The Book of True Desires

by Betina Krahn

  There was one who didn’t join them around the fire, but sat some distance away against a tree trunk. Yago, too, had been shot but it was a clean flesh wound to the upper arm and he simply bound it with a piece of his shirt and refused to have old Yazkuz look at it. Ruz came forward to say it had been Yago that had fired one of the shots that struck Castille. Hart searched the big man’s blunt-featured face and nodded, acknowledging his help but deferring any decision on his fate until another time. To his credit, the big man did not try to run; he seemed to know there were things far worse than human justice waiting in the jungle.

  It was the longest night of Hart’s life. As soon as the first gray fingers of dawn poked through the upper canopy, he gathered Cordelia up and carried her all the way to Yazkuz’s house on the outskirts of the village, which turned out to be closer than they thought. By the light of day, Yazkuz recognized the area from her collecting trips and was able to guide them.

  It wasn’t long before word spread that they had returned and the villagers arrived with gifts of food and offers of help in tidying their camp, which hadn’t been touched in the six days since Castille’s men searched it.

  By agreement, no one mentioned the packs of gold artifacts stored in Yazkuz’s cellar, or said they discovered anything more than a few old ruins in a canyon. By unspoken agreement, Yago was given some supplies and his gun and was permitted to walk the trail that led back toward civilization. They owed at least something to the man, as Hart explained to Yazkuz. And he had no stomach for vengeance.

  Cordelia awakened twice after she reached Yazkuz’s house. Each time she saw Hart holding her hand, smiled weakly, and tried to speak. Each time he stroked her hair, told her to save her strength, and watched her sink back into oblivion, feeling his heart sinking with her.

  Yazkuz used every herb in her live-in pharmacopeia to try to reduce the inflammation that had set in and start the healing. Hart racked his brain, trying to think of things he had learned that might help. By the end of the second night, he was desperate enough to try anything. When Yazkuz brought him one of the wrinkly white roots from the red orchid, he was anguished enough by the thought of losing her to accept it.

  He had no idea how it worked, when it worked, or what it did to the body.

  Yet it was all he had.

  He crushed the root and put it on Cordelia’s tongue. And he prayed.

  The effects began right away—erratic heartbeat, uneven breathing, sharply rising fever. Immediately he repented the desperation that caused him to give into the temptation to use such an unknown, unproven substance on her. It was the equivalent of witch-doctoring, he thought, looking at Yazkuz, who sat with her eyes closed, in deep communion with the spirits she revered. Indeed, that was just what it was. And he bowed his head to pray that whatever else it was, it would be effective.

  In the depths of the third night, Hart sat bathing her skin and fanning her to reduce the heat in her. In the dimness of the little house, among the bundles of dried herbs and arcane bits of healing magic, he realized that his “scientific” efforts and the old girl’s superstition had more than a little in common. They just went about their search for healing in very different ways. How ironic that the life of the woman he loved would be decided by the efficacy of a healing practice he had always decried.

  He stroked Cordelia’s hair and her feverish face, willing, begging her to come back to him, and powerless to make it happen. Then he knelt by her head and poured his heart out in words, knowing her body was asleep but praying her spirit would hear.

  “Don’t leave me, Cordelia. Not just when I’ve found you. Not just when I’ve finally figured out what a heart is for. Not before I have a chance to tell you how much you mean to me…how the prospect of seeing you makes the sun rise each morning…how the pleasure of touching you explains why I was made with hands… how the beat of your heart sets the rhythm of time itself…how your movement ordains the music of the spheres…how your smile, your presence, is proof of good in the world. You make me want to climb mountains and swim oceans and swing from the stars. I feel like I can do anything—everything with you in my heart.”

  Tears filled his eyes and his voice.

  “But without you, Cordelia O’Keefe Blackburn, I don’t know if I could even go on living. Come back to me. Please come back to me.”

  He touched her lips with his and one of his tears fell onto her cheek.

  “I love you.”

  He laid his head down on her shoulder, murmuring those words over and over, a prayer for the living, a hope for the future. And somewhere toward dawn fatigue claimed him and he slept.

  Yazkuz woke him midmorning with a shriek. He started up, knocking over the stool he’d been sitting on. “Wh–what? What is it?”

  “The fever—she goes!”

  Frantic over the “she goes” part, he checked Cordelia and found her cool and damp—sweating—her heart beating normally, her breathing slow and regular. He picked up the old girl and whirled her around.

  “She’s all right!” he shouted. “She’s going to be all right!”

  Every hour after that brought her closer to healing and nearer consciousness. When she finally opened her eyes that evening as he tried to get some weak tea and fruit juice into her, he thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful as her amber eyes.

  “Good God, O’Keefe, give me a scare, why don’t you?” he uttered, his heartfelt eloquence totally fled now that she was back.

  “You were really worried about me?” she rasped out, looking at the circles under his eyes and the nearly ten-day-old beard growth on his face. She grinned. “I’ll live, but only if you promise to shave.”

  He laughed and raised his hand. “Every day for the rest of my life.”

  When he ducked out the door to make good his promise, she sighed.

  “The rest of his life? That sounds promising.”

  Hedda came rushing in with the professor and hugged her and cried.

  “So how does it feel to be back from the dead?” Cordelia asked Valiente.

  He chuckled. “You should know. You give us very big scare, Cordelia.”

  “Between the two of you, I’ve been a nervous wreck.” Hedda’s eyes shone through a prism of tears. “I’m serving notice—this is my last adventure. I’m retiring. You’ll just have to find someone younger and stronger to share your adventures from now on.” She squeezed the professor’s hand. “I have… other things to do.”

  Next the Platano brothers came in to pay their respects, beaming pleasure at seeing her so improved. They brought news that they had a booming burro business and that little Goodnight had been purchased for a record sum.

  Yazkuz finally shooed them out and made her a tisane of something foul tasting and told her to rest. When she awoke later, she found Hart sitting by her bed, writing in his journal. He was bathed and shaved and dressed once again in his clean khakis. When he realized she was awake, he laid the journal on the bed beside her and leaned close.

  “Good evening,” he said, his voice rumbling through her, setting everything in her soul to rights—until she realized what he was doing. She lifted her head and reached for the journal.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

  “Funny thing about that. I found it on the trail when Ruz was showing me some jaguar tracks—near where you and Castille were camped. I couldn’t believe it at first, but then I realized I must have left it in my rucksack that Castille had used for carrying some of his gold.”

  “I…I…” She looked up, scarcely able to confess to those beautiful light gray eyes. “I realized what it was… and so I…I kept it for you… until Castille saw me with it and tossed it away. So, you found it.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You kept it. You didn’t happen to read any of it, did you? My private, personal journal?”

  She looked straight into his eyes and blinked.

  “Of course not.”

  He smiled and gave her a kiss on the
lips that pulled at least part of the truth from her.

  “The truth is, having it, holding it, got me through that ordeal. I had no idea whether you were alive or dead, but when I held it, I felt you were close to me.” Her heart was beating erratically again, but not from any illness. “The thing I regretted most”—she reached up with her good arm to stroke his face—“was that I hadn’t told you that I love you. But I do, Hart. I love you with everything in me and I can’t imagine going on in a world without you in it.”

  She used his shirt collar to pull him down to kiss her.

  “I assure you, the feeling is mutual,” he said when he could take a breath.

  “Then say it,” she muttered against his lips.

  “I love you, Cordelia. With everything in me. Which is basically all I have in this world. Just me. No frills or accessories.”

  She laughed. “I think the basic model will do just fine.”

  Four days later, she was well enough to travel. It was nothing short of a miracle, Hart said, vowing not to use the red orchid cure again until he’d had a chance to fully investigate the plant’s properties and determine appropriate dosages and control its wild effects—like the bizarre urge to say exactly what was in one’s heart. Before he left, Yazkuz loaded him up with enough herbs and botanical curiosities to keep him busy in a laboratory for years. And after considerable consultation with the Jaguar Spirit, she insisted on sending three of the bags of gold back to civilization with them, to help fund Hart’s healing mission. A parting “Gift of the Jaguar.”

  The Platanos insisted on escorting them back down the river to the coast. But because Cordelia was still regaining her strength, Hart insisted—over her objection—that she ride every step of the way.

  “My feet practically drag the ground,” she protested, feeling grossly oversized for poor Rita.

  “A donkey was good enough for the Virgin Mary, it should be good enough for you,” Hart declared, and that was the end of it. After all, who could argue with the Virgin Mary’s taste in transportation?

  At the coast, they waited only two days before O’Brien appeared, right on schedule. He brought news that the battleship Maine had been sunk in Havana Harbor and the tide of opinion in the United States was finally swinging toward helping Cuba in its war with Spain. He was steaming straight for Tampa to pick up supplies collected by the Cuban community for the freedom fighters.

  It was on the third day out that Cordelia, mostly healed, invaded Hart’s cabin to see if he were all right. He hadn’t been troubled with seasickness nearly as much this trip, but she worried every time he disappeared for a while that it had recurred. Oddly, he wasn’t in the cabin he shared with the professor. His bunk was neatly made and on it lay his journal, open to his latest entry.

  Curiosity drew her to the book—just for a glimpse of his hand, she told herself—since it had meant so much to her once. In spite of a twinge of conscience, she picked it up and read an entry that caused her stomach to melt and her knees to weaken.

  March 5, Day 45

  Headed for Tampa on O’Brien’s boat. Hard to believe it’s almost over. Must confess to feeling a little chopfallen. Gotten rather used to puking over a railing, shaking boots in the morning to check for vermin, and using leaves for toilet paper. (May never be able to look a Boston fern in the eye again.) I should be relieved to be rid of the smells of mosquito balm, gun oil, and fish charred unrecognizable over an open fire. And beans. If I never eat another dried bean again it will be too soon.

  Strange how the human being can adjust to and accept even the most extreme conditions over time. Being chased, shot at, and sleep deprived… terrorized by hungry panthers, bitten by snakes, kissed witless by women… all becomes quite tolerable after a while. Shocking really.

  One thing I won’t miss is O’Keefe. Damned impossible woman. Reckless and stubborn, ready to risk life and limb at the drop of a hat. Stalked by wild animals, blown up, shot, half drowned, nothing seems to faze her. Crack shot, though. And those legs. And delectable breasts. Biblical pomegranates suddenly make sense. Years of catechism finally validated. And those kisses. Quite intoxicating, actually. Never felt like running stark naked through Trefalgar Square before I kissed her.

  Thank God she wasn’t awake to hear me make a fool of myself the other night in Yazzie’s hut. Blathering on about finally figuring out what a heart was for. About how she makes the sun rise for me every morning. And that business of the pleasure of touching her explaining why I was made with hands…and how her heartbeat sets the rhythm of time itself for me… that she makes me want to climb mountains and swim oceans…

  Whew. Glad she doesn’t know yet how much my world depends on her. Do, however, wish I could see the look on her face when she reads this:

  Marry me, O’Keefe.

  She staggered back and plopped down on a chair, staring at those words. Then she jumped up and burst from the cabin. She found him on the aft deck, looking out over the wake they were leaving and she threw her arms around him.

  “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!”

  Thirty-eight

  The setting sun was putting on a spectacular display of golds, pinks, and reds over the Gulf as Hardacre sat dozing in a chaise on the veranda of his quaint little house on the Bayshore in Tampa. Night after night he came out here with his lap robe and his warm milk toddy to stare off into the sunset and miss the old days… the old ways…the old boys.

  One boy in particular.

  Dark hair and light eyes… sober and earnest…always still as a mouse beside his mother in church …his slightly too-large ears alert for every nuance, absorbing every grandiose admonition and heartfelt plea. But there were other times, too… learning to ride a pony…walking on stilts… making a metal hoop sing on the brick pavement… his laughter rang out sweet… his mischief innocent, never mean. Good hearted, he was. And generous. A little gullible. Like his poor mother, who had the misfortune to fall in love with a man whose heart would always be divided between the halls of power and the back-rooms of influence—with little room left over for the claims of a wife and child.

  The sound of someone coming up the brick walk toward the veranda made him open his eyes. There she was, coming toward him, a short split skirt, boots, a khaki shirt, and a Panama hat, the same chestnut hair and hot amber eyes, the same eye-popping curves. He could have sworn there was a gun belt slung across her hip. He closed his eyes for a minute, shook his head, then reopened them in time to see her step onto the veranda.

  Behind her, looming like an oversized shadow was none other than his once and possibly future butler, dressed in the oddest get-up, all big boots and khaki, looking half military and half savage, his hair way too long and his skin so sun-bronzed that his light eyes stood out like Wedgewood saucers.

  “You!” He sat up completely, all eyes and ears now, focused on her and the man beside her. “You’re back.”

  “We are indeed.” She set the bag she carried on the porch by her feet and looked him over. “With results.”

  He tossed aside his lap robe and scooted forward on the seat, trying to gain purchase to lever himself up. Both looked as if they might step in to offer help, but he puffed up his chest and glowered to keep them back, and managed to make it to his feet on his own and reach for his cane.

  “Inside,” he said, gesturing to the screen doors. He stood in front of them for a moment as if expecting someone to open them, then scowled at Goodnight and opened them himself.

  The parlor he headed for had high white walls and ceilings, mahogany floors, and long, plantation-shuttered windows that were open to admit the breeze from the bay across the boulevard. He thumped his way over to a parlor card table with chairs and lowered himself into a seat. Then he rang a bell on the corner of the table that caused Goodnight to start and glare at the bane of his former existence.

  “Sit,” he ordered them, pointing at the chairs drawn up to the mahogany table. “And let’s have th’ story. Did ye find the stones?”


  “You rang?” came a male voice from behind them. They turned to find a tall, athletic-looking young man in full military uniform standing on the parlor rug at attention. They could see his jaw tighten and his chin rise as they looked him over, and they couldn’t help noticing the officer’s bars on his collar.

  “Montgomery, bring us some brandy and some lemonade. With ice.”

  “Very good, sir.” The young man enunciated each word with an emphasis that relayed his contempt for the request, the requestor, and his position as requestee. He executed a full military about-face and strode out.

  “Who the devil was that?” Goodnight asked.

  “My new butler, leastwise for now. Got him in a little deal I cut with old Bill Shafter,” he said with a sly expression. “You know, General Shafter, head of this whole ‘Cuba’ thing. He’s settin’ up his HQ in the Tampa Bay Hotel. Montgomery there was one o’ his aides des camp. Took such a likin’ to th’ lad, I persuaded old Bill to assign him to me for a while.”

  “I can just imagine,” Goodnight muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Ain’t quite broke in yet, but at least he calls me sir,” Hardacre said, giving Goodnight a pointed look before turning to Cordelia. “Now what did you learn about my rubbings?”

  “Well, there is good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The bad,” he said, scowling, bracing with his arms out on the table.

  “The bad news is: your rubbings are gone, obliterated in a flood. The good news is: they were genuine and the carvings they were made on still exist.”

  This was more like it. Hardacre’s eyes lit with interest.

  “Still around, eh? Where were they? What were they?”

  “They were an arch of stones that led to a temple built to honor the Jaguar Spirit. It turned out, they did have to do with ‘the Gift of the Jaguar.’”