by David Gilman
“It is forbidden,” the woman said.
Charlie had to tease the answers out of them. “So is standing up to violent men,” she said.
They smiled again. “Yes, the boy got inside, but he became very sick. There is a place where they take supplies through. The man who drives that truck—he is a farmer—he helped him. The man is not like the others. He is Maya. He understands the old ways. He does not like the way these Creoles have been bought by Westerners.”
“Westerners?”
“Sí. They come into the mountains in their helicopter. They are important, and they have bought the men here who run drugs, who kill and threaten us, but there is nothing we can do. You should not stay here. We came to warn you. You have shown how strong you are, but they will not forget. The reason they have not killed you is because they are unsure about you. No one has done to them what you did.”
“Where have the men gone?”
“We do not know. They do not tell us.”
“But something has happened. They’ve pulled out in a hurry. Are they after someone, do you think? Did they chase the Maguire boy when he was here?”
“We took a big risk when we helped that boy escape. Some of us were beaten badly, but we did not tell them how we got him to the city.”
“So they were after him?”
“Sí. They are paid to kill.”
“And Helen Gordon?”
“Some years ago, we heard of a woman who passed through one of the villages. She said she was looking for old ruins, but everyone knew she was an environmentalist. They live a dangerous life. We do not know what happened to her.”
Charlie Morgan considered her options. She was so close to unraveling the mystery and knew that Max Gordon had to be out there somewhere. He was close. All her instincts told her that. But they also told her that she, too, could “disappear” once she ventured away from this town.
But imagine if she pulled it off. How cool would it be to find Max Gordon, to dig out the mystery and find out what Danny Maguire had discovered? She might even uncover the truth behind Helen Gordon’s disappearance. That would be a real coup. But could she do it on her own? She felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Can you take me to the man who drives the supply truck?”
The women fell silent, and then each of them shuffled past her; they touched her arm, as if they were already grieving at someone’s funeral.
“We can take you,” the woman said. “But we do not wish to be responsible for your death.”
Riga used a handheld flare when he ran into the cave. It helped him to see the tracks made by Max and the others. The grotto of saw-toothed images absorbed the light and became a snarling creature. Riga was not afraid of the shadow-riddled cave. He had never believed in myths and legends; they were lies told by storytellers to scare people or to make them feel good about themselves and create false heroes. Life was not a story. It was hard and unforgiving, and if you did not think for yourself and make your own decisions, then you became one of the followers, one of the herd. If you did not test yourself, you might be easily deluded into thinking you were better than you were. And that was where so many men entered the realm of fantasy. Riga had tested himself time and again. If he failed, he learned the lessons and became better; if he felt fear, he faced it, controlled it and mastered it. No one was going to make Riga a loser.
But the gunshot took him by surprise.
Searing pain creased his leg muscle and he fell, which saved him from further bullets that impacted dully against the damp walls. He rolled instinctively, found cover behind a stalagmite and saw the muzzle flash as his attacker kept firing blindly and stupidly at where he had been. The flare had distorted Riga’s body with shadow, and the gunman had shot wildly. They were the actions of a scared man, who betrayed himself as someone who thought he could kill without stealth.
Riga closed his eyes—it was nothing to do with the pain; he wanted them to adjust quickly to darkness when the flare he had dropped spluttered and died. Lying still, he listened for every movement. A boot crunched the limestone gravel floor thirty or forty meters away. He did not open his eyes. He saw the man’s approach in his mind’s eye. He had stopped and turned slightly, checking the area, his boots twisting into the grit; then he moved again. Riga could hear the man’s breathing. He opened his eyes and gazed into the darkness, his night vision clear, the subtle tones of black showing the dark-smudged features of the cave.
He knew he could not move quickly enough to take the man with his hands and make him confess who had ordered the attack. That was obvious enough. None of the gunmen used to patrol the forests would want to enter the Cave of the Stone Serpent, and none would dare attempt to kill Riga unless they faced something or someone more threatening.
Cazamind.
Riga lifted the rifle to his shoulder, waited, saw the slightest of changes in the darkness and fired. One shot. A body fell. Another couple of seconds and he heard the man’s last breath. He waited again.
A second man, who must have stayed still, fired at his muzzle flash. Riga felt the snap of air next to his head. He did not flinch but, with an instinct born of years of close-quarter battle, returned fire. There was a cracking splat of bone and blood and the hard, sudden thump of a body thrown backward onto the ground.
A rush of air caused a vibration, an almost imperceptible fluttering of dust, as a figure rushed from the darkness. This man was better than the others; he had waited, using animal cunning to get close to his adversary, which meant that he would use a knife. Riga silently took all the pain as he bent down on his wounded leg, his lower profile fooling the attacker. He came in high, found only air, then felt the agony of death as Riga dispatched him with one blow.
Riga quickly calmed his labored breathing. He listened. There was no one else. But others would come.
He pulled the tab on another flare and examined his leg. The bullet had torn across his thigh, but no bone was broken, no artery damaged. Butterfly clips would not hold a gash like this, especially with the exertion he would be placing on the leg. He would stitch and bind the wound. It would slow him down and there would be pain—though he was no stranger to that—then he would continue his pursuit.
And find out why Cazamind had turned on him.
Max acknowledged that Flint was the rain forest expert and at first light allowed him to lead the way into the jungle. Flint found the line of least resistance through the trees, and using the animal paths, they made good time.
Xavier was insistent that he go in the middle. Flint could lead the way, but Xavier wanted Max behind him; there was no way he was going to bring up the rear. He had seen plenty of movies where the man at the back always got taken out by whoever was hunting them.
As Flint moved forward intuitively, Max kept his eyes on the jungle. He could see no movement, and yet there was something out there that worried him. The dank smell of the undergrowth filled their nostrils, but Max was convinced he could smell the sweat of men. He whispered a gentle hiss to Flint barely ten paces ahead of him. By the time Flint and Xavier turned, Max was on one knee and gesturing them down. They dropped to their haunches at once. Xavier’s eyes were wide with fear, and Max put a finger to his lips to make sure the boy did not speak. Flint had not moved as he concentrated on the surrounding jungle. He would not question Max’s caution; the boy had good instincts.
He shook his head. Max nodded an acknowledgment. Maybe, he thought, the warning sensation was simply a state of heightened tension. Like a wary animal, Max felt a nerve-tingling threat. A sixth sense was at work. They moved on carefully, but within seconds Max’s fears were realized. It was as if a million butterflies had flapped their wings at the same time and created a fluttering current of air that jostled the leaves—a wave of unseen energy rushed toward them. They no sooner felt it than the jungle floor erupted.
Flint and Xavier were swept up into the air by a net, their bodies slammed together. Xavier yelped; Flint cursed. Their arms and legs were caug
ht up in the rope weave. It had happened so fast. Max was barely a step behind them, but he twisted round, fully expecting someone to complete the attack. He was too late. As if from nowhere, dozens of spears angled at his chest and throat. He was surrounded by urchin-like children, some of them about ten or eleven years old, others no more than Max’s age. They were Maya, they were armed and they had Max trapped.
And they weren’t smiling.
Moments after the attack, Flint shouted at their attackers in Mayan. After a minute of uncertainty, they cut the net trap, thumping him and Xavier to the ground. The children stepped back, lowering their spears, but they stayed on guard as Max went to help Flint untangle himself from the net.
“They wanted to make sure who we were. I told them we were searching for your mother,” Flint explained as he got to his feet. “They’re like feral kids; they have to stay out of sight of the warriors.”
“The Serpent Warriors?” Max asked.
Flint nodded. “They’re scared of them, and they want us to get out of here now.”
This was no time for Max to start asking any more questions. Prompted by the sharp points of the spears behind them, Max, Xavier and Flint started running. They ran at a pace that nearly killed the older man. On and on they went, through barely perceptible gashes in the undergrowth, across crevices and streams, uphill and down. The high humidity made them gasp, and the heat attacked them like another enemy. Flint’s smoke-raddled lungs could not take in the oxygen he needed to keep going. Max and Xavier supported him and managed to keep up with the fast-running children.
They finally came to a makeshift camp, and it was obvious to Max that these children were not part of any formal settlement. The lean-to huts offered basic protection from the elements, like a forest shelter that any Boy Scout would make—branches, twigs, leaves and moss on a simple frame. Max realized they also offered good camouflage against any searcher who did not look carefully enough.
Four hours of grueling travel had taken their toll. Xavier gulped water offered to him by a young girl and then crumpled, exhausted, against the base of a tree. Max watched as some of the children helped drag the half-conscious Flint into the cooler air of a lean-to. These kids seemed organized. A young girl bathed Flint’s face; another fanned him with a big leaf. Once he had drunk more water, he seemed to recover quite quickly. Obviously the plant thief could endure jungle conditions. It had been the hard pace that caused him problems.
Max stayed on his feet, still wary of what was going on. If he needed to make a run for it, he would do so in an instant. One of the girls approached and offered him a gourd full of water. She smiled at him, nodded and said something Max didn’t understand. “It’s OK. They won’t hurt you. You’re safe now. Drink,” Flint translated.
Max spilled water over his face and felt his belly distend with a satisfying swig as one of the boys stepped forward and threw the broken-shafted spear and his blowpipe at his feet. He said something to Flint.
“He wants to know if I’m telling the truth about you searching for your mother,” Flint said.
Max made no attempt to pick up his weapons. He looked directly at the boy and girl and nodded. Dare he hope these wild-looking children knew anything about his mum?
The boy looked at him intently. They were of equal age and build—perhaps the jungle boy was sizing him up, wondering if Max posed a challenge. It seemed he was the spokesman for the group. Again he said something to the girl. She looked uneasy.
“When white people come here, they bring trouble,” Flint said quietly. “But they saw a Serpent Warrior run from the cave’s direction, which meant something had frightened him. It had to be you.”
Max looked directly into their eyes. Even if they did not immediately understand his words before Flint translated, he wanted to convince them of the truth. “We were attacked on the other side of the mountains before we came through the Cave of the Stone Serpent. I don’t mean to bring you any trouble.”
He extended his hand to the boy, reasoning that there was a hierarchy in this group and the boy should be greeted first.
“My name is Max Gordon. Yes, I’m trying to find out what happened to my mother.”
The boy ignored Max’s gesture and spoke again, looking to the girl, who said something in her gentle voice. She smiled and Max felt a seldom-experienced tenderness. She was beautiful.
“Boy’s name is Tree Walker, and she’s called Setting Star. They’re brother and sister,” Flint said. “Son, don’t you go all soppy on me now. She’s a pretty girl, but we’re still in deep trouble here.”
Max blushed. He hadn’t realized he had been so obvious. The boy gestured him toward the center of the settlement. He noticed there were no fires, but there was fruit laid out on broad jungle leaves that served as plates. Flint’s whiskers were already covered in yellow juices as he smothered his face like a dog in its feed bowl.
“Flint, you eat like a pig at a trough.”
“Aha. Eat as much as you can as quick as you can. I got a feeling these kids are gonna be on the move again, and soon. They’re scared. These Serpent Warriors are out there somewhere, and from what I can tell, they’re gonna be coming for you.” Flint sank his teeth into a huge slice of mango and sucked like a drain. In between slurping gulps, he translated as Tree Walker and Setting Star spoke quietly but with a sense of urgency. As if eager to rid themselves of painful memories.
“These kids’ve been separated from their parents for years. Before that they lived a simple life, mostly farming and fishing the rivers. The volcano causes them problems, like she’s bubbling now, and they expect her to rumble any day. These are bad signs. Lightning storms and volcano activity, and now you’ve appeared.” He hesitated. “I think this is as far as we go. They don’t want us with them; we’re bringing them trouble.”
Max was not going to be pressured by Flint. He looked around the camp; these youngsters had survived without their parents for years. If they could do that, then so could he. He needed to stay with them as long as it took to find the truth about his mother’s death.
“Flint, you can ask them to take you wherever you want to go, but I want to stay with them until we find out how my mother died and what’s happened to their parents.”
“Son, you don’t hold any sway over these people. You don’t mean nothin’ to them. They don’t want us around. Let’s just try to get out of here in one piece.”
Max knew he had to convince Tree Walker and Setting Star. There was only one way to do that. He had to tell them what he had experienced when he was in Africa. What he had told no one before. They needed to know about the shape-shifting and his animal instincts. What he did not know was whether this would frighten or anger them. Could his experiences be some kind of insult to Mayan beliefs?
“I need them on my side, Flint. Tell them my wayob is good and it is strong. Tell them it runs with me through the night.”
Flint nervously licked his lips. “You start talking about the spirit world, about things supernatural, and you’re pushing a stick into a hornet’s nest. People like me and them, we take that kind of thing seriously. Don’t fool with it; it’s dangerous.”
There was an uneasy moment of silence as the children looked to Flint and then to Max. They sensed uncertainty and perhaps discord. Xavier realized Max could be stepping into a world he knew nothing about and for the first time sided with Flint.
“Max,” he said quietly but pointedly, “listen to Flint. He’s right. You can’t mess with that stuff. I know what I said last night, but you tell these people somethin’ like that and they’re gonna expect you to show your hand. That’s shaman stuff; you can’t pretend with that. Come on, chico, let’s get out of here.”
“You tell them that I have gone through the tunnel of death. I have been to the other side and I came back. I have flown as an eagle and run as a jackal, and I have touched the spirit of the jaguar. My wayob calls me Brother of the Night.”
Xavier was stunned into silence. Flint got
to his feet, as if to strike Max. He held his ground because something told him this strange English boy who had survived in this lethal wilderness was telling the truth. It was in his eyes.
“Tell them,” Max said.
As Flint spoke of Max’s shape-shifting experiences, the children fell silent and the looping calls of the jungle birds were all that could be heard. It was Setting Star who spoke first. She faced her brother and then the other children who got to their feet. Perhaps, Max thought, it was Setting Star who had the voice of the group.
“She says she believes you are a shaman and that they will help,” Flint said. “Their own parents were taken by the Serpent Warriors. Somewhere beyond the hummingbird god. It’s already killed a couple of the kids who tried to escape through the mountains.”
“Ask them about my mum. She was around here somewhere.” He gave the pictures to Tree Walker and his sister. “Was my mum with them? Was she taken as well?”
Flint asked the questions again and Tree Walker answered. Max listened to Flint’s translation.
“There’s a story about a white woman. She came in with a guide, but the woman got taken to the pyramid temple.”
Fear and hope mingled in Max’s heart. “Flint, don’t you see? That has to be where she was. You’ve seen the pictures.”
Flint shrugged. He did not want to tear apart Max’s hope. He glanced at Xavier, who sat listening.
“Cousin, it’s time for a reality check. Best thing we can do is get out of here. There has to be a way. We can’t go back through the cave—those guys will still be there. We gotta let these kids help us, yeah? There’s some really bad guys in here.”
Setting Star held one of the photographs toward Max. Her voice held regret. Max took the photograph back.
“She says this is near a temple of the Serpent Warriors. If your mother was there … then … well, then she wouldn’t have survived. That’s where they sacrifice anyone captured.”
Max felt the flutter of panic in his throat and chest. Terrible images of ritual killing flashed in his mind. And Mum. No! Was that why his dad had run?
