?”

  “Damn right. Pass me the satellite telephone, I’ll call Ramón.”

  It wasn’t long before Dog had his favorite henchman on the other end. “Hey, Ramón, where the fuck are ya?”

  “On the river, heading to the coast. We should be there in two days max. We’re loaded up with stock.”

  “Good. Make it fast. There’s some bad weather moving in. What about up your way? What’s it like?”

  “Not good, but nothing impossible to deal with, yet. Mostly rain. We’ll be going with the current, and it’ll be pretty easy once we pick up the big lancha.”

  “Good. Listen, Ramón, if you see Valeska, bring her back here.”

  “Valeska? What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s probably with some locals and our friend the Frenchman. Never mind the details, just bring her back alive. ¿Comprende, amigo?”

  “Si … and the Frenchman?”

  “Shoot the bastard.”

  The connection was breaking up.

  “What?”

  “Just get rid of that son of a bitch. We don’t need him anymore.” But there was no one listening. The connection was dead.

  If Valeska was on the river, Ramón would find her, and once he got her on board Esmeralda, Barker was pretty sure that he could talk some sense into her. If not, he’d kill her too.

  MEANWHILE UPRIVER

  Despite the darkening sky and light rain, Chili-Chili was certain we could make it thirty miles upstream to our next stop. It was a camp that belonged to their uncle. So we packed up and left our friends on the bank of the little creek. Around noon, we entered another small creek and beached the boats on a gravel spit. Chili and George fished a spot where the current swirled by a big rock, and sure enough, within ten minutes, they’d caught two walleyes. María cleaned them, and in no time at all, they were sizzling in a big frying pan over an open fire.

  After lunch, we all stretched out under a tarp the guys had set up for a siesta, but just as I was about to nod off, a wild yell came from the direction of the jungle. It was Cowboy George, sounding like he was in trouble. Chili jumped up, grabbed the 30-30, and took off in the direction of the shouting. We followed. We almost collided with George backing out of the trail, a roll of toilet paper in one hand. He looked in shock.

  “A guy can’t even take a quiet shit around here. There was a big fucking crocodile.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Right beside me. I thought that it was a log at first. I was right in the middle of a crap when it started to move. Then I saw two beady eyes looking straight at me. Jesus Christ!”

  Eddy chuckled. “I wonder who’s the real shit-disturber? That poor old croc must have been in the middle of some serious beauty sleep.”

  “Well, he took off like a bat out of hell. Next time I go, I’ll make sure I’m packing more than a roll of toilet paper.”

  We had a good laugh. Our Canadian content guy was one lucky man.

  A deep sighing sound came up out of nowhere. This first gust of wind sent the leaves and branches dancing, the first sign that something more threatening than an old croc was headed our way. We hurried back to the boats and shoved off. The next gust of wind blew Peter-Pedro’s hat right off his head. It flew across the creek like a wayward Frisbee and was snagged on a cluster of low-lying branches on the opposite bank. Chili waded over to retrieve it, but when he picked it up, something caught his eye. He waved us over to take a look. To our surprise, there, hidden by thick branches, was a black thirty-foot lancha with two big outboards on the back end. It strangely resembled the one that had barnstormed us offshore the other night. What really caught our attention were the four jerry cans of gas sitting just behind the steering console. I looked at Chili, and Chili looked at his brother.

  “Trafficantes. But gas is gas. Too bad for them.” Peter-Pedro made an okay sign, picked up the machete and hacked a hole through the curtain of brush. His brother jumped on board and began to transfer the jerry cans into our boats.

  We were out of there in no time, just as the first heavy drops of rain began splashing into the dark river. No one said a word until we hit a shoal of thick, treacherous, black mud. Who wouldn’t have felt a little weird? After all, we had just ripped off twenty gallons of liquid gold, and if the owners of that boat had caught us in the act, bullets would have been flying.

  We got out to push the boats. As we pushed, our feet sank deeper into evil-smelling slime, and for a moment, it seemed like we weren’t going to make it out of the creek. When we finally got free, I noticed that the Patuca River was beginning to narrow. On both sides of the river, the jungle appeared to be more poisonously fertile. An odor of decay hung in the air. In certain places, rocky white cliffs rose out of the jungle and towered overhead. We carried on through a low rumble of thunder, preparing ourselves for some foul weather. It wasn’t long before we brought out the big black umbrellas we’d so carefully tucked away. Suddenly the rain came, forming millions of pearls on the surface of the river.

  “Listen, Jacques,” said Peter-Pedro, “if you see a boat coming our way, better hide your white gringo face under that umbrella. They won’t look at us if they think that we are all locals. Hombre, will they ever be pissed off when they find out their fuel is gone!” He laughed and spat into the river, prou
d of our heist. “Those engines of theirs will be running on vapor when they hit the coast and we’ll be long gone.”

  Valeska helped me organize my camouflage. I jammed my camera into a plastic garbage bag, punched a hole in it for the lens and another one for the eyepiece. She covered me up with the thick canvas bags we’d brought along. I could easily operate the camera using the remote and not move a muscle. I made a quick playback just to double-check. With the wide-angle lens, I framed Chili’s boat ahead of us, with part of our bow and the tree-lined riverbanks in the background. Everything seemed to be in working order so I cued up the camera and left it on standby. Another heavy gust of wind brought the river alive with white caps. Then some water sloshed into the boat right under Valeska’s seat.

  “I’m drenched!” she shouted, grabbing the bailing can.

  “Hey, Valeska, do you know what pipante means in the Pech language?” Chili-Chili yelled.

  “No, what?”

  “Wet ass.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said and continued bailing as the sky began to grow darker.

  The Patuca wound on like an endless corkscrew, every bend sending us in a different direction. Hunched low so as not to get pushed around by the strong gusts of wind, the Lopez brothers guided their boats carefully around sunken trees, submerged rocks and shallow banks of oozing mud. Rounding another bend, we suddenly came face to face with three large pipantes. They were heading straight for us. All my alarms went off, but I managed to keep cool. I started the camera, and kept my head down and my eyes glued to the small flat viewing screen.

  Under the protection of the canvas bags, I could see perfectly what was going on through the lens, despite the torrential rain. Coming our way, in among the covered cargo, were men covered in dark green military-type ponchos, their heads tucked into their shoulders under wide-brimmed rain hats. They looked like half-drowned crows sitting on wet logs. Then things started to happen really fast. One man took an AK-47 from under a tarp and fired a round of bullets into the water just in front of our boats.