Aztec Gold

by Caridad Piñeiro

  They were also better armed. All of their guides carried rifles or pistols, as did each of the team members. As Cynthia’s hand shifted over the small pistol in the holster at her hip, she hoped she wouldn’t have need of it. If she did, however, the training her father had given her during their many travels would finally come in handy, as would the self-defense classes her mother had insisted on when she was younger due to her petite size and the remote locations they often visited. Add to those skills the ones she had learned in the survival course she had taken with Rafe, and she hoped she was set.

  Of course, she also wished that none of those precautions would be necessary and that Rafe’s disappearance could be explained by something other than an ancient Aztec demon goddess.

  They reached the settlement at the edge of the Devil’s Jungle when dusk was about to fall. During the course of the day the sun had risen high overhead, drying the soil and making their footing more stable but increasing the heat and humidity. Every bit of clothing on Cynthia was soaked and the fabric dragged and pulled with every step.

  The sight of the small but carefully tended village was a welcome one.

  The pueblo had been built in a narrow valley created by volcanic explosions that had occurred millennia earlier. The eruptions had formed a squat ridge of rugged hillsides that sprang up out of the jungle. At the farthest end of the valley, the land flattened once more and heralded the start of the Devil’s Jungle.

  A collection of two dozen or so adobe homes with thatched roofs surrounded a zocalo—a town square—in the center of the valley. In the middle of the zocalo sat a rough-hewn stone fountain. Cynthia’s mouth watered at the thought of a sip of what she hoped would be clear, cool water from an underground spring.

  The hillsides of the valley had been cleared of the thick jungle vegetation and planted using terraces cut into the ridges to increase the arable land and prevent mudslides during the rainy season. The practice was one the ancient Aztecs had used successfully centuries earlier.

  To the farthest side of the village spread a flat area that had been cleared for sporting events. A rectangular field of packed dirt had two large stone rings at either end. A group of boys was kicking around a soccer ball, and as Cynthia watched, one of them sent the ball sailing through the stone ring.

  Tlachtli, she thought, recalling the name of the ancient Aztec ball game as they continued toward the entrance to the village.

  At the group’s approach through the mouth of the valley, a half a dozen or so villagers set out from the settlement and met them halfway. Hernandez seemed to have quite a rapport with the settlers. He had explained to his team during the trek through the jungle that many of the villagers had left their European ways back in Mexico City to embrace the culture of their Aztec ancestors. They referred to themselves as the Mexica people, refusing to use the name Aztec to identify themselves since it was given to them by the men who had stolen their land.

  As Hernandez explained to the settlers in Spanish that Cynthia was familiar with their language and ways, a striking middle-aged man who had led the settlers faced her way and held out his hand. “We welcome you to Quetzalxochitl and hope you will have a comfortable night here before going on your way,” he said to her, but not in Spanish. Instead he used one of the Nahuatl variations that had survived the Spanish conquest of the indigenous tribes.

  He wore a cotton loincloth and a cotton wrap around his shoulders. The fabric was decorated with bright colorful geometric motifs that identified him as the calpulli, or leader, of the settlers. The others behind him also wore loose, flowing cotton clothing in deference to the heat and humidity. The men were in loincloths and wraps, while the women dressed in sleeveless blouses and loose wraparound skirts.

  Cynthia bowed her head respectfully to the calpulli and responded in kind, dredging up the Nahuatl words she had learned during her years of study. “We thank you for your assistance and understand your desire that we not intrude.”

  His manner relaxed somewhat, and with a hint of a smile he released her hand and motioned for her and Hernandez to walk with him.

  She fell into step beside the two men while the rest of their group brought up the rear. As they began their walk, the calpulli addressed her once again, this time using Spanish. “I assume you are more comfortable in this than our Nahuatl tongue.”

  With a deferential nod, she said, “I am comfortable in either, but my team prefers English if that does not bother you.”

  “What difference the language of one conqueror over another?” he said to her in English spiced with the exotic qualities of both his Spanish and Nahuatl tongues.

  “Very true, but we are not here to conquer—”

  “You are here for your friends and for the City of Gold, but I doubt that you will find either,” he said and increased the pace of his strides, almost racing down the path leading to the village.

  She and Hernandez chased after him. “Is there some rush, Mr.—”

  “Just call me Yolotli Yaotl. I no longer answer to any of the colonial names with which my spirit was imprisoned.”

  “Heart of the Warrior,” she said, translating his name. “Why do I sense that you are not happy with—”

  He stopped short, nearly causing Hernandez, who was following close behind him, to run him over. From behind Cynthia, Dani jostled her thanks to the abrupt stop.

  The Mexica leader faced her and the only emotion evident on the broad planes of his face was fear. “There is talk from the other nearby villages that there is unrest in la selva del diablo. My people fear that the unrest has something to do with your friends. That if you stay here too long, the troubles will spread to Quetzalxochitl.”

  She shot a look over her shoulder at Dani and then back to Hernandez before addressing Yolotli Yaotl once again. “Do you believe our friends are alive?”

  “Pity them if they are. Now hurry. You must be safely settled before night comes.”

  With a quick burst of speed, the calpulli rushed ahead down the dirt path, leaving her staring at his retreating back.

  “What do you make of that?” Dani asked as she swung around and took a spot beside Cynthia for the remainder of the short walk to the village.

  Booth leaned forward, sticking his shaggy-haired head between them. “I think that he believes Santiago and the rest would be better off dead than being held captive by whatever has them.”

  “You mean ‘whoever’ has them?” Rogers said, jostling Booth aside with an elbow and earning a shove back from the younger and slightly homophobic curator.

  “Boys,” Dani admonished, a chuckle escaping her before Cynthia shot the two men a warning glare.

  “I would suggest you keep your antics under control. Once we leave here, we need to be alert.”

  “Who died and made you boss?” Booth chided with a boyish grin that made it hard to get mad.

  Rogers mumbled his acknowledgement and then rushed ahead to join Hernandez and the guides much as he had for most of the journey.

  Cynthia hadn’t known what to expect once they reached the heart of the village. She had hoped for some friendliness, but what they got was a guarded reception from the settlers who were obviously leery of any outsiders. They apparently had an ongoing battle with the Mexican government about the lands on which they had staked a claim. Because of that, they viewed outsiders as potential spies who would report back any problems that the government could use against them.

  Possibly due to the villagers’ suspicions, Cynthia’s group was shown to a clearing far off to one side of the settlement where they pitched their tents and made camp for the evening. As night fell and they gathered around a small campfire to cook some food, some of the more friendly villagers ventured over with fruits and freshly made txalcalli, a corn pancake similar to modern-day tortillas. But after the exchange of food and some pleasantries, the villagers hastily fled back to their homes, murmuring concerns about being out too late at night.

  Cynthia tried not to read too much int
o their fears. It was impossible, however, to forget the calpulli’s comments about Rafe as night fell.

  Almost complete darkness swallowed them up except for the flickering golden light from the campfire. It was an eerie and unnatural kind of gloom to someone who had grown used to the lights of the city. It roused memories of some of the nights she had spent with her parents out in the jungle as they did their research.

  It was on a night like this one that they had died, she recalled painfully, and the thought dragged a shiver from her. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the sensation the dark created.

  Dani noticed and playfully nudged her, trying to settle her nerves. “Weird, isn’t it? This is the fourth trek I’ve been on and I’ve yet to get used to it.”

  Cynthia looked upward at a night sky that was so black, it seemed empty. Only the brightness of the North Star and a few other constellations broke the vast expanse of ebony heavens. The thought came too quick for her to stop it.

  Was this the last thing Rafe saw before he died?

  Dani knew her too well. “Don’t think about it. Think about finding the temple and what that will mean. Personally. Professionally.”

  Professionally? Cynthia thought. There was only one thing that mattered to her.

  “All I want is to find out what happened, Dani. And even though I pray Rafe’s still alive, I need closure if he isn’t.”

  Dani tossed a small twig into the campfire. “Don’t give up hope. That’s not like you.”

  “Face it, ladies. If Santiago and his team were alive, they’d have been found by now,” Booth said and rose, stretching his arms overhead. Without a good-night, he stepped away from the campfire and toward one of the tents, then slipped inside. The zip of the tent closing was loud in the quiet of the night.

  Rogers stood up as well and shook his head. “Damn shame, losing such a fine man.”

  With that, he sauntered over to his tent. He had pitched it on the edge of the larger tent that she and Dani intended to share and far from Booth’s. That left only Hernandez by the campfire, and as Cynthia met the team leader’s gaze, she noted his uncertainty.

  “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?” she asked, rubbing her arms to banish the chill that had arisen despite the heat of the night. She told herself it was from the cooling evening air and not the discussion.

  Hernandez poked a long stick into the campfire and a few logs shifted, sending a spray of glowing embers into the emptiness of the night sky. After, he shrugged. A furrow knit his brow as he said, “Yolotli Yaotl believes they may be better off dead. I don’t disagree.”

  Dani patted Cynthia on the back, trying to comfort her, but something quickened inside of her. Something that straightened her spine and tightened her gut with determination. “We’re going to find out what happened. We’re going to find the temple no matter what.”

  Hernandez snorted inelegantly and tossed his stick into the fire. Rising, he said, “Channeling Coronado, are you? Just remember how most of those conquistadors ended up.”

  Chapter Four

  Cynthia was awake way before the sunrise.

  She had not slept soundly.

  The discussion around the campfire the night before and the stillness of the night had forced memories of how her parents had died to rush out of her brain.

  A few weeks earlier she had turned an awkward and lonely twelve. She had been playing by the campfire with a doll her parents had somehow had delivered to their remote camp. Her parents had been beside her, discussing the latest developments in their studies when they had heard the noise of booted feet crashing through the jungle and the cries of the men, which grew louder as they approached.

  Somehow her parents had known the clamor meant trouble.

  They had secreted her in a small belowground food locker they had built weeks earlier to protect their supplies from an assortment of wild animals.

  Even now she could still smell the wetness of the earth and the ripe fruits in the shelter as they had slipped the plywood deck over her. Hear the rustle as her father draped a tarp over the wood and then the vibration of something heavy dropping into place above the locker.

  She had curled up into a fetal position in a far corner, praying that nothing bad would happen. But then the screams had started. The deep voices of men shouting in a foreign tongue nearly drowned out the wails and cries of her parents pleading for mercy.

  As the voices of her mother and father faded, the violence continued as the men had tossed their camp in a frenzy. Above her she heard the crash, thump and drag of items being trashed, and if possible she had made herself into an even tinier ball and continued to pray.

  Eventually the still of the night replaced the gruesome sounds of the attack.

  She had held on to her doll for the two days she had remained secreted beneath the ground until the local game wardens, having heard a report of trouble, had come to the camp to investigate.

  She still had the doll tucked away in a drawer at home. It was her last connection to her parents.

  Fighting back tears, Cynthia drove away those recollections and forced herself back to the now. In some ways Rafe had been right that she spent too much time letting the past dictate her life.

  She hadn’t just been afraid to live her own life. She had been afraid to let Rafe live his for fear he would suffer an end much like her parents.

  It didn’t help that her fears had not been misplaced.

  With her arms pillowed behind her head, she listened to the quiet of the predawn morning. A peaceful morning filled with promise, she reminded herself as she battled those old demons.

  Although it was dark, she would have to rise soon if they were to get underway with the sunrise and be able to take a break during the hottest part of the day.

  Dani stirred beside her, stretching and then shifting to her side in the sleeping bag. She brushed back some errant locks of her straight blond hair, and with eyes still half-closed with sleep, she said, “Ready for the big day?”

  Big day? Most would have said that finally leaving the quiet safety of the museum had been her big day, but maybe Dani was right. Maybe this was her big day. Today they would enter la selva del diablo, and somewhere in all that jungle, there might be an ancient temple and some hint of what had happened to her lover.

  “As ready as anyone can be,” she replied, sat up and tossed aside the one flap of her sleeping bag. They changed quickly, replacing their shorts and T-shirts with the more protective but lightweight khakis they would wear for the remainder of their trek into the jungle. She strapped the heavy leather belt with the holstered pistol onto her waist and secured it well. For good measure, she made sure an eight-inch hunting knife was within easy reach on her left side and jostled the canteen toward the back of her belt to confirm it was still full. She had replenished her drinking supply with the sweet refreshing spring water from the fountain in the town’s zocalo.

  On the way to the zocalo the night before, she had passed the adobe homes of the villagers. The large single-room structures had only one story, with high-ceilinged flat roofs to help deal with the heat and humidity. Only the calpulli’s home boasted a second story, a testament to his position as leader.

  An occasional peek inside revealed that several relatives lived under one roof. Near the entrance to one home she had caught sight of a young woman twisting cotton and other fibers onto a stick while nearby an older woman, probably her mother, used a clay spindle whorl of brightly colored thread to make fabric on a small loom.

  At the zocalo, a few villagers had also been gathering water in large earthenware jugs, while another group of men sat playing a board game.

  They had shot her uneasy glances as she filled her canteen and Dani’s, but she had given them a smile and wished them good-night in Nahuatl, which somehow seemed to break past their reticence.

  Cynthia wondered if the villagers would still be as cautious today as she exited the tent into the darkness of very early morning. Hernand
ez was at the ring of stones surrounding the remains of the campfire from last night. He had collected more deadfall and was starting another fire so they could prepare some coffee and breakfast. A few yards away their guides were loading up the two burros with their gear.

  She and Dani turned their attention to taking down their tent and placing it beside Hernandez’s, which was already neatly packed and sitting close to the burros. With that done, they prepped the coffeepot and were taking dried meal packets from their rations when two of the female settlers approached, carrying a small cast-iron pot.

  She recognized the pair from the night before when she had spoken to them at the zocalo. The one woman smiled at her and dipped her head in greeting. She held up the pot and offered it to her. Accepting the gift, Cynthia took the lid off the pot to find that it was filled with a thin but fragrant gruel containing an assortment of fruits and chilies. Atole, Cynthia realized and thanked the woman, as did Dani.

  The second woman carried something wrapped in thin leather and also held it up for her to take.

  Cynthia accepted the package and undid the leather wrap, exposing a ten-inch-long dagger made from polished obsidian. Gold obsidian, she noted as she shifted the knife in her hands and the minimal light from the slowly growing campfire played on the ribbons of tawny color in the otherwise ebony blade.

  Unlike gold, which had been plentiful and therefore of lesser value, obsidian was hard to find and highly prized in Aztec culture. It was why sacred tools had been made from the stone.

  It was also why she could not take the knife.

  “I cannot accept such a treasured item,” she said and tried to return the dagger, but the woman would not reconsider her gift.

  “You will need it in the jungle. Only sacred stone will protect you, not the metal that you wear,” the woman said and motioned to the weapons on Cynthia’s gun belt.