by JoAnn Ross
They had been on the Lacantun River about thirty minutes when they approached a giant sheet of limestone sloping into the river from the jungle-choked banks. The slab, carved with the graffiti of Maya traders, depicted animals, including a strange, striding monkeylike creature, humans, mysterious spirals and temples.
"We could stop," Sam offered as Davina stared in wonder at the Planchon de las Figuras—flatiron with figures.
She glanced around at the boatmen squatting on the flat rocks beside their dugouts. Some were cooking small river fish, others were playing board games, a few simply traded stories. She couldn't help but think that the scene probably didn't look all that different from the time when the Maya traders used the site as a commercial center. Near a major river junction, it was a place where cool springwater could be found and boatmen could while away the hours much as these men did today.
"No," she said with regretful sigh. "If we stop at every site, we'll never get to Naj Taxim."
"Next time," Sam suggested.
"Next time," she agreed, knowing as she did so that there would never be a next time.
Come the end of August, whether she had found Naj Taxim and her father or not, she was expected back at Boston University to begin the new semester.
Sam watched the shadow come and go in her eyes. They both knew there would be no next time, but for some reason it had seemed important to pretend otherwise.
For a time Davina felt disoriented by their direction—the Usumacinta flowed north—an oddity among rivers in North America—but soon she adjusted and found the Lacandon forest, in its pristine state, almost cathedrallike.
Not that any cathedral would ever be so hot. Few sunbeams penetrated the sweltering shade, and at ground level no breeze stirred. In the stifling heat minutes seemed like hours, and Davina's clothes were clinging to her drenched skin as they rafted under a dense canopy of tropical trees— chicle, mahogany, cedar, sapodilla, kapok and palm— covered with climbing and air-growing plants. She stared into the nearly impenetrable tangle of vines and greenery and wished she could learn the secrets that the trees were so effectively shielding.
Water fell down in a number of wide cascades amid the luxuriant tropical vegetation; the falls looked appealing, but she knew that to stop and plunge into the tumbling falls would only be wasting precious time. Repressing a shiver at the sight of crocodiles basking lazily on the banks, she cast a quick, reassuring glance at the steel-blue automatic pistol Sam wore in a tooled-leather holster.
"They're mostly harmless," he said, having watched her eyes move from the reptiles to his hip. "Once in awhile they'll come up to the raft to check us out, but you don't have to worry about them climbing aboard. They aren't any more eager to tangle than you are."
"Try telling that to the crocodiles," she murmured.
His grin was quick, wide and devastating. "I have. But I still wouldn't advise trailing your fingers in the water."
They continued downstream in a suffocating humidity that subdued all sounds save for the hum of the raft's engine and the powerful swish of the current against jagged limestone rocks. Every so often Sam would point out a sight—a colorful red macaw hidden in the foliage, a fat turtle sleeping on a log—and Davina would marvel at the quantity of life the jungle sustained.
Late in the day, as the river cut like a knife through a mountain spur, she heard a low roar—a distant rumble like a freight train—and glanced up, looking for the storm clouds that would call a halt to their progress.
"It's not thunder," Sam said, bending down to check the ties on her life jacket.
When she had first seen the slow, muddy river, she had objected to wearing the bulbous orange vest, but Sam had been insistent. She was about to find out why.
"Then what—"
"We're in for a stretch of white water. Hang on tight."
As the roar grew louder, she could not disguise the raw fear she was feeling. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and her mouth went dry. Her knuckles were chalk white as she gripped the splash guard.
Sam squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, it always sounds terrifying, but the sound is a lot worse than the run itself."
"That's easy for you to say," Davina muttered, her heart in her throat.
As they came around a bend, the rubber raft was suddenly swept away by the surging current. The bow of the raft rose, like a roller-coaster car, to the water's crest. Unable to do otherwise, Davina closed her eyes as the raft dipped abruptly and dropped back into the churning white water. When the bow slapped into the trough, water came from every direction. Waves whipped in, drenching her to the skin as the raft bounced and bucked like a wild bronco. The water exploded over them, hissing and bubbling, the maelstrom tossing and turning them like a piece of cork on a stormy sea.
Wave after wave broke in her face; the raft slid down into the V of one particularly deep wave and water landed in her lap. Another followed, and another, until they were swamped. Despite the careful job Sam had done strapping down the supplies, several boxes broke loose and disappeared beneath the churning waters.
Sam struggled to keep the raft in the center of the river, dodging the boulders that appeared in their path. The raft was floating, but underwater.
Screams died in Davina's throat as the river went mad— tons of water driven berserk, making a chaos of thunder and wildness. Then, as quickly as the rapids had appeared, they ended. The raft was suddenly floating peacefully in a gentle eddy.
Awash with relief, Davina began to laugh, the sounds of her relief ringing from the canyon walls. "I can't decide whether I hated that or loved it," she gasped.
Sam grinned. "It's always that way—exhilaration, terror, followed by supreme peace. As wicked as this river is, I have to admit that it provides every emotion."
As Davina busied herself by bailing out the water that remained in the bottom of the raft, Sam examined their store of supplies.
"What did we lose?" she asked, looking up when she heard him swear softly under his breath.
"It's not all that bad," he assured her. "A few cans of beans, some tortillas, extra mosquito repellent—that's about all."
Davina didn't think such a minor loss could have generated such a pungent curse. "What else?"
His answering expression was strangely sheepish. "My cigarettes," he admitted.
She had to struggle to keep the smile from her face. "What a shame."
He laughed at that—a warm, vibrant sound that heated her to her toes. "You're a lousy liar, sweetheart. But as it turns out, I've been meaning to quit, anyway. I suppose this little accident just speeded up my decision a bit."
Reaching out, Davina curled her fingers around his. "Don't worry, Sam, you'll be far too busy to miss them."
As he lifted her hand to his lips, Sam's eyes stayed on hers. "Is that a promise?"
As she had on so many other occasions, Davina felt herself succumbing to the invitation in those tawny-gold eyes. "A promise," she whispered.
Heat kindled in his gaze. "I'll hold you to that," he murmured.
He wanted to kiss her, but didn't. Feeling the way he did at this moment, Sam wasn't at all sure he could stop with a mere kiss. And unfortunately, both the time and the place left a great deal to be desired.
"We'd better get going."
Davina's soft sigh echoed his own obvious regret. "I suppose so."
As they floated down this lazy stretch of the Usumacinta River, Davina couldn't help thinking how natural it seemed—to be there with Sam. They worked well together. And they certainly loved well. Over these past few days Davina had realized that until Sam, she had not begun to experience true passion.
It had been that passion that had made her so uneasy in the initial stages of their relationship. She certainly hadn't wanted to acknowledge the attraction she felt for him. On the contrary, she'd been fighting her feelings from the beginning, continually pointing out all the things they didn't have in common.
She had methodically c
ataloged all the sane, practical reasons she should avoid this man at all costs. But as she had lain alone—first at Molly's, then in the too-soft bed at the hotel in Valladolid—she had come to the startling conclusion that she was sick and tired of being sane, logical Davina Lowell.
She knew that any one of her friends or acquaintances would describe her as practical, dependable. Unexciting, she considered grimly. Even when she had finally taken a lover, the man had been as safe and predictable as their professional relationship.
When Brad had gone so far as to offer a halfhearted proposal, two years after the first faculty dinner they had attended together, Davina quickly listed all the logical, practical reasons marriage would be unsuitable for them at that point in time. She had not been at all surprised when Brad appeared vastly relieved by her matter-of-fact refusal.
The problem was, Davina had decided since arriving in the Yucatan, that Bradford Stevenson lacked the forceful inner strength of her father—of Sam. With Brad there would be no surprises, no excitement; no risks.
With her usual careful consideration, Davina had systematically weighed the pros and cons of making love with Sam, marking the items in neat columns on a mental slate. There would be problems. There were always problems.
And Sam was a man who lived only for the moment; their time together would last only as long as her stay in Yucatan.
Davina knew that to have acted on these unfamiliar feelings was far from prudent; she could be hurt when the time came to leave. But sometime during her lengthy period of introspection she had come to the conclusion that rewards without risk were meaningless.
She was brought out of her reflection by the realization that he was maneuvering the raft toward the shore. "Are we stopping?"
"I thought we'd call it a day—if you've had enough."
"I think I've had enough to last the next fifty years."
"You can always—"
"I'm not quitting," Davina broke in firmly.
This time his eyes held more admiration than frustration. "I'll say this for you, sweetheart—you're a glutton for punishment."
An hour later, Davina would have been forced to agree with him. Dusk brought hordes of mosquitos, the size of which she had never seen.
"I refuse to believe those are mosquitos," she complained, hunkered under the mosquito netting that made up the roof of their compact tent. "They're bomber squadrons, sent by the Maya living in Naj Taxim to do us in before we can find their sacred city."
Sam laughed. "They probably just figured out how tasty you are," he said, nibbling her neck. "God, you taste exactly like temptation. Warm and sweet and forbidden."
Davina allowed herself to enjoy his light caresses for a time, then turned to look up at him in the spreading dusk. "Will every day be like today?"
He didn't comment immediately, his fingers combing through her hair. "Do you want the truth?"
She wanted him to tell her that they'd put the hard part of the journey behind them; that from here on in it would be a piece of cake—child's play. That's what she wanted to hear. From his noncommittal tone, Davina realized that the truth was going to be a great deal less palatable.
She hooked her hands behind his head and pressed her mouth to his. "I don't think I do," she said, her words a soft breeze against his lips. "Not now. I've had all the reality I can handle for one day."
He pressed a trail of moist kisses down her throat, his lips lingering over her pulse beat, feeling it jump as he tasted her skin with the tip of his tongue.
"How about this?" he murmured, his own need spiraling as he felt the pounding of her blood against his mouth. "Can you handle the reality of this?"
Davina thought that by now she should know what to expect. She knew that his kisses could drive her to distraction and that when he touched her, her flesh turned to flame. She knew that he could lead her to the very brink of sanity, then lead her further still, to the place where passion, desire and need reigned supreme. She had experienced madness, tenderness, laughter with this man. But she could not have imagined either the havoc or the bliss her body was experiencing now.
"This isn't reality," she whispered.
His tongue glided over hers. "Oh, no? Then what is it?"
Perhaps it was because together they had tempted death and won. Or perhaps it was something deeper, more profound. Whatever the reason, everything in her life, everything that had gone before paled in comparison, and on some distant plane Davina was aware that nothing would ever be the same again.
"Magic," she managed to say.
She was burning for him, her need unrestrained, unreasonable. His mouth tempted; she surrendered to it. His hands, as they slid under the madras blouse to caress her breasts, offered ecstasy; she succumbed to their seductive promise. Her name, murmured over and over again, was like a sorcerer's incantation, inviting her to his mystic realm; she followed—hurriedly, hungrily.
Under the canopy of white netting, clothes disappeared as if by the wave of a wand, and when he slipped into her, she gave herself over to the heat. To the magic. To Sam.
10
As they searched for Naj Taxim, Sam and Davina developed a workable system. Setting up camp, they would explore the region around the area as thoroughly as the thick jungle allowed, moving downstream the following day. It was slow going; they had been at it for ten days and were already falling behind Sam's proposed schedule. As she trudged through the miles of wilderness, Davina found the jungle to be as inhospitable as it was inscrutable.
Snakes lurked in the shadows, ticks infested the vegetation, and on more than one occasion, dropping branches produced avalanches of stinging ants. Once, as she stumbled over a root overgrown with dense vines, she grasped a friendly-looking tree and the surgically sharp thorns of the innocuous-appearing escoba palm made pincushions of her hands.
That experience taught her not to trust anything at first glance. The tropical forest was such a totally hostile environment that she found it a paradox that in such surroundings the Mayan civilization had reached its zenith.
On more than one occasion, Davina felt as if she and Sam were being silently observed as they trekked through the jungle. Once she even thought she had caught a glimpse of someone who vaguely resembled the Indian who had pushed her into the Sacred Cenote at Chichen Itza. Telling herself that these ominous feelings were only the product of an overactive imagination stimulated by their alien, treacherous surroundings, she decided not to mention them to Sam. It would only give him another argument for his attempt to convince her to turn back.
This particular morning, however, Davina could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. She could feel the eyes burning into her back, but whenever she'd turn around there would be nothing but more miles of impenetrable jungle. Still, she could not ignore the idea that this time it was more than her imagination.
"Sam," she said softly, after experiencing the uneasy feeling for more than an hour, "I think someone's following us."
Sam cut a path through a tangled vine with his machete. "Actually, it's several someones," he answered calmly.
Despite the stifling heat, Davina's blood went ice-cold. "You've known we were being followed and you didn't say anything?" she hissed, her anxious eyes darting around, seeking the silent stalkers.
"I didn't want to frighten you."
"Well, that's very considerate of you," she said dryly, accepting his hand as he helped her over a rotting tree limb. "But don't you think I deserve to know when we're in danger?"
Sam stopped in his tracks, causing Davina, who had been carefully avoiding another escoba palm, to walk right into him. She opened her mouth to complain about his sudden halt when the sight of the muscle jerking along his grimly set jaw made her mouth go dry.
"Davina," he said very quietly, his gaze directed over her head, "I'm letting you know that we're in danger."
Turning slowly around, she drew in a deep, terrified breath as she came face-to-face with the rifles a trio of grim-faced
Indians were pointing in their direction.
"Oh, my God. Whatever happened to spears and obsidian tomahawks?" she murmured under her breath.
Sam's answer was short and succinct. "Progress."
There was no misunderstanding the Indians' instructions as they waved the weapons, directing Sam and Davina forward. Before they moved, however, the tallest of the three men divested Sam of his pistol.
"We're going to get out of this, Davina," Sam promised under his breath as they were marched through the jungle. "You have to trust me."
"I do," she whispered.
In truth, Davina had never trusted anyone or anything the way she had come to trust Sam McGee. She vowed that once Sam got them out of this mess, she was going to take time to seriously evaluate her feelings for him. At the moment, however, it was all she could do to keep her feet moving forward when her bones had the consistency of water.
They had not gone far when they entered a sheltered clearing. The cluster of houses—structures of wooden poles and thatch—could have been Mayan homes of antiquity. Outside one such house a woman cuddled a baby while another was busily grinding breadnuts. Across the way, a young girl was weaving an intricately designed cotton cloth. A small group of naked children played with a pair of spider monkeys, laughing delightedly at the small simians' antics. Nearby, on small earthen terraces, men tended an array of crops—corn, tomatoes, pumpkins and gourds.
As they walked through the compound, people stopped and stared unabashedly, obviously not used to intruders in their midst. Davina told herself over and over again that even here in the jungle, people were answerable to the Mexican laws. And murder was a capital offense. Of course that was only if the murderers were captured. It would be a vastly simple matter to kill two americanos and let the crocodiles and piranhas take care of the bodies. Who would ever know?
The sudden sound of Sam's laughter shook her from her depressing thoughts. Davina turned on him. "I'm certainly glad you've found something funny about all this."
"It's Santos Xiu," Sam explained, the relief evident in his voice. "These are his people."
