Temple of the Jaguar God

by Zach Neal

  Twenty-five or thirty yards. It had to be there, but it wasn’t. Stomach rumbling, tired, exhausted, thirsty and ready to scream, Jeremy backtracked to his little clear spot on the bank.

  There had to be a log across the stream right about there, and there wasn’t. He could see quite a ways down the creek, and there was no log there.

  “Uncle Harry!” Nothing.

  No response.

  He could have sworn this was the right place. It was the same little clearing. On impulse, he followed the bank northeast, rather than southwest as it curved along. Fifteen, twenty yards…the jungle was marginally clearer, with the semblance of a path even. It was the first such sign he’d seen in days, over a week since leaving the Orinoco.

  There was another large clear spot, just red dirt stamped flat either by rain, judging by the close-packed dimples, or human feet…before the rain.

  His jaw dropped.

  Hearing voices just on the edge of earshot, he threw his head back, filled his lungs and shouted for all he was worth.

  “Uncle Harry!”

  ***

  Once they had cleared some of the brush and vines away, the eerie face, the one that had practically scared Jeremy to death, was properly revealed. The thing had stopped him right in his tracks.

  A crouching jaguar—with flashing, exaggerated eyes and big stone teeth. It was big. The thing had to weigh thirty tons, sinking further into the soft ground with every passing year. The feet were well underground at this point. The dirt was halfway up the shins.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” His Uncle Harry stood there, biting his lip and marveling. “It proves the culture is related. There is such a thing as an individual style. People dispute that, but it’s true in my opinion. I have to admit, this is a new one on me. So. I hope your thirst for adventure has been sated, young man—”

  “That’s very funny, Uncle.”

  “Er, yes.” Uncle Harry grinned, happy enough to see him again.

  Impulsively, he gave Jeremy an awkward hug.

  Explaining to his mother would have been difficult and there were certain human feelings.

  But there was more.

  The temple might be real, then—and if so, it couldn’t be all that far away. This was a major sculpture, sitting out in the middle of nowhere otherwise.

  “Yes, wonderful, but where’s Mister O’Dell?”

  Mister Syrmes had a point. All Jeremy could do was to shake his head.

  In a few short yards, he’d gotten all off track, and disoriented. He was just plain lucky that they had set out to find him with the previous day’s plan still firm in their heads.

  The fact was that someone had just gotten very lucky indeed.

  “Shit.” Jeremy pointed. “That’s his walking stick.”

  Syrmes’ chin came up as Jeremy stepped over and fetched it from under the low bushes and tall weeds.

  “There’s no need for profanity, Jeremy.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  “Yes. It is, isn’t it?” Syrmes’ dull grey-blue eyes came up and there was something in them—something unspoken. “Well, well. I wonder where he’s gotten off to—”

  There was just something about the way the stone cat lurked, stained and dirty and still steaming from the rain, those deadly, unseeing eyes staring off into nowhere, another time perhaps, another place.

  Harry mopped his forehead as Syrmes took the stick and rooted around in the underbrush.

  “Damn. Here’s his water-bottle. And his glasses.”

  This did not look good, thought Jeremy with sinking heart.

  He gave his own bottle a shake. Empty.

  “Is there anything in it?”

  Syrmes handed it over speculatively. It was quite full, perhaps a third gone.

  Jeremy nodded. Unscrewing the cap, he drank.

  No sense in wasting it, hot water as it was by now, and he took another drink. After this, he would never complain about anything again.

  Hot water never tasted so good.

  “Huh. Mine was half full when I realized he was gone and then the storm came.” They had been consciously trying to conserve water, especially once they’d been out there a while. “Theoretically, he hasn’t had any water since. Not unless he’s taking a chance on river water.”

  Which they had all been repeatedly told not to do.

  “All right, spread out and we’ll look for signs.”

  “I don’t know—Uncle?”

  “The camp is thataway, Jeremy. Fourteen hundred yards, maybe fifteen. West-by-southwest.”

  “Er—of course. Would you by any chance have a sandwich in that bag of yours, Uncle Harry?”

  “Possibly. Possibly, young Jeremy—it might even be bully beef with a slathering of mustard.”

  Juices squirted in his mouth as his uncle unslung the bag and handed it over.

  With a sigh, Jeremy thought it better to stick to his uncle, and Syrmes, who had a rifle, like the proverbial glue.

  Especially with that damned stone cat crouching there like it was ready to pounce and nothing more than a thousand-year stare to show for all of its waiting.

  ***

  Smoke from the native cook-fire hung in the trees like a soggy wet blanket, with dead monkey-meat stinking of being over-cooked and over-dried. Positively blackened monkey meat, and yet it would still be raw inside. The natives would eat so much and then hang the rest over the fire again.

  Jeremy, after sagging into a wood and canvas deck chair, (thank God I don’t have to carry it), was unbelievably tired. They’d been going all day, with nary a sign of Mister O’Dell.

  There was a kind of nausea—first the fear for O’Dell’s fate, and the sick realization that he was probably dead, and then there was the hunger and water deprivation of the last eight or ten hours.

  Kevin handed him a warm (very warm) stout.

  “There, lad, I reckon you’ve earned it.” He snickered quietly for a moment. “A night alone in the jungle. I am impressed, Jeremy.”

  “Oh, God.” Jeremy’s eyes slid over to Melody, seemingly not very concerned with her husband Peter’s fate.

  She knew him best, of course, and it was entirely possible that he had simply gone off on his own! Without so much as a jacket. Maybe that was her attitude, but if so it was a damned strange one. Meeting Mister Smith’s eyes for a second, he exhaled in gratitude.

  Jeremy wasn’t much for drink, but he had to admit it wasn’t bad. The tang of the stuff went straight to something deep inside and the head was all creamy and soft on the palate. Other than that, it didn’t seem to taste very good. He’d had wine before, of course.

  “Thank you, Mister Smith.”

  “Oh, poor boy. You must have been terrified. I know I would be.”

  “Yes, I have to admit I was concerned, ah, Mrs. O’Dell.” Such formality might seem strange to a woman who appeared to be barely dressed in what looked like pajama-bottoms or some sort of sleepwear under her thin housecoat—imagine the native boys lugging that uphill all the way, and smelling of her all that time.

  It was his only defense.

  One had to wonder what sort of thoughts they might have had—

  “I might have even panicked for a minute there. I must admit, the thoughts were not good…standing under that big old tree the whole bloody night…”

  She sat up, eyeing Paolo like some kind of a bug, as he sweated and strained over their dinner less than forty feet away. Grease flared up and he cursed, (presumably), in Spanish.

  It was almost inhuman, the way she just didn’t seem to care about Peter’s disappearance, although Jeremy wasn’t too familiar with people in shock.

  “I think you were very brave.” Her face fell, and maybe she was worried about her husband after all.

  “Peter will turn up…er, Melody.”

  She gave him a startled look.

  “Oh—thank you.” Her fingers plucked at each other and she seemed very cold, distant and far away at that exact moment in t
ime.

  Fear. Perhaps she was trying not to show it.

  As for Jeremy, he itched all over, although he’d had time for a cool shower in their canvas stall before changing into something a little more suitable for dinner. The clothes from the day before were soaking in a bucket and that was about the best that could be said for them.

  If nothing else, he had survived a night in the jungle—a jungle which had swallowed up an older and much more experienced man.

  He caught Kevin’s eye again and the fellow lifted an eyebrow, having a swig at his own hot brew.

  His uncle came out of the big tent, the attentive Mister Day in tow, as the pair conferred in low tones.

  “I’d never really thought about luck before.”

  “Hmn. Yeah—” That one got a curt nod as Mister Smith dragged himself upright to go and see if there was anything he could do about getting dinner moving any faster.

  Jeremy’s eyelids were hanging heavy and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so whipped.

  It was right about then that Melody reached over and patted him on his scratched, bruised and sunburnt right knee.

  “Thank you. What’s for dinner, anyways?”

  “Roast peccary, I believe.” She had an interesting tone, almost one of amusement.

  He didn’t waste too much time on that one.

  Roast peccary.

  Awesome.

  ***

  They were holding court over the dessert dishes.

  Even Melody was participating, more animated now with a bit of grub and a half a bottle of calvados in her.

  “But where could he have gone?” Her voice, increasing in pitch and intensity, bewailed her own fate as much as her husband’s.

  The problem was that she just didn’t seem to get it.

  “Well. My dear. You really must admit that there’s nowhere else for him to go. I mean, really. No, I fear we must reconcile ourselves to the possibility.”

  She was hardly stupid.

  “But—but what do you mean?”

  Mister Syrmes stepped in, using a gentle tone and placating gestures.

  “We really must consider the possibility, well—that’s he’s gone, Melody.”

  There was no shyness in using her first name with Syrmes. He was pure business all the way, one of his less attractive qualities. Like all such men, he was completely unaware of it. Jeremy had wondered once or twice why Uncle Harry had hired him to begin with, let alone put up with him in the bush. His qualifications were impressive enough and he’d come with good references.

  References weren’t everything, and Jeremy was very tired.

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

  Uncle Harry sighed, patting the lady on the back of the hand from his place at the head of the table.

  “What he means, my dear, is that there are possibilities. And it doesn’t make much sense for him to go walking off on his own, no matter how absent-minded or scatter-brained a person may be. I must say, your husband didn’t impress me as that type. No, we must consider the facts. He may have fallen or hit his head on something. There are crocodiles, electric eels, and caribes, ah, piranha. He may have cut himself and fallen into the water—”

  Her hand was over her mouth as she stared at him.

  “You mean, like dead?”

  “Ah, yes, my dear. However, if so, we certainly didn’t find any signs of it. There is always hope. At least until we know better.”

  Other than the walking stick and the water bottle, thought Jeremy. The eye-glasses—that really said something.

  “He might have had a heart attack, Melody.” The matter seemed settled to Mister Syrmes.

  She stared, and slowly the hand came down. She turned and stared in interrogative fashion at him of all people.

  All Jeremy could do was to shrug and nod helplessly.

  At that, tears welled up in her eyes and then she sort of collapsed into a short paroxysm of grief. They sat there in poignant silence and she seemed to get a hold of herself again…

  At that point, the damned ocelot came roaring down the trail. It stopped dead upon seeing a group.

  “Hey. Ozzie—”

  Uncle Harry’s eyebrows were climbing and Jeremy launched into the rest of his story.

  The ocelot, jumping into his lap and nuzzling contentedly at his hand, was a nice touch.

  ***

  “We know it has to be around here somewhere.” Mister Day seemed pretty adamant.

  “Oh, I don’t know. All we really have, Gerald, is the statue. Which, admittedly, would appear to be about the right age. The style is unknown, completely unheralded by any similar discoveries in this or any other area. It’s completely barbarous. Unique, really.” Harry took another walk around it, now that they had scrubbed it free of dirt, mildew and what Jeremy thought were black lichens, although at first impression they looked like runes.

  They were sticking together, although the cat had wandered off on its own. Jeremy figured it would be able to hear them for miles. The creature would probably turn up again. Why he should worry about it or feel sorry for it was a good question. The cat was much better suited to survive in the jungle than any of them.

  With a brief survey, they had determined that the land sloped down to the southwest, ending in a finger of land with deep creeks or side branches of the river on both sides. The land gently sloped up to the northeast, and that seemed the next logical direction of travel. For the time being, camp would have to stay put. They would take care to blaze a proper trail, both sides of the tree, one that could be followed easily. Jeremy had the axe, a fitting irony, but he was more than happy to make sure—especially after the other night.

  “Right. Gentlemen.” Standing there with his compass in hand, Uncle Harry pointed at the green wall of brush. “Here, I think.”

  Mister Smith spoke in that curious mixture of the native tongue and then Spanish when he ran into a word he didn’t know. Two husky workmen stepped forwards and started whacking at a thin spot with their machetes, stained and sticky with dried sap from previous days. They babbled excitedly in their own language. Kevin Smith, armed with a slung Army-surplus Lee-Enfield .303 rifle, turned away and stood calmly watching the water’s edge as he’d just seen something cut the surface in his peripheral vision.

  “What is it, Mister Smith?”

  “There—”

  “What? What?”

  Smith pointed, waving the tip of the weapon around to indicate an area of surface, green leaves floating upon it, but black as the Ace of Spades in the shadows.

  Something moved, and Jeremy had the impression of dark, scaled body with the thin line of a long, low fin along the back and tail.

  Thankfully, not a snake as one of that diameter would have been a big one indeed.

  “What is it?”

  “Electric eel.” His eyes twinkled under sandy eyebrows. “Which actually might explain Mister O’Dell’s disappearance. Assuming he slipped and fell in when trying to cross on a log for example. If one of those buggers was right there, it could have stopped his heart. They say a croc tries to take one once in a while, and it’s not an easy death.” Not for either one of them—the croc would break the eel’s neck with a good bite, and then die trying to let go as its victim shocked and shocked trying to defend itself even in death.

  Harry and Mister Day were listening, but also following closer now that the men had advanced a few yards into the jungle. While the trail would quickly overgrow, for a few days at least, the white ends of cut branches and saplings would make navigation easy.

  “Go on, Mister Smith.”

  His uncle’s thoughts were on other things. But this was interesting—

  “That’s about it, actually. It could have been anything, but that would account for why Jeremy didn’t hear him. An electric shock like that, it completely paralyzes the victim. He wouldn’t even have time to cry out.”

  “That’s true—I’ve had a good shock once or twice. Even one and a half volts,
one amp, can kill. The shock went right up my arm—it’s like a hammer beating inside of you, it really is.” Jeremy and a friend had been fascinated by magnets, electricity and taking things apart rather than building anything practical.

  The trouble was, they didn’t really know what they were doing.

  Smith grinned at this explanation.

  Jeremy stepped in close, making sure his area was clear of people. Swinging, he knocked a good couple of chips out of the bark, making it big, white and about as high as he could comfortably get. This first one would be visible from the stone jaguar.

  He and Kevin were bringing up the rear.

  “Now around to the other side.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  ***

  A good hour had passed. Uncle Harry thought the effort worth it. They had advanced perhaps a half a mile and then the ground turned abruptly upward.

  With all the noise, predators being shy creatures, Kevin had the rifle on his back, casually smoking his pipe and chatting with the sweating Jeremy, who was also coming along well in the cursing department.

  Oh, if only Beak could see me now—better yet, Old Baldy, or even better, Mister Christmas, the music teacher.

  He laughed, throwing another swing into his latest anonymous tree…

  “Jeremy! Mister Smith!” It was Uncle Harry, fifty or a hundred yards up ahead. “Get up here! You have to see this.”

  Jeremy turned.

  “You go ahead. I’m going to mark another two or three trees between here and there.”

  I’m not rushing for anybody…

  Not in this place.

  Not now, not anymore.

  From now on, I think before I act.

  ***

  “Come along, nephew, come along.”

  Mister Day had his camera set up on the tripod, he’d set the timer and he was trying to pose everybody just so.

  “What’s going on, Uncle?”