I shudder. “And before you arrived to the jungle?”
Manuel sinks the paddle deep into the water, navigating us away from the bank. “Yes, I made friends. But I was constantly moving from place to place. Hard to stay in touch with anyone.”
There’s a subtle note of bitterness that seasons his words.
“Sounds lonely.”
“I had a job to do.”
I swivel around on the bamboo and study him. He permits himself to lower his eyes for half a second before returning his attention to our surroundings. “You look older. Tougher.”
This time, he lets his eyes linger on my face. Assesses every curve, every line. “So do you.”
His scrutiny warms the blood in my cheeks. Part of me wants to sink into the moment, but I’m worried he’ll pull back. So I draw away first. “Do you know where we’re going?”
Manuel considers the area. “Somewhat. I wouldn’t have gone by river; it’s too easy to veer far away from where we need to stop the raft.” He points to a large hill with a dip in the middle. “We need to walk toward the hill. On the other side there’s a large grove of mahogany trees.”
“And beyond?”
His expression darkens, as if a veritable shadow has crossed his face. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Literally.”
“We’re crossing a bridge?”
He shrugs, his attention on the muddy banks.
“Why won’t you just tell me?”
“Trust me,” he says grimly. “It’s not something you need to think about right now.”
“I thought you said I was your sovereign.”
“And I thought you wanted to be friends.”
“Do you enjoy being cryptic?” I burst out. “Honestly. I fully understand that you’re mysterious and handsome and amazing at everything, but do you have to treat me like I’m three years old all the time—”
His eyes widen. But he’s not looking at me.
“What?” I follow the line of his gaze and let out a smothered cry. The river curves, and along the right muddy bank lies an enormous black caimán. A predator from another world, another time, sunning in the gloomy morning, its black scales shining dully. Ragged yellow teeth line its maw, bigger than Manuel’s palm. We drift past, and I drag in a mouthful of hot air; I’m rooted to the bamboo as we gently bob with the current.
“About twenty feet long,” Manuel whispers. “A male, by the look of his nostrils. I’ve never seen one so big.”
I shudder as our raft glides in front of the monster. He remains stone still, seemingly unaware of our presence. My attention stays fixed on the caimán, and when we pass him by, I let out a sigh of relief. But I still can’t tear my eyes from the sight of him. Beautiful and deadly.
His armored head swings around as the tail end of our boat glides by.
“Cielos! He’s woken up,” I say.
“What made you think he was sleeping?” Manuel dips the oar into the black water and urges us forward.
“What do we do?”
“We do nothing. If we leave him alone, chances are he’ll leave us—”
The caimán lunges quickly down the bank, splattering mud, and then slides into the water, vanishing completely below the surface. I yank my oar out of the water and turn to stare at Manuel, my jaw dropping.
“Stay calm,” he says, yanking out his machete. “He’s probably nervous and wants to get away from us.”
My palms are slick with sweat and my hair hangs limply down my back, damp from the humid air smothering every living thing. I clutch the bamboo stalk as if it were a weapon. Manuel stands at the front of our raft, the machete tucked between his legs, and propels us faster down the river, dipping the oar on the left and then right side, and back again. I face the other way, staring into the rippling depths. Terror shoots to every inch of my body.
The head of the caimán rises, cresting the water.
“Manuel!”
He turns, lays the oar on the raft, cradled by the bamboo, and then pulls me away from the edge. We huddle together in the center, down on our knees, bodies pressed tightly, our packs against us. “Hold on,” he whispers in my ear.
The black caimán sweeps past, nudging the raft, sending it gently spinning. Manuel clutches my waist, preventing any movement. His fingers dig into my sides. I peer over the edge as the monster doubles back, and even through the river’s murky water, twin lines of ridges are visible.
“He’s testing us.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice low. I’m afraid to speak louder. “What does he want?”
“He’s curious if he’s found food.”
Manuel grips me tighter. A rippling wave disturbs the water, long and foreboding. My breath lodges at the back of my throat, my lungs burning. The air grows thick with heat, our bodies baking. Sweat drips into my eyes. Overhead, the clouds swell, any moment threatening to burst.
The beast’s head reemerges as he circles us one, two, three rotations. He bumps us again—harder this time—and we bob up and down roughly, the water sloshing around us.
“Hold on,” Manuel whispers again. “He’s not done yet.”
I press closer to the bamboo and let out a soft whimper, praying the raft will hold us, praying we’ll survive this moment. Time stretches. I slap a mosquito on my neck.
The raft bucks underneath us and I scream—we lift up high into the air, and then slam down. Manuel’s hold loosens, jarred from the impact. I land hard on the bamboo, and pitch sideways, rolling away from him.
He reaches for me. “Condesa!”
I tumble into the murky river.
CAPÍTULO
Diez
The water’s strong current envelops my writhing body, dragging me under. I can’t see anything beneath the surface. My limbs tangle together as I twist amid bubbles and flailing arms, trying to find the right way up. The water is murky and warm, and strangely alive. Something brushes against my leg and I scream, losing precious air.
I can’t swim.
My heart slams against my chest, panic clawing at my skin like a hungry vulture. I kick once, twice, and break free. I reach up, my gaze focused on the smattering of light above my head, my pack helping me draw toward it. When I break the surface, terror coursing through my veins, rioting my blood and thundering in my ears, the raft is several feet up the river.
The current steals me farther away.
Manuel is on his hands and knees at the edge of the raft, furiously maneuvering it closer and shouting at me, but I can’t make sense of the words. This doesn’t feel real. I’m not in this river with an enormous predator close by. My vision blurs as water sweeps over my head. I fumble and swing my arms, trying to remain afloat. Once again, my head pops above the surface. I gasp, coughing up water.
“Condesa!” Manuel yells. “Stop moving! Tuck your arms and legs and float!”
My body can’t stop shaking. I sense movement, a sudden surge against the river.
If the jungle wants me, it will have me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to remember how to float. What did Manuel say? Lie on your back, parallel to the water. I slowly move into position, but the river is too strong for me to remain still.
Manuel urges the raft toward me, his movements controlled and ever so slow. He’s only a few feet away. But the black caimán swims in between us, grazing my body, taunting me. A scream rips out of me. A few yards away, his snout appears, midnight scales gleaming dully. His black eyes appear next, and slowly he inches forward, water rippling around his yawning jaw.
I turn away, moaning, my fear nearly swallowing me whole. The raft is so close. If I reach for it, I might be able to latch on. Manuel is just above me, his face set, his sole attention on the approaching beast. He yanks out a dagger tucked within his boot, looking so much like his mother, I can’t breathe for a second.
There’s no way I’ll make it without the caimán reaching me first. I start kicking wildly, my fingers outstretched. They slide against the
slick bamboo.
Manuel leaps over my head with a sudden roar. I grip the raft and haul myself up, my legs thrashing. I whip around as the caimán rears, Manuel glued to his head and upper back with one arm while the other slashes, sinking into one of the beast’s black eyes. The caimán snarls, his tail whipping back and forth, trying to buck the ranger.
Quickly, Manuel yanks his weapon free and stabs the monster’s other eye. A loud howl of fury and pain escapes from the caimán as Manuel jumps into the water. He swims for the raft, and I scoop up one of the oars, hold it out for him to hold on to.
Manuel ignores my offering and makes quick work of climbing on board. He sheathes the dagger and picks up the second oar. The caimán bellows again. The water surges, violently rocking us.
“We have to get off the river!” he yells, pointing to the opposite sandbank. “Rápido!”
I help him row the raft toward the shore. Something hits the bamboo and I glance down. There’s a sudden swelling of water underneath—
“Get down!” I cry, dropping to my knees.
The raft kicks up and slams onto the water; somehow we remain on board. Another caimán circles the raft, its eyes unharmed. It’s slightly smaller than the other.
“His mate!” Manuel says. “Hit her snout!”
The female approaches and I slap the paddle, making contact with her nose and she immediately ducks below the surface. We furiously row to the muddy bank and jump from the raft. My boots slip against the sludge as I race upward toward the tree line.
I turn around to find Manuel gaping at the water. A man rides on the back of the small caimán, blood snaking down both cheeks where his eyes used to be.
“No,” I whisper, fear twisting my stomach.
Manuel backs away from the edge as the caimán emerges from the water, slowly following him up. The man is ancient—grizzly gray beard, wrinkled skin clinging to a lean, muscular frame. He’s naked, carrying only a wooden staff. Around his neck hangs a black cord with an amber amulet dangling between his collarbone. He climbs off the back of the caimán—his mate?—and slams the end of his staff into the ground, murmuring something in the old language. The water behind him swells and rises, up to his ankles. He’s using Pacha magic—magic that bursts from deep within Mother Earth, their goddess.
“He’s calling up the river,” I say quickly.
“Run, Condesa,” Manuel says.
“You can’t fight them both!”
He shoots me a look of such withering scorn, it almost knocks me sideways. The caimán charges, heading straight for me. I whip around, my pack swinging wide. The creature follows, snapping her jaws, snarling at my heels as I race into the jungle. I dart around fallen logs, shoving vines out of the way, not caring what I touch. I glance over my shoulder. The beast struggles to navigate the dense jungle floor, slowing down. There are rocks and decaying timber clogging the path.
I stop and turn, breathing hard, protected by the immense trunks surrounding me. The sound of her frustrated snarls echoes in my ears. I’m trapped here, vulnerable to attack by other predators lurking in the gloom. My dagger! I reach into my pack, rummaging, until my finger nicks the sharp blade.
“Damn it,” I mutter as I pull my weapon from my bag. I clench the handle tightly, ignoring the blood dripping down my index finger. My ears strain to hear anything ominous, but it’s nearly impossible. I’ve forgotten how loud the jungle is, the constant thrum of activity and life, bursting and straining like a bird clamoring against its cage, desperate for freedom.
“Condesa,” someone says, from my left.
I drop the dagger with a sharp scream.
Manuel rolls his eyes and bends to scoop up the weapon. His tunic is stained red.
“You’re hurt.” I step toward him, but he waves me off.
“It’s not my blood—”
Another loud snarl comes from the direction of the female caimán.
Manuel takes my hand and leads me away from the sound. With his other, he uses his machete to clear a path. I follow, one miserable step at a time. The ground transforms into a muddy sludge, hard to walk through. I don’t know how Manuel knows where we’re going. Nothing is visible from above; the tangled branches are too thick with knots and hanging vines.
We walk for hours, until my legs scream with fatigue. Until the wounds across my shoulders protest every step, every inch of movement. My boots are sodden, and the bottom of my feet scream in protest. My blisters are back, probably bursting, the whole lot of them. I want to ask Manuel to stop, but I recognize the set of his shoulders, the determined strides to push on. A reminder that we aren’t safe. There’s no stopping to eat, but we do drink our fill of rainwater.
Manuel stops at last. “We need to set up camp.”
“Are we lost?”
His shoulders sag. “Maybe—none of this looks familiar. It’s best we stop for the night, and I can reassess in the morning.”
“How can I help?”
“It’s my problem, not yours.”
“Pardon me, but I think your current problems are mine also.” I nudge my shoulder against his. “Let me help. I can pay attention to our surroundings—”
“Wait. You aren’t paying attention?”
“Better attention,” I add quickly. “I’ll be careful to remember any funny-looking trees we walk by.” I let out a crack of grim laughter. “I mean, they all look funny, I guess.”
Manuel looks like he’s trying not laugh. “Just help me set up camp.”
“That I can do,” I say.
We find two trees the right distance apart to hang the hammock. Neither of us has eaten, and I think our stomachs are competing to see which is the loudest and most annoying.
Mine is currently winning.
Once our shelter is secure, Manuel looks over at me with an expression I’ve learned means: Pay attention to what I’m about to teach you. “Come on, Condesa,” he says. “Time to learn how to fish.”
My stomach drops. “We’re heading back to the river?”
“There’s a small stream nearby.” He pauses. “Can’t you hear it?”
I close my eyes and attempt to hear the sound of water. But the only noises clogging my senses are from the howling monkeys and hooting owls. Overhead, the canopy sweats; water plops onto the top of my head. I don’t think I’ve been completely dry since arriving.
“I don’t hear anything.”
He turns away from me, grabbing another bamboo stalk, and calls over his shoulder for me to follow him. The jungle’s heat clings to my skin, irritating the wounds across my shoulder blades. I can barely catch sight of Manuel as he darts through the forest, leading us down and away from camp. But then the trees spread farther apart, and at last Luna and all her glittering companions finally make an appearance through patches of wispy clouds. When I hold my hand up to my face, I can actually see it.
There might be a way for me to help, after all.
I call out to Manuel. He immediately stops and looks over his shoulder. I rummage in my bag and pull out my dented telescope. A smile breaks through Manuel’s grim features, like the dawn rising free from the horizon. He thinks I can finally be of some use.
Unease flickers through me.
He’s betting on me being a capable seer. But I’m not even that. I try not to let my dismay show—maybe by some miracle Luna will reveal her whole self to me, the stars perfectly aligning and staying in place long enough for me to interpret them. Manuel keeps away from me, giving me space to relax and empty my mind.
How many times has he watched me read the constellations? Watched me fail at nearly every attempt? The hope sparking in his gaze fills me with dread. He must think I’ve improved in the three years since he’s been gone.
I don’t want to disappoint him.
I drag in sips of warm air, and somehow it tastes sweet and clean. My breath fills my lungs, gently stretching and pulling, and then I exhale, releasing my worries. Slowly, I tilt my head back, my chin greeting the open sky, a
nd I lift the telescope to my right eye. The magic pulses in my veins, wanting to connect and latch onto a current only I can see. It glides upward, riding the wind, searching for the faint lines between each glimmering star.
A scrambled word appears, then transforms into another and then another, shifting and changing, like curls of smoke coming from a burning candle. I want to lower the telescope in frustration, but I’m keenly aware of Manuel’s hopeful presence. Waiting for me to come through. To contribute and do something right.
My gaze remains on the heavens. Until, finally, my shoulders slump. I stuff the scope back into my bag, fingers shaking. I sense him take a step toward me.
“Well?”
I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re guarded once more, already shifting to our surroundings, as if remembering that he alone is responsible for our fate.
“Unclear,” I say, miserable.
His gaze flickers to mine. His voice is unfailingly kind. “It’s fine.”
It’s not the least bit fine. I know it, and he knows it. I’m the reason he’s here, and I can’t even lead us in the right direction.
“I can try again.”
“Let’s catch dinner.” He turns away, but not before I see his face. Worry is carved into his features, in every line, down to the set of his jaw. I want to hurl the telescope into the flat darkness, but I can’t make my fingers let go.
We’re lost in the jungle.
There’s nothing I can do about it.
I follow after him and the stream finally comes into view, Luna’s watery portrait glimmering on the surface. Manuel stops at the water’s edge and plucks his dagger from within his boot. He carves the end of the bamboo, shaping it into a sharp prong. I peer into the water, but because I have only Luna’s light, I can’t make out anything in the depths. Manuel’s vision at night is a whole other story.
“I can’t see the fish,” I mutter.
“Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t watching you.”
Written in Starlight Page 8
