Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  “Get back!” Meder shouted at the others, helping drag the lieutenant farther up the road. The men had no targets but were reluctant to retreat, rapidly reloading and shooting at bubbles if nothing else. Plumes of reeking water rocketed up with every stabbing jet of fire. “Back away!” Meder roared, turning his attention to the sobbing lieutenant. The corporal had already pulled the bloody end of the tongue off his face and was dabbing at the free-flowing blood with the officer’s own neck cloth. The flesh beneath was beginning to blacken and swell and looked like it had taken a blast from a fouling piece.

  “Cease firing, you fools!” came a cry from behind as horses galloped up the road. Meder saw Captain Cayce leading several men and Ocelomeh, while other riders spread out in the grass on their flanks. Varaa jumped down from a horse she’d been riding behind the young Ranger Meder thought looked too much like a girl and trotted up to examine the moaning lieutenant.

  “Bad,” Varaa said. “Very bad. An ugly wound for one so young and dangerous as well.” She cut her big eyes up at Lewis, still mounted. “They call them ‘sapos cortantes,’ ‘slash toads,’ and they’re very bad.” She looked at the writhing infantry officer, then the corporal now holding his arm. “They’re also poisonous.”

  “Poison, hell!” shouted the corporal. “I’m gonna die from gettin’ licked by a toad?”

  Varaa flicked her tail. “No. The poison makes you sleep. It weakens the victim as it struggles. You didn’t get much and will recover.” She looked at Sime, now lying still, but his eyes were wide and frightened. “We’ll have to see about him,” she said.

  “Get him on my horse,” Leonor said in her man voice.

  Lewis was looking down at the bloody, muddy squad of men, and Meder in particular, for some reason. “You don’t even have to tell me, I know,” he said. “You thought, ‘It’s only a little way off. We don’t need any help.’ ” He frowned. “But you do. We all do.” He nodded at Varaa. “And they need ours. But for now we have to let them guide our behavior. We don’t know enough about what’s lurking out here, in the woods, the grass, or the water. Until we do, no one ventures out without someone to advise them. Is that perfectly understood? We can’t lose people to ignorance!”

  Meder and Todd both nodded. So did the infantrymen.

  “Ah . . . begging your pardon, sir, but . . .” Meder tilted his head back toward the stream. “How do we avoid things like that, hiding in the water, just waiting to snatch a fellow down?” He looked helplessly around. “And not just ‘slash toads,’ but . . . anything.”

  “We learn, Private,” Lewis replied. “We’ll all learn to be woodsmen here. Just as the Uxmalos and others will learn to be soldiers.”

  Varaa was blinking rapidly, angrily, it seemed. “Many things you avoid by not letting them notice you, but most you just . . . scare away.” She pointed at the crossing. “When we come down here with wagons and armabueys crashing through the water, the slash toads will go. They’re . . . scareder of us than we are of them—unless you come creeping up like a fearful food beast.”

  Private Todd was nodding. “I guess we did. We weren’t afraid of the water—didn’t know nothin’ was in it—but I reckon we prob’ly acted like it.”

  Leonor was already heading back, holding Lieutenant Sime on her horse behind her.

  “And we would’ve known how to act if the lieutenant waited for someone to tell us,” Meder said.

  “That’s right, Private Meder. You understand at last,” Lewis snapped, then paused. “I’d have thought you already would after your ordeal. Gather these men and return to camp at once.” Wheeling his horse about, Lewis pulled Varaa up behind him and broke into a trot.

  “I did understand,” Meder told the men—and the single Ocelomeh warrior who’d stayed behind—as he watched their rescuers move away. “But I never expected Captain Cayce would remember my name!”

  “Not always a good thing, lad,” the infantry corporal glowered.

  Meder shook his head. “I think it is, when he does it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  They began the crossing just after dawn, the 1st US Infantry in the lead this time, but following a tumultuous passage of armabuey-drawn carts as Varaa had directed. The men were understandably nervous, wading through water up to their waists, and all were told to stop and check for leeches by squads as they proceeded on, making room for the men behind them. Aside from the occasional discovery of a leech, however, there were no injuries to horses or men. They managed two more swampy streams that day, also without incident, and an important lesson had been learned by the time they camped at the edge of the plain in the shadow of the forest once more, assured they were finished with creek crossings. To Alferez Lara’s surprise (he remembered no large rivers in the Yucatán), they were told to expect a wide, sluggish, seasonal river called the Cipactli when they neared Uxmal, but even if it rained heavily before they reached it, there was a fine bridge.

  And so they went uneventfully on, back in the dense forest for the most part, but finding good campsites every night. And the nights were fairly restful, the goodwill between the troops and their strange Indian friends enduring. There was free association, music, and song. The Uxmalos had drums and flutes of their own and endeavored to join the Americans when they played. They were particularly fond of guitar, banjo, and fiddle music since they had no string instruments. Men who could play those became instant celebrities.

  To Lewis Cayce, it seemed an idyllic time in many ways. The weather was hot and humid, and the mosquitoes remained a dreadful nuisance—particularly in the mornings and evenings—but the nights were cool and breezy, there was no sign of the enemy, and though they saw increasing numbers of bizarre creatures, some quite large and intimidating, none attacked the weapon-bristling column or hampered its movements. The army was holding together, growing together in important ways during the easy marches as former strangers became fast friends and the trauma of their arrival and the terrible battle gradually faded. The pleasant evenings of entertainment and fellowship (with the pretty, friendly Mistress Samantha Wilde and Mistress Angeligue Mercure often in attendance) put many of the men’s fears away for the time. Lewis knew they were still there and could easily explode into the open, but as he confirmed the election of new NCOs, he took the steadier ones into his confidence.

  “It seems your policy of letting the truth—that we’re stuck here—filter out in a calm, controlled manner has been for the best,” Colonel De Russy remarked one evening. As had become their custom, he and all of Lewis’s senior officers, as well as unofficial advisors, had gathered to eat and discuss the day’s events at the “command tent” shortly after dark. Now, regardless of what De Russy said, all were increasingly on edge. Not only would the army reach Uxmal in a couple of days; they’d soon have to “officially” reveal its new cause and purpose.

  “I hope so,” Lewis replied, leaning to the side on his camp stool to accept a cigar from Captain Anson. He wondered how many the man had left and what he’d do when they were gone. Take up the more jarring native variety of tobacco, no doubt, he thought. Many already had. Lieutenants Olayne, Burton, Manley, and Wagley; Captain Beck and Dr. Newlin; even Reverend Harkin were smoking pipes filled with the local mix of tobacco and herbs, just like many of the men were already doing. Others chewed the stuff, mixed with their store of molasses from Commissary. Lewis understood there’d be other sugars available here when the time came. Still, it was important. Depriving men of tobacco when he needed their nerves rock steady might’ve prompted disaster.

  De Russy’s servant, Barca, leaned in and lit Lewis’s cigar with a small burning stick from the fire. Lewis eyed him in the flickering firelight, still struck by his presence as the apparent “property” of the officer from Pennsylvania. It bothered him, and he intended to inquire about it when things were more settled. He’d heard from Leonor, Lara, even Captain Anson, that Barca had performed as well as anyone in the battl
e, and the thought of him sharing the same status, if not circumstances, as the Holcanos they’d taken captive spiked Lewis’s temper. He forced himself to puff his cigar to settle his mood.

  “Alcalde Periz was certainly in a rush to leave us, all of a sudden,” Samantha Wilde observed with a discreet little cough.

  “Yes,” agreed Varaa-Choon, refilling her own pipe and blinking at Samantha with apparent amusement as the woman tried to avoid the gray cloud the others were making. Periz had taken a hundred Uxmalos and a guard of fifty Ocelomeh under Consul Koaar on ahead after the army made camp for the night. “He has to prepare for our arrival, and the city will be full. Messengers have already gone to summon the important alcaldes of the closest cities,” Varaa continued. “Some act as his advisors.” She blinked thoughtfully. “The idea of a strong, united union has grown on him over the past few days and during our little consultations.” She waved around, then looked directly at Lewis. “He was especially impressed by my interpretation of your readings from the ‘Constitution’ governing your people”—she nodded at Alferez Lara—“so very much like the one that once governed yours as well. We’ll have to discover why it binds some, while driving others apart.” Lara nodded and pursed his lips. He’d been a strong supporter of the Mexican Constitution of 1824, but now wasn’t the time to describe all the reasons it hadn’t flourished. “In any event,” Varaa went on, “Alcalde Periz wanted to speak to several other alcaldes before this ‘great army’ ”—she grinned—“makes its appearance below the walls of Uxmal. Especially since some of those alcaldes may actively oppose closer cooperation. He—we—strongly suspect the alcalde of Puebla Arboras—far too often in Uxmal already, in my view, and doubtless there now—will be one.”

  “Why? Who is he?” Reverend Harkin asked.

  Varaa nodded to Father Orno, who haltingly took up the explanation. Despite theological differences they didn’t even know the depth of yet, he and Reverend Harkin had been practically inseparable, first working tirelessly to assist Dr. Newlin and the Ocelomeh healers, then because they’d discovered they shared a passion for natural philosophy and the study of God’s creation. Harkin knew he had a long way to go to catch up with his new friend in this place. They prattled together incessantly, and Father Orno’s growing grasp of English was amazing to them all.

  “He calls himself ‘Don Discipo,’ ” Orno said with distaste, “and Puebla Arboras lies on the fringe of . . . La Tierra de Sangre—the contested ‘Land of Blood.’ I say it is contested,” he added grimly, “but it’s thoroughly under the control of the Holcanos and Grik, who strongly hold the ancient city of Cayal south of Puebla Arboras.” One of his eyebrows twitched upward. “Some find it strange that even though Don Discipo’s city has long been most exposed to Holcano aggression, it remains . . . sin molestado.”

  “Unmolested,” Lara clarified for some of the others.

  Varaa nodded and took over the explanation, tone dark. “Many believe it’s because he’s allowed Dom Sacerdotes de Sangre—Blood Priests—to reside among his people as missionaries and has grown too close to them.”

  “What precisely are these ‘Blood Priests’?” De Russy asked. “I’ve heard them mentioned unflatteringly in association with the Doms. . . .”

  Harkin glowered and glanced at Orno. “I won’t preach a sermon, only explain,” he assured before clearing his throat. “Apparently, they are the Doms in the sense that it’s their horribly warped version of the faith—which Father Orno and I share the true fundamentals of—that increasingly defines the so-called Holy Dominion and guides its people.” His expression clouded. “We, nearly all of us here, I should hope”—he glanced questioningly at Varaa-Choon before continuing—“firmly believe that, through the blood of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ, we who surrender ourselves into God’s divine hands are bathed in His grace. It abides in us, helping us achieve the tasks He calls us to perform for the benefit of others and His glory.” Harkin slightly shrugged his large shoulders. “Some are called to be ministers, to spread the word. Others are sailors, whalers, wheelwrights, blacksmiths, farmers”—he glanced at his friend De Russy—“even politicians, I suppose.” He peered over at Lewis, the firelight glinting off his small eyes. “Even righteous soldiers do a service for their fellow man that is not displeasing to the Lord—if they perform their duty guided by the grace of God in their hearts. God’s grace, given freely and wholly undeserved to those who accept it and endeavor to deserve it through good works and rejection of sin,” he added meaningfully, “will carry us to salvation, if we let it.”

  His face contorted with a mixture of horror and fury. “Blood Priests also teach that ‘grace’ is the pathway to salvation—of a sort. Theirs is not so attractive to most, since their notion of ‘paradise’ is one of degrees. The exalted among them remain so, only more, and their servants still serve. The only difference for them is that they do so without want for a change. I suppose that might be a kind of paradise to some. . . .

  “But the most hideous and perverted difference is that instead of earning the right to keep the grace freely given by a loving God, a grace that sustains us in our toil and suffering, they must earn . . . their god’s grace (I can’t call him ‘ours’) through pain and suffering. Over the years, the bloody pagan rituals the Spanish found in this land twisted and subverted the Christianity they brought to such a shocking degree that even the meaning of our Lord and Savior’s crucifixion has been perverted. Instead of dying for our sins, to ensure our salvation, the brutal scourging and execution of Jesus has been turned to an example of what’s required by all to gain the grace required for salvation!” He shuddered.

  “What are you saying?” Samantha almost whispered, horrified.

  Varaa answered. “Doms believe they must be ‘cleansed’ by pain to earn the ‘grace’ of a bloodthirsty Maker who glories in their sacrifice to him. The more painful it is, the more notice he takes!”

  “That’s . . . ghastly!” Lieutenant Olayne objected.

  “Yes,” Father Orno agreed, eyes blazing.

  “Just as bad,” Reverend Harkin went on, “they’ve integrated many . . . pagan practices into their faith. Human sacrifice is one. Ostensibly, it serves as an example of the ‘purification’ they must endure—and the victim is consoled with the assurance his or her soul will fly straight to their ‘heavenly underworld’—but it’s primarily a means of delighting and gaining the favor of their god for various reasons.” He glanced at Orno. “I understand it occurs quite frequently.”

  Reverend Harkin sat up straighter, proud belly straining against his waistcoat, but his expression was wreathed in gloom. “In any event, to answer your question, Colonel De Russy, Blood Priests are members of a newer, more aggressive sect of messengers and harbingers of that way of thinking now gaining power over”—he snorted—“their more ‘moderate’ bretheren. That power struggle within their ‘church’ makes little difference to us or our friends, however, since ‘moderate’ in this case seems only a question of relative enthusiasm for the effusion of blood rather than any meaningful doctrinal dispute.” He drew on his pipe and blew a frustrated gust of smoke. “One wouldn’t imagine such a depraved faith would attract many followers, but the Dominion has grown vast and powerful as much through the fear of conquest as the actual fact of it because those who resist . . .” He shook his head, perhaps still unbelieving.

  Varaa resumed again. “All their leaders of any consequence, including every single family member, is publicly impaled—along with two in ten of the entire population of the region they absorb. At least half of the rest are taken into slavery, and many of those die in an orgy of sacrifices to delight their Maker. The rest are still slaves, left to work the land or mines or perform whatever occupation makes the conquest beneficial to the Dominion.” Varaa looked around at each face, large blue eyes flaring with the flickering flames.

  “This is the ultimate enemy I hope you’ll help us resist.”
She sighed. “As I’ve told some of you, I and the few others like me came to this land long ago. We came as explorers, perhaps traders, and never meant to stay, but were wrecked and cast on this shore the same as you—in some ways.” She blinked and swished her tail, then kakked a humorless chuckle. “We were nearly as isolated from our home as well, since ours are a cautious people not given much to exploration. We get strangers enough at home, I assure you,” she said cryptically, “and generally see no need to discover more. Unlike you, however, with the help of our ‘pagan’ Ocelomeh”—she sent a genuine grin at Harkin and Orno—“we could’ve built a ship and sailed back where we came from.” She waved her pipe in a circle in front of her face. “But the Jaguar Warriors embraced us, practically worshipped us for a time, since we do somewhat resemble ancient deities of theirs shaped like creatures that don’t even exist on this world. Their beliefs have slowly changed, gently leaning more toward those of Father Orno in interesting ways, but they’ve remained content to let us lead them—and help them protect the Uxmalos and other peoples who sustain them like their collective army. King Har-Kaaska, Koaar, myself—a few others—all came to realize we loved these people and were needed here more than we ever were at home. So we stayed,” she ended simply.

  “You don’t have the option of staying voluntarily,” she resumed. “You can’t go home. You have no home besides what you might build here. I’d think that would make it easier for you to convince your soldiers to help the only people who’ll help you do it, but I won’t take that as a given. Especially as they learn more about the Doms. I only hope they learn to love the people here as I have and come to see them as their own.”

  Reverend Harkin stirred and actually patted Father Orno on the shoulder. “I’ll help with that. I’ve learned a great deal from you, Varaa-Choon, and my little friend here.” He patted Orno again. “I’m Presbyterian, of course, but there are many denominations in my flock: Methodists, Lutherans, Congregationalists, Baptists, Anglicans, and I shall not scorn papists either. Why, I think there’s even a Mohammadan or two and various pagans among Captain Holland’s sailors. All will be part of my flock if they choose because what you told Captain Cayce was right: the differences between all those faiths, and what I’ve come to know about the Uxmalos—even Ocelomeh!—pale to insignificance compared to the abomination of the Doms.” He looked earnestly at Lewis. “As God is my witness, we will build a union, and I’ll daily preach on the glory of Godly unity—and the wickedness of the Doms!”