The Jaguar

by A. T. Grant

  He offered the object reverentially to Mulac. Acan had already retrieved a flint axe and stood ready to dig. Mulac peeled away layer after layer to reveal a hollow clay idol, with a red earth glaze over the painted features of Emetaly.

  “It is Ix-Chel!” Acan exclaimed in surprise. “Now we shall not need monks or Coba priests to bring the spirit of the mother goddess to this temple.”

  The two friends did not respond. They sat beside each other, watching as Acan began to dig rapidly through a lose mix of gravel and soil. After a few minutes, the priest squeezed Mulac’s hand to indicate it was time for the burial. Mulac fell to his knees and placed the vessel carefully into the hole, the clay head pointing towards the pyramid, as though he were laying a sleeping child into its cot.

  “Farewell, Emetaly,” Mulac whispered.

  The priest led Mulac in prayer, whilst Acan backfilled the grave and then squatted to ensure their earthwork was well disguised. As he stood again, satisfied, workers were already filing in ones and two back onto the building site.

  Ah Kin Lo drew a necklace of tiny conch shells from a pocket and placed it carefully upon Acan’s shoulders. “By all the gods of land, sea and sky, may you be blessed.” He held both of Acan’s calloused hands tightly between his own bony fingers for several moments and prayed. Then he turned to Mulac. “Now it is time to go home,” he concluded.

  Act IV: Love and Betrayal

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tulum

  Through snippets of conversation, Laura was able to piece together some information about her room-mate for the night. Dana and Marcus had been talking intently, ever since the end of the main course. Hannah and Lloyd had gone for a walk along the beach with Felicity and Ethan. Sharon and John Tanner were at another table, sharing an ice-cold jug of beer with Jackie and Darryl Morgan. David sat beside Laura and, as far as she could tell, was fast asleep. Dana had studied Business in Liverpool and had spent a year as an exchange student in the Economics Department at Boston University. She had briefly been married to an American, but the relationship broke down a year after they returned to England. Her first full-time job had been importing fine fabrics from East Asia, a role she acquired thanks to family connections back in Ireland. The post had furthered her love of the exotic so, when a junior management position had arisen within Carlton Travel, she had jumped ship, despite an initial drop in salary.

  As Laura continued to eavesdrop, she increasingly felt even more that Dana and she were kindred spirits, although she remained a little intimidated by her formality and vaguely regal bearing. Marcus was obviously listening to her intently. Both seemed to have forgotten Laura and David altogether about halfway through dessert, which had been a glorious mix of tropical fruit, biscuit and ice-cream. As she listened, Laura discovered very little new about Marcus, except that he had worked briefly and unsuccessfully as a junior city trader. She wondered whether there was all that much more to discover: lots of activity, but little reflection, she concluded, somewhat unkindly. Then again she, as much as these two, was just another lifestyle refugee, privileged enough to escape the constraints of a nine to five existence. Looking out from the terrace of their latest hotel onto the most perfect beach and seascape she had ever seen, she at least did not need to rationalise some self-serving explanation.

  David began to snore contentedly. Laura smiled to herself. He was probably the most curious individual she had ever met: a fellow lost sheep who had somehow taken only hours to become the centre of their flock. There was something fundamentally decent about David. He had absolutely no sense of his own importance and, although he obviously experienced this as a lack of self-worth, it gave him an aura of humility and honesty that was only heightened by his willingness to joke at his own expense. Laura could imagine David too struggling with the daily grind. He simply would not have the artifice to say the right things to the right people at the right time. Froth and flotsam rise to the surface, as well as the cream. Remembering her father’s words, for the first time they made real sense to her. She wondered whether this same lack of guile accounted for David’s difficulties with women. She also had no doubt that he was far more loved than he would probably ever realise.

  Laura decided to go for a walk on the beach, but she would head in the opposite direction to the others. She had found few opportunities in her life to be truly on her own and she did not want to lose this one. As she pushed herself up from the table, Dana briefly looked over to her and winked. It was clear that she was not going to be missed.

  Steps led from the high terrace onto a sand-dune. Laura tottered unsteadily from the final step onto the steeply-sloping sand, her hat in one hand and a camera in the other. Slipping onto the beach, she turned to examine their new accommodation. It was one of a number of boutique hotels ranged along the coast, south of Tulum, in an area that had once been a hippy strip. It was now a niche market heaven, offering everything from eco-retreats to creative arts classes and almost every kind of relaxation therapy possible under a tropical sun. Out of curiosity she had examined the prices posted in the lobby. Though occupying only a narrow strip of tropical garden between the pothole-ridden coast road and the back of the dunes, it was the most expensive accommodation in which Laura had ever stayed. Dana had looked over her shoulder and informed her the area made so much money for foreign investors that the State Government of Quintana Roo were doing all the law allowed to declare the properties illegal, in the hope of cashing in themselves.

  The main building was little more than a large, stylish beach bungalow. It was fringed by lavish huts which formed the best accommodation option, each with its own patio and jacuzzi. She and Dana were in rather noisy staff quarters, squeezed between a café and the laundry room back down by the highway, but this was still a million miles from childhood visits with bucket and spade to a windswept holiday park in the West Country.

  The beach stretched in a gentle arc towards the south, disappearing into a heat haze long before it ended. Through this haze, she reasoned, must be the Sian Kaan Biosphere Reserve, their next destination and the setting for the most intrepid part of the trip. Cesar had told her that the Mayans named it the place where the sky begins and, looking now in that direction, it was not hard to see why. Laura followed a tideline, close to the token waves which slapped aimlessly upon the foreshore. Flashes of silver broke from deeper waters behind each wave, as small fishes dodged bigger ones and headed for the shallows. A pelican flapped lazily past. Laura recognised the bird, but was surprised by the larger than expected size. As she watched, it half-circled back towards her then cartwheeled suddenly into the water. Seconds later it emerged again, shaking spray from its head and gulping down the large prize stored in its gullet. Laura stopped and turned to face the distant horizon. As far as she could see there was only sea and sky. Nothing evoked the deep past more than the ocean. She felt like a child returning to its mother. An ocean was eternal; an ocean felt like home and the beating of the waves upon the sand was as sure and soothing as the beating of a mother’s heart. Laura began to cry.

  There was still nobody else on the strand, but Laura was beginning to understand why. It was, she surmised, something after two o’clock in the afternoon and the sunshine was beginning to oppress, particularly as there was, as yet, little breeze. She could see a break in the dunes, flanked by a pair of cottages, so headed for this gap. As she made her way up the beach, two young Mexican children burst from the pathway and sped, laughing, towards the surf.

  “Hola crayola, Gringa, Hola Crayola, Gringa” they chanted at Laura, in between breathes and conspiratorial giggles.

  The little girl looked back, gauging Laura’s reaction after shooting by. As her elder brother jumped into the spray, she suddenly fell, her face burying itself in the fine white coral dust. Laura ran to assist. The girl pushed herself upwards then hurt herself more by rubbing sand deep into her eyes. She began to cry. In the pocket of her pale khaki
shorts Laura found a handkerchief. She offered it to the girl, who swatted it away and cried some more. Her parents had been following on behind, the father carrying a rug and a large water bottle and the mother a picnic basket. The father squatted beside Laura, smiled apologetically, poured water onto his daughter’s upturned face, then used Laura’s handkerchief to wipe it clean.

  “Would you like me to wash this for you?” He offered Laura the now grime-ridden rag.

  “No, don’t worry, I have clean ones back at my hotel. I just hope your daughter is OK.”

  “She is fine. I heard my children being rather disrespectful to you, so I think Gabriela owes you both an apology and a thank you for helping her.” The man looked disapprovingly at his still sniffling daughter. She stared stubbornly back at him then, unexpectedly, jumped to her feet and kissed Laura on the cheek.

  “Well, I think that about covers it,” Laura laughed.

  The girl beamed at her and both parents chuckled too. Laura was about to walk on when the glamorous looking wife enquired where she was staying.

  “El Templo.”

  “Yo veo, you must be with the British party?”

  Laura nodded, wondering how they knew she was British, before deciding she probably wouldn’t want to know the answer.

  “We are staying there too. We saw you, when you arrived this morning. We were in the café, eating pancakes.”

  “I had a chocolate one,” the girl announced proudly, in perfect English.

  “My favourite,” Laura lied. “Then I hope to see you all at dinner.”

  “You know,” the man added, “It is so nice to see Europeans in this area. They are so much politer than the average US tourist. They stereotype us as drug-runners and kidnappers, or as poor, uneducated peasants. They are either afraid and huddle in big groups, or patronise us and throw their money around. You are just a kind, well-brought up young lady. Your parents must be proud.”

  Laura was suddenly crestfallen.

  “You are being too personal, Roberto. Stop embarrassing the girl.”

  “Lo siento. Please enjoy your walk and maybe we will see you later.” He passed the bottle of mineral water to his wife, cast his rug across the floor then ran to join his son in the sea.

  “My name is Sofia. Please forgive my husband. He works for a large American multinational in Mexico City. He travels often to the United States and gets frustrated by the way he’s sometimes treated there. This is the first proper holiday we’ve taken since our children were born.”

  “My name is Laura. Encantada. Officially I’m a travel company employee, but this area is so beautiful and relaxing I feel more like one of the clients.”

  “And what will your group do here, Laura?”

  “We shall stay for a few days in the biosphere reserve down the coast. We have special permission to camp there.”

  “Then you are very lucky. I think this area is exceptionally beautiful and you can see many things, as they say in the brochures. Do you know the road into the park is closed?

  Laura shook her head and noticed, as she did so, that she was beginning to develop a slight heat-induced headache.

  “We were told there were three days of unusually heavy rain in this area last week. The road in is not surfaced and it’s full of large potholes, so everyone travels by jeep. Apparently, the flooding was so bad that several sections have been washed away completely. There’s a little fishing village called Punta Allen, at the tip of this peninsula. The locals are travelling along the coast in the tourist boats they usually use to explore the lagoons. Some are walking the broken section then using a special bus service, provided by the National Park Authorities.”

  “Do you know how long the road will stay closed?”

  “The hotel manager said he expected it to be for at least another week. The recent bad weather caused lots of other flood damage and I don’t think this area is a priority.”

  “I’m sure our local guides must know this, but I will check as soon as I get back. I’m glad that I met you, Sofia.”

  “De nada. Have a wonderful adventure.”

  Back on the broad hotel terrace the conversation had finally turned to work. Marcus suggested he and Dana might consider the map and guidebook that he had left back at a beach hut. David had generously volunteered to share his luxurious quarters, saving Marcus from the rigours of the staff accommodation block. As he was now snoring loudly beside them, on an otherwise empty deck, it seemed reasonable to assume they would not be disturbed. Marcus commented at the lack of guests, but Dana assured him it was a sign everyone was content.

  “I’ll need to go back soon and pick up some things for the expedition,” Dana advised, after they had moved the short distance to the hut. They sat outside, watching the seabirds and the tall tussock grasses dance around them in the now steady onshore breeze. Off to their right they could still see David, sprawled awkwardly between two slatted wooden seats.

  “Don’t worry, he’s out of the sun and the waiters will look after him.” Marcus was wrestling with his map in the wind, but it refused to sit quietly on the low table between them.

  They sipped at cups of coffee. Neither spoke nor bothered with the guidebook, which was now the only thing preventing the map from taking to the air.

  Marcus yawned. “Cesar should be back with Carlos and our equipment soon. I expect I’ll be busy helping them sort it all out. I just hope everyone will cope OK, swapping this luxury for paddling and sleeping under canvass.”

  “Sleeping under the stars, I hope,” Dana added. “Do you think that insects will be a problem?”

  “Hard to tell: Cesar doesn’t think they should be too bad, but there has been a lot of wet weather recently.”

  There was a sudden rush of air around the map, which began to drag the guidebook towards the floor. Both Dana and Marcus reached instinctively for it. Their hands touched and, as the breeze subsided, neither felt the urge to withdraw. Dana let her fingers trace over Marcus’ knuckles and down to his wrist. Suddenly wide awake, he felt her fingers tighten as she pulled his hand toward her, and then the moistness of her lips as she kissed it tenderly. She laid the hand down gently but deliberately, upon her right thigh. As she half turned towards him, Marcus let it slip from the edge of her shorts onto soft, cool, yielding flesh. He stretched to caress the inside of the long limb. Dana sighed, almost inaudibly, as her knees fell slowly apart.

  Marcus swung from his chair. For a moment he stood uncertainly before her, casting around for any sign that they might be being observed, but all his stress from the previous day was sliding towards abandon. Dana recaptured his gaze as she used her slender fingers to calmly unbutton the top of her blouse. Marcus dropped impatiently to the floor. He grabbed the underside of each inviting thigh, slid his hands upward past the hem of Dana’s shorts and pulled at the lacy edge of her panties. As he kissed his way slowly forward over Dana’s flushed skin, she used her nails to gently explore his scalp. She ran her hands across his cheeks and pulled his head upwards. Her lips met his, as he pressed still closer, then he lifted her into his arms in one smooth, powerful movement. She snuggled into his broad chest, listening to the powerful beat of his heart. Searching for a gap in his check shirt, she bit a button from its binding and licked at the hair-spattered morsel of chest it revealed. Letting one limb fall, she felt along the glass of the patio doors for the handle. She pulled, and Marcus thrust out a foot to force the door open. Embracing the deep shade of the interior, Dana let her buttocks melt into Marcus’ powerful grip. She clenched her deepest muscles and bit at her lower lip.

  Marcus laid her gently on the bed and began to remove his shirt. Dana lay back and watched his broad silhouette undressing in the darkness. Unnecessary layers of strain and decorum peeled away and it was only the burning excitement in her loins that prevented her drifting into deep and contented sleep. Then h
e was upon her, pulling at her underwear with one hand, and gathering a spray of hair from her waterfall of curls in the other. He ripped at her blouse and buried his face in the petite ivory pinnacles within. Dana lingered over the smell of him, tart and male and heavy with must. She could feel him searching in the dark. Thrusting her arms downwards she wriggled from the last vestige of clothing and lay expectant and exposed, acutely aware of her own snatched breathing and of Marcus repeating her name, over and over, as though marking a new, slower passage of time.

  She was swimming in a rich, dark, pool of pleasure, weightless and free: a speck of life in a vast sea, serenaded by ancient leviathans. She wondered at the scattered shards of light breaking the surface above her. The broken outline of a strong male face, with predatory amber eyes, gazed down at her then thrust deep into her world. She was being pulled toward the surface, faster and faster. Then she broke free of the blue with a gasp of pain and fulfilment. Marcus collapsed beside her onto the bed, the breath leaving his body as though never to return. Moments later, he was snoring as loudly as David.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ciudad Juaraz

  Old Paulo woke from a long, deep sleep. He had spent the previous day in bed, unable to settle, but equally unable to focus on the urgent issues his family faced. Reinvigorated, he was determined to make amends. Only half dressed, he threw open the door to the room and ordered the guard outside to raise Eusabio and arrange for breakfast to be sent up.

  Eusabio was not in a good mood and Paulo felt his manner bordered on disrespect. He had been unable to contact anyone in Barrio Fuerte, including his own men, and he had just had an argument with Jorge Garcia. Jorge had previously failed to show up to buy identity card-making materials from Luis. “He told me he pulled out of the meeting because he was being tailed, but then why did he never contact us to apologise? I don’t believe him. He said he was too busy to call and that then he forgot. Who the hell does he think he’s dealing with? I’ve a good mind to go around now and take out the slippery bastard.”