“What’s over there?” Hunter pointed to a gap in the cliff-side foliage that lay to the right of the shrine, just beyond the head of the ghostlike trail descending the cliff.
“The path from the estate. We have technicians who check the wells and the level of the cisterns so we know if water has to be rationed or pumped up from the cenote.”
“That happen often?”
“Only a few times. Abuelita doesn’t like pumping from the cenote. Once she made everyone haul water in buckets. Said it was better that way. In fact”—Lina put her hand on Hunter’s shoulder and leaned out, trying to see better—“I’ll bet that the pump doesn’t even work anymore. The pipe down the rim into the water is gone.”
Hunter absorbed the ancient cenote and modern shrine, the ghost path and cloudless sky. “Could be a long summer.”
“My mother’s mother had more underground cisterns built after the last drought. If we had to, we could irrigate enough of the estate crops to keep the villagers and ourselves alive. I barely remember my grandmother, but she was very determined that the estate be self-reliant.”
“Governments come and go. The need for food and water doesn’t.”
“We have other cenotes on Reyes Balam lands, but none of the size and accessibility of this one. Some are so steep that even a jaguar would get a workout on the way to water. Others are little more than ponds with muddy bottoms. A few archaeological divers mucked about in them, but didn’t find much.”
“Any divers in this one?”
“Philip dived it after he and Celia were married. He found the usual knives, faces, pots, figurines, jewelry—all of it broken during the act of sacrificing to the gods. What is given to the gods isn’t taken back.”
“People, too?” Hunter asked.
“Apparently. This cenote was an important center for the lowland Maya, especially after the Spanish came. Philip dredged the cenote for a sample of what was on the bottom. He recorded the length and type of bones, the variety of artifacts, and then threw the bones back.”
“Surprised he didn’t study them.”
“Some of the villagers were angry at Philip’s ‘violation’ of the cenote, so he returned the bones, concentrated on ruins, and everyone settled down.”
The sound of more voices came on the wind.
“Busy place,” Hunter murmured.
“The wheel of time turns tonight. The Long Count ends and the Fourteenth Baktun begins. It will be a lot more quiet after that. Until then”—she shrugged—“we’ll leave the cenote to the villagers. It costs us nothing and pleases them.”
“And they’ll be in church on Sundays and holy days.”
“Their lives, their choices.”
“A very modern point of view,” Hunter said quietly as he eased back undercover. “Neither the Maya nor the Spanish were so broad-minded. For a lot of cultures, religion is a blood sport.”
Lina followed Hunter’s move to leave. As she started to go back, her body stroked over his. Even if the trail hadn’t forced them close, she still would have touched him. She’d wanted him since her first breath this morning. Face-to-face with him, she paused, absorbed in how the silver in his eyes reflected the green shadows of the enclosing plants.
The voices from the other side of the cenote became louder, then faded, absorbed by the jungle.
“We haven’t really been alone since we left the estate,” Hunter said quietly in English. “That’s why we’re not finding out just how hard a limestone mattress is.”
She hesitated, not even a breath away from him, and switched to English. “We’re being followed?”
“Does your neck itch?”
“No more than usual in the jungle,” she said wryly. “Getting used to the insects takes me a week or two.”
He nodded. “But you know that we’re being watched. Not by the same people, but we’re never alone for more than a few minutes at a time.”
She shrugged. “There are three villages within several kilometers. Cenote de Balam is sacred, and this is a big holy day for the Maya. I’d be surprised if there weren’t people gathering around the area. Plus, I’m a Reyes Balam with a strange male at my side. Naturally they would look out for me.”
For a long moment Hunter weighed what Lina had said. Then he nodded. “So much for my fantasies of jungle sex.”
Lina smiled. “C’mon. Maybe we’ll get lucky in the ruins.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I’ve never had so much fun in my life,” she admitted.
“Will you enjoy it as much when you figure out it’s not a game?” he asked softly.
Before she could find an answer, Hunter was moving down the trail, away from the cenote.
And Lina.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HUNTER STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE SMALL CLEARING where Lina had parked the Bronco. The vehicle looked undisturbed, yet they had rarely been without the presence of voices on the wind.
“Wait,” Hunter said as Lina headed for the Bronco.
He circled the vehicle, saw nothing suspicious, and waved her over. After they got in, he watched Lina back the Bronco until she found a place to turn. She hadn’t said a word since the cenote.
“You drive very well,” he said.
“I thought you were mad at me.”
“I’m mad at the situation, not you.”
She got the vehicle straightened out and gave him a long look.
He smiled gently.
After a moment she put the Bronco in gear and headed back toward the main road.
“I’ve been driving estate roads since I was old enough to see over the dashboard,” she said. “Philip liked having someone to run errands for him on the digs. That way he didn’t have to leave a site for months at a time.”
“The villagers don’t drive?”
“Once a dig is set up, Philip doesn’t allow any vehicle but his own in the area.”
Hunter smiled thinly. “That puts the brakes on the size and quantity of what people can steal.”
“We have very little theft here.”
Crutchfeldt’s words about grave robbers at work on Reyes Balam lands echoed in Hunter’s mind, but he didn’t say anything. Whoever or whatever El Maya was, he terrified people to the point that outside artifact poachers apparently didn’t set foot on Reyes Balam lands—or if they did, they died.
“Loyalty is good,” Hunter said, “but not all humans are.”
“If theft occurs, it’s punished the Maya way.”
“Which is?”
“If the thief is from outside the estate lands,” Lina said reluctantly, “the villagers beat him. Savagely. If the thief is from one of our villages, he gets the beating after his right hand is chopped off with a machete.”
“That would limit the thieves,” Hunter said mildly. No scary El Maya mastermind necessary. Just a kind of pragmatism the civilized world shuns. Life lived very close to the bone.
“It’s the dark side of a quiet village,” Lina said. “I understand why the customs exist, but I don’t like all of them, any more than I like their preferential treatment of men over women. I don’t like the second-class citizenship of most Maya in Mexico either. Things are changing, but slowly. It’s education that works in the long run.”
“Choices,” Hunter said.
She nodded, then concentrated on a difficult stretch of the miserable “road.” He settled back and kept note of the state of the track, the compass in the dashboard, and any landmarks the jungle permitted. He could mentally retrace every bit of their way, starting at the compound and working outward. It was a skill that had become habit in his childhood, where river marshes and brush formed an enticing maze for a curious boy.
Lina turned onto the main estate road, followed it for a time, then turned off onto a side road that slowly unraveled into a limestone track barely worn through the relentless vegetation. The track dodged around bigger and bigger trees until only trunks and vines and the most shade-hardy shrubs existed at grou
nd level. The effect was almost parklike, but experience told Hunter that walking wouldn’t be easy.
With automatic motions, Lina turned the Bronco and backed down the roughest trail until she finally came to a stop.
“We’re here,” she said, turning off the engine.
He looked around and saw nothing much different than he had been seeing. “If you say so.”
“The foot trail is off to the left.”
She reached for the backpack, only to have him snag it first.
“It’s less than a kilometer,” she said.
“What is?”
“A surprise.”
Hunter compared where they were to the map he had built in his mind of the Reyes Balam estate. Right now they were perhaps two kilometers as the crow—or macaw—flies from the compound itself, and about a quarter of that to the Jaguar Cenote.
Eagerly Lina got out and headed for the trail that experience rather than her eyes told her was waiting. Hunter shut the Bronco door quietly behind him and walked into another aspect of the jungle world.
Copal and ceiba trees dominated the jungle, tall and mighty, their branches lifting to an unseen sky and their roots gripping the earth like a thousand snakes. For a moment Hunter saw the world as the Maya had. A huge ceiba tree was the only thing stitching the world together, the World Tree rooted in hell and holding heaven in its arms.
If the tree released its grip, reality would fly away.
The hair on the back of his arms and neck stood up. The last time he’d sensed anything like this, he had been far out from civilization, alone in the desert, at the edge of lost, in the presence of something that was far bigger than he was, something utterly indifferent to all things human.
The raucous call of a macaw grounded him again. Up above his head, a toucan snapped its bill. The thick, heavy bill looked like a fighting claw without a crab. The green on green of the jungle seethed with hidden life. Even when the jungle looked quiet, it was alive, moving, breathing, as restless in its own way as the sea.
And as relentless.
“Hunter?” Lina called softly.
He turned and walked toward her. She watched him, enjoying the lithe efficiency of his movements. He was the only man she’d ever known who was as comfortable in the wilds of the inhuman jungle as he was in the human jungle of a big city. She could picture him on a dig with an ease that was frightening.
I’ve always wanted a man who could handle both city and jungle. Question is, can I handle him?
She didn’t know. Part of her—the part that thought of her parents’ marriage—was wary of finding out. The rest of her hummed with anticipation.
“Are we there?” he said.
Lina realized she’d been standing and staring at Hunter. She shook herself.
“Until we reach the path, try not to leave any sign that we were here,” she said.
He gave her a questioning look.
“I…” she began, then stopped, wondering how to explain. “Where we’re going is very special. Villagers know about it, of course, but rarely visit.”
“Taboo?” he asked.
“Not exactly. Their lives and ceremonies center around the Jaguar Cenote, the Cenote de Balam, so there’s no reason to hike deep into the jungle. Village life doesn’t leave a lot of time or energy for sightseeing.”
“No tours?” he asked dryly.
“None, thank you very much. We don’t want this place trampled or loved to death. Leave that for the better-known sites, with their groomed grounds and guards and partially excavated ruins.”
“I’ll be more careful with the jungle than it will be with me,” Hunter promised.
Lina smiled. “The jungle thanks you.”
She turned and pushed gently through a barrier of young trees, vines, and shrubs struggling against one another in the small opening left when a copal monarch had fallen.
Watching, listening, Hunter followed, feeling like a water bug in a marsh. Everything was much bigger than he was, older, tougher. The vegetation’s struggle for light—for life itself—was timeless, all the more primal for its silence.
“Why didn’t the Maya worship the strangler fig tree?” Hunter asked. “It can kill the biggest of trees.”
“Many of the ceiba trees have just four main branches, like the four cardinal points. The roots are thick and obvious, their shoulders visible at the base of the trunk.” Carefully she picked a way through the thicket of shrubs and vines. “The ceiba trunk goes up and up and up, like a pillar separating the overworld from the underworld. No other tree is quite like it.”
Only after Lina and Hunter had passed through the tangle of plants did she unclip her machete. She checked her wrist compass, adjusted course, and set off. He followed her over rocky ground, around godlike ceiba trees growing taller and taller despite the weak soil feeding them. Some of them had grown together until their trunks were intertwined in unnatural embrace. The ground around them was sterile, sucked dry by the needs of the mighty trees.
The trail Lina followed was more unreal than real, better suited to four feet or wings. Claw marks reached above Hunter’s head on one of the copal trunks. Resin bled out, hardening in the air, ready to be used for the sacred, scented fire of Maya ceremonies.
“Jaguar,” Lina said, gesturing to the claw marks. “Though I don’t think we’ve had anyone on the estate grounds killed by one since I was a little girl.”
“You better be kidding.”
She smiled and then spoke with the softness the jungle seemed to demand. “I am. Mostly. Our entire holdings are protected land for jaguars. No hunting allowed. No scientific study either. Abuelita firmly believes the cats should be left alone as long as they leave the villagers alone.”
“What happens if a cat starts snacking on the locals?” Hunter asked.
“Then the family or the villagers take care of it. That’s as it must be. If the cats didn’t respect and avoid people, there soon would be no jaguars at all.”
The path became more obvious, although far from a well-beaten trail. Their feet made little noise and less impression on the jungle debris covering the ground. Only the occasional stain showed where boots had left marks on limestone rubble. The strident bird and monkey calls became part of the background, like an erratic heartbeat, noticeable only in its absence.
A striped iguana watched them, clinging to the side of a rock as big as the Bronco. There was a rough face carved on the stone, barely visible through an overgrowth of lichen and moss. Hunter couldn’t tell whether the face was a finished work or started and then abandoned because of one crisis or another.
Lina never paused. Nor did she find any need for her machete. Finally she clipped it back in place, deciding that Philip must have been on the path recently.
He promised not to dig here without telling me. It was the price of me leaving him alone for the last four summers.
But she knew that sometimes Philip’s promises were forgotten before the echo of the words had died. He wasn’t treacherous, simply self-absorbed. Something else would claim his attention and mere words exchanged between people would fade to nothing at all.
The canopy above them rustled and a flock of macaws burst through, leaving in their wake a random rain of droppings and half-eaten fruit. Red and blue streaked by, like tropical fish fleeing danger through a green sea.
Gradually Hunter noticed a random scattering of modern debris mostly hidden among the vines and moss—cigarette butts, scraps of greasy paper, broken glass winking from beneath green leaves, petals where no flowers were blooming nearby. Some of the petals were fresh.
Lina paused, listening.
Faint voices came from ahead.
Hunter’s hand touched the small of her back. His lips brushed over her ear.
“More villagers?” he asked very softly.
“Sounds like.” Her voice wasn’t as soft as his. She was curious rather than wary. “Probably they’re including some of the old places in tonight’s celebration. It�
��s a very big moment for the Maya.”
Hunter was remembering Crutchfeldt’s words about grave robbers and a man whose name it was death to speak. All things considered, assuming El Maya was a legend wasn’t smart.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Hunter said.
She waited, listening. “They’re gone now.”
“The back of my neck itches,” he said.
“Use more insect repellent.”
“Lina—”
She held up her hand, stopping his words.
Nothing came through the jungle but silence.
She waited for a long ten count, then another. When the small and large sounds of the jungle slowly returned, she looked at him.
“They’re gone,” she said.
“So are we,” he said, turning back toward the Bronco.
“I’m on Reyes Balam land. The locals know me. As long as you stay with me, they won’t bother either of us. In fact, they probably left rather than disturb me.”
Hunter stood and smelled the air, listened, and waited.
“Smoke of some kind,” he said finally.
“The jungle is too wet to burn,” she said impatiently.
“Cigarettes aren’t.”
“I’ve seen the litter. We’ll pick it up on the way out. If it’s messy again in a week, Abuelita or Carlos will send someone to clean up. The locals can treat their villages like garbage dumps, but not the rest of the Reyes Balam lands, especially around ruins.”
With that, Lina headed up the trail once more, her stride purposeful. Hunter knew he had the choice of dragging her screaming back to the Bronco—dumb idea, considering the protective natives—or following her.
Muttering curses that could shrivel leaves, he walked quickly after her.
“It’s just over the next rise,” she said without turning around.
Hunter eyed lichen-covered rubble that was more green than gray. Emerald spikes of aloe plants dotted the ridge like a low fence. Where the limestone pushed through the thin soil in great lumps, shrubbery flourished in the sun beyond the overwhelming reach of ceiba and copal trees.
Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel Page 25
