by Evan Hunter
“I see,” Olaf answered. “It is the top of a stone dwelling.”
“Ah-h-h-h,” Erik said, “ah-h-h-h. He sees. He sees, Neil. We may now proceed.”
Together they made their way forward, never losing sight of the stone building ahead. The forest began to thin, with large clearings now, and fewer trees and bushes.
On the edge of the forest, they stopped and climbed to the top of a huge rock. Here they sprawled flat on their bellies and looked toward the place where they had seen the stone building.
Neil blinked at the sight that confronted his eyes. He shook his head, blinked again, and then stared in open wonder.
Below them lay not only one building, but a profusion of buildings, clean and majestic-looking, well-ordered, gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Temples and palaces greeted their awe-struck eyes, well-paved courts and plazas, immense pyramids, tall, carved blocks of stone.
Neil’s mind flicked back to the photographs he had seen on Dr. Falsen’s desk, photographs of the ruins of a once great city. These were the pictures of Chichen-Itza, the fabulous Maya city in Yucatan.
Neil knew he was looking at that very city now, seeing it as no archaeologist had ever seen it, seeing it in its splendid perfection — the complete glory of ages past.
He sucked in a great gulp of air and murmured, “Chichen-Itza. Yucatan. We’re in Yucatan.”
“What?” Erik asked.
“Yucatan,” Neil said, “this is Yucatan, Erik.” He spoke in Swedish now.
Erik struggled with the word. “Yook -tan? Is that the name of this city?”
Neil remembered that the land was completely unfamiliar to the Norseman. “It is a city far from your home,” he said. “It is called Chichen-Itza.”
“It is a beautiful city,” Erik said.
“Yes.”
Olaf suddenly spoke. “There is water in the city. I see water there.” He pointed to a small stone building that faced a large, open wall.
“Yes,” Erik said. “But where are the people?”
Neil said, almost to himself, “I wish my father were here.”
“Your father? Why?”
“He knows the people of this land well. If he were here, he could help us.”
“What people?” Olaf wanted to know. “I see no people. Let us go down for the water.”
“Perhaps we had better ask for it,” Erik said wisely.
“Ask whom?” Olaf demanded. “There is no one to ask.”
“There must be people living here,” Erik replied “We will talk to them.”
“I have my ax and a strong right arm.” Olaf declared, rising to his feet and sliding down the face of the large rock. “They are the only bargaining tools I need.”
Erik and Neil hastily jumped to the ground beside Olaf.
And at that moment there was a rustling in the woods. Six men burst into the clearing, spears thrust before them. Erik and Neil turned to scramble up the face of the rock again, but six more spear bearers had climbed it from the other side and were standing on top of it now, their sharp weapons ready.
The spear bearers clutched the spear shafts tightly, their eyes hard and unfriendly. They were short men, none of them very much over five feet, but they were well-proportioned and heavily muscled where their arms showed. Their coloring varied, the skin of some being almost pure white, while that of others was the color of light chocolate. Their hair was long and black, coarse, and grew low on their foreheads.
They had large, dark-brown eyes, small ears, and broad noses. Their jaws protruded, and they stood squat before the trio, watching them from hostile eyes.
Suddenly Olaf gave a wild scream and reached for the ax hanging from his belt. He tore it loose and raised it over his head, screaming wildly all the time. Then, like a loosed beast, he burst forward, the ax raised.
Before Olaf had moved a foot, Erik’s fist lashed out and his powerful fingers tightened about the other Norseman’s wrist.
“They are armed,” Olaf shouted, but as Erik twisted, Olaf opened his hand and let the ax drop to the ground.
The spearsmen watched the scene with interest, their eyes flicking from the red-bearded captain to the short, squat Norseman.
Erik probably realized that they were three men pitted against an armed group of twelve, and peace was the only way out of this situation. To this Neil heartily agreed. Undoubtedly there were more Mayas where these came from. He began thinking of the bigger stakes involved, the chances of getting home, and more than before he understood the necessity of maintaining peace with these men.
These were not ordinary citizens, he figured. They were, more likely, professional soldiers strung about the city for the special purpose of protecting their people from unwelcome visitors.
Unlike Erik, the Mayas were clean-shaven, their skins bright and shining. Covering their bodies, starting at their necks and ending below their knees, was a cotton quilt that probably served as armor against the crude weapons of the day.
These weapons, Neil saw, were many and diversified.
Each of the Mayas carried a spear with a pointed blade of what seemed to be sharp, dark glass. Other weapons were also visible among the soldiers. Several carried swords of hardwood, into the sides of which were set blades of the same dark glass. Others carried slings and pouches that probably contained stones. Some of the soldiers carried something that looked very much like a top with a string wound about it, and Neil surmised that this, too, was a weapon. They all carried shields, some square, some round, all covered with deerskin.
Slowly, carefully, Erik unbuckled his ax and dropped it to the feet of the nearest Maya. The man stepped back nimbly and looked to a fellow soldier, with confusion clouding his face.
The other soldier put up his spear and moved closer to the ax.
This is their leader, Neil thought. This is the man we must deal with.
The leader had a long scar stretching down the length of his face. It crossed the ends of his lip and twisted his mouth sideways, in what appeared to be a comical grin. Neil knew he wasn’t smiling, though.
The soldier poked at the ax with his spear point, and then stooped to pick it up. He was surprised at its weight as he lifted it. His fingers went to the blade and rested there, his eyes widening in respect of its keenness.
Quickly he turned and shouted an order at one of the other soldiers, who stepped forward and picked up Olaf’s ax. This he presented to the scarred leader, then rapidly returned to the place he had left in the spear-bristling circle.
The leader barked an order to another soldier, who stepped forward and placed his shield on the ground. With puzzled brow, his teeth clamping his lower lip where the scar crossed it, the leader lifted the ax to test it, and then brought it smashing down on the deerskin-covered shield.
The shield splintered into a hundred flying pieces of wood and hide. A general outburst went up from the Mayas, and the leader beamed from ear to ear, his smile threatening to flow all over his ruddy face. He turned then and said something to Erik.
“What does he want?” Erik asked Neil.
“I — I don’t know,” Neil answered. In desperation, he faced the scarred leader and asked, “Habla usted español?”
The scarred lips clamped shut again, and the eyes expressed bewilderment.
Slowly, painstakingly, the Maya leader repeated something in his own tongue, and waited for a response. “What did he say?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know. But he looks kind of angry because we’re not answering.”
The scowl deepened on the scarred face. Angrily, the leader shouted another order, and the Mayas began to close in, their spears ahead of them.
“Friends,” Neil said frantically. “We are friends.”
The leader of the band frowned again and raised his hand. Immediately the soldiers stopped advancing. He studied Neil closely.
“Friends,” Neil repeated, almost making it a question this time. “Let’s show him what we mean,” he said to Er
ik.
He grasped Erik’s hand and began to shake it. “Friends, see? Big friends. All big friends. Shake hands, see?” He grinned at the Maya soldiers, feeling quite foolish at his own antics.
Erik grinned too, his teeth flashing behind his brilliant beard. He pumped Neil’s hand vigorously and then threw his arms around him and caught him to his chest in a bear hug.
“Gee whiz, Erik,” Neil protested. “You’re strang — hey, for Pete’s sake!”
“Smile,” Erik muttered through clenched, glistening teeth. “Smile, Neil.”
Neil beamed as Erik released him and took his hand again, squeezing it tightly, threatening to rip his arm from the socket.
Olaf stood by, obviously displeased with all this nonsense.
Neil smiled graciously at the Maya leader and extended his hand. “Friends?” he asked.
The dark eyes clouded in the scarred face, and the leader stepped back cautiously, away from Neil’s extended hand.
Neil shook hands with Erik again. “Friends,” he said.
He turned to the scarred soldier once more and held out his hand.
“Friends?” he repeated.
The soldier’s face changed a little, and a flicker of understanding sparked in his eyes. His mouth began to edge upward at the corners as he stepped forward cautiously. He stopped and said something to another soldier. The other soldier nodded his head vigorously and answered the leader.
Neil kept his hand outstretched and said, “Friends.”
Slowly, the leader of the band took another hesitant step forward, his spear ready. He stood several feet away from Neil, and leaned over, extending his hand in cautious little spurts of movement. His eyes were on Neil’s — large and brown.
Suddenly they crinkled at the corners and the Maya’s twisted mouth split into a wide grin. He extended his hand finally, ready to grip Neil’s in friendship.
And at that moment, Olaf decided to ram his heavy shoulders into one of the Mayas and make a break for the forest!
Chapter 8 — The Enemy Strikes
OLAF’S shoulder struck the bewildered Maya with considerable force. The Maya struggled to keep his balance, using his spear the way a tight-rope walker uses a balancing pole. In spite of his efforts, he flopped unceremoniously to the ground as Olaf leaped over him and sprinted for the protection of the trees.
Rapidly, the scarred captain snapped an order, and a soldier stepped forward and pulled the toplike affair from his belt. Holding the string in his fingers and the weapon tight against the palm of his hand, his fist suddenly lashed outward in a swift, open-palmed motion. The top whipped out, seemingly reluctant to leave the Maya’s hand. And then it sped across the clearing on the edge of the forest, the air whistling behind it.
Olaf had just reached the protection of a huge boulder and was ready to scramble behind it when the top collided with the base of his skull. There was a dull thud as wood met bone. Olaf collapsed to the ground like a fallen tree. Efficiently, the Maya pulled in the string, and the top trailed across the leaves, rasping gently as it moved. He wound the string around it and once again stuck it into his belt.
Two soldiers hastily crossed the clearing and seized Olaf by the arms. They lifted him until he hung limply between them, and then hauled him back to the captain, his legs dragging through the leaves.
The captain gave a sharp order, and the two men carrying Olaf headed toward the city. A soldier stepped behind Erik and prodded him with his spear. At the same time, Neil felt the sharp point of a spear in his back. The captain spoke softly to six of his men. They nodded and headed into the forest.
“They’re probably going after the rest of our party,” Neil whispered to Erik.
Erik nodded, and two sharp spear thrusts put an end to further conversation.
A Maya walked beside the two soldiers carrying Olaf. The scarred leader of the band stayed behind Neil and Erik, and slowly the procession moved toward the city. They broke out of the forest, and the sun bore down on them with all its brilliance. Heavy clouds of dust swirled around them as their feet stamped into the ground. Behind Olaf, extending from his trailing feet, were two narrow ridges in the ground — almost like the tracks a very tiny automobile would leave, Neil mused.
Surrounding the city, in contrast to the architectural beauty of the huge stone buildings and intricately carved facades, were thatched huts, squat and ugly. A few children sat in the sun, blinking up at the visitors. Here and there an old woman sat before a hut, gently nodding as the procession passed.
Far in the distance, Neil could see rising clouds of dust. Through the dust, he saw figures wending their way home to the city. It was the end of the working day, he figured, and the young people were returning from the fields.
The procession marched through the city, almost deserted now except for the very young and very old. Neil was amazed by the orderliness, by the planning of buildings that was evident all around him.
There seemed to be two preferred types of architecture. One consisted of a rectangular-shaped building set on a rather high pyramid, which seemed to be nothing more or less than earth and rubble, into which had been set cement or perhaps cut stone. The front of the pyramid was cut into terrace-like steps. This type of building, Neil judged, seemed to be in the majority. The other seemed to consist of a cluster of rooms built on low, irregularly shaped platforms.
Each was highly ornamented, bold carvings covering the faces — carvings that were faintly reminiscent of the Oriental, but in a much stronger, rougher-hewn way.
A band of soldiers appeared on the street, marching in formation, their heels raising dust as they moved closer to the captives.
The scarred captain stepped forward and spoke to the leader of the new band. He nodded as the Maya with the scar pointed to the forest. Then he gave an order and the men began marching toward the woods.
“They go for our friends,” Erik said, his eyes squinting after the retreating soldiers.
“I hope,” Neil faltered, “I hope there’s no trouble.”
Ahead of them, Olaf shook his head and staggered to his feet. Instantly, a spear pressed against his ribs on either side of his body. He looked around in wonder, surprised at finding himself within the city.
The captain returned and gave another order, and the procession moved forward again. In the distance, the returning farmers seemed to be larger and closer to the city now.
The procession passed by one of the pyramid-type buildings and the captain raised his hand. The group stopped and waited on the sun-baked street while the captain climbed the long, low steps leading to the building. He walked through one of three doorways cut into the face of the building, and disappeared into the dark recesses behind the stone.
Neil shifted uncomfortably, the dust rising to smart his eyes. He could feel the prick of the spear behind him, where it rested between his shoulder blades.
The captain was gone for at least ten minutes, and then a figure appeared in the doorway of the building. This man was a little taller than the soldiers, and his head was crowned with a brilliant shock of white hair that rose in splendid contrast to the brownness of his skin. He wore a long, white, cotton garment that reached to his ankles.
The captain stepped out behind him and pointed at Neil. The man in white nodded and started down the steps.
Neil glanced at Erik in time to see the Norseman take a deep breath.
The man in white paused on the bottom step of the pyramid, his deep brown eyes studying Erik, and then Neil, and then Olaf, who stood sullenly between his captors.
He walked down to the trio and stopped before Neil. In gentle tones he said something to him.
Neil shook his head at the old man. “I do not understand,” he said.
Little creases of puzzlement formed alongside the old man’s eyes. He cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening for a sound, and then repeated what he’d said before.
Neil shrugged helplessly and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.�
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The old man ran his thin fingers through the white, flowing hair on top of his head. He turned and said something to the captain. The captain answered rapidly, and the old man turned to Neil again.
He held both his hands out from his body in a puzzled gesture, and raised his eyebrows questioningly
“I think he wants to know about us,” Neil said to Erik.
“But how can we tell him?”
Neil stepped forward and held out his hand, palm downward. Then he moved his hand slowly across his body in an undulating motion, tracing invisible peaks and valleys in the air.
“Water,” he said, repeating the motion. He pointed back toward the forest and repeated, “Water.”
The old man smiled in sudden recognition and moved his hand as Neil had done. He muttered a single word, and Neil hoped that this meant he had grasped the concept of water.
Neil covered his eyes with one hand and groped in front of him with the other. “Lost,” he said. “Lost.” The old man studied Neil’s pantomime carefully. Neil went through the motions again, this time uncovering his eyes and looking all around him worriedly. The white-haired Maya seemed to understand. He nodded vigorously, and Neil went on.
He pointed to the spear the captain held, and shook his head. The old man expressed confusion.
Neil pointed to the spear, shook his head, and then pointed to the Norse axes that hung from the belt of the Maya with the scar. He opened his palms wide, indicating that he held nothing, and grinned widely.
The old man stroked his chin thoughtfully. He lifted one of the axes from the soldier’s belt and offered it to Neil. Neil shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We are friends.”
The old man glanced down at the ax, and a smile crossed his wrinkled features. He threw the ax to the ground and stamped on it. He then took the spear from the hands of the soldier and dropped it to the ground before Neil’s feet.
Neil smiled happily and stamped on the spear.
“He understands,” Neil said to Erik. “He knows we are friends.”
Neil pointed a finger at his own chest and said, “Neil.”
