No wonder, then, that anti-Empire sentiment was as rife in Anahuac as anywhere, fermenting in the wilds, in the darker, more distant reaches of the land. No wonder Xibalba could find a warm reception in so many places. The Empire wasn’t tending to its roots. That kind of neglect could lead to terminal rot.
Stuart and Zotz arrived back at the point they had set out from, a village that was little more than a landing stage with a handful of huts attached. Even as they approached, rounding a bend in the river, Stuart sensed there was something wrong. Yesterday there’d been noise and bustle, dogs scampering about, the inevitable pack of semi-feral children. Today, silence.
Nobody came out to greet them as they tied up the canoe at the jetty. Stuart’s ears detected furtive activity within the huts — muffled footfalls, hushed voices.
“What’s up?” he murmured to Zotz.
“No idea,” came the reply. “But I don’t like it.”
“Me either. We should move on upriver.”
“We hired the canoe here, we return it here. Besides, not much further on, the river becomes impassable. Rapids, rocks, waterfalls.”
As Zotz stepped out of the boat, he swore softly.
Jaguar Warriors had emerged from the largest of the buildings, which belonged to the canoe’s owner. There were four of them in all. Two had lightning guns, and Stuart could hear a faint whine. The weapons were charging.
“How should we handle this?” he said to Zotz out of the corner of his mouth as he, too, stepped onto the jetty.
“Play it by ear. It could be nothing, a routine visit.”
“If it isn’t? Those l-guns say they’re ready for trouble.”
“Anahuac Jaguars are always ready for trouble. Let me do the talking.” Zotz raised a hand in greeting. “Gentlemen! Good day to you. How are you this fine morning?”
The Jaguar group’s leader made a hand-slash gesture: cut the chitchat. “Who are you? Names.”
“Hunab Ku Zotz. And this is Rene Jolicoeur, a botanist from France. I’m his guide. I’ve been taking him into the forest to study plants.”
“Botanist, huh?” The Jaguar eyed Stuart sceptically. “What particular plants in our country interest you?”
“Well, all of them, I suppose,” said Stuart. “The diversity of flora in the region is remarkable.”
We’re not going to pull this off, he thought. I know bugger-all about any of this stuff if he tries to cross-examine me. He calculated which of the Jaguars to attack first. One of the pair with guns stood close by. A few quick steps, a well-aimed jab to the throat, he could have the weapon out of the man’s hands, shoot the other gun holder before the element of surprise was lost.
“But especially,” said Zotz, “medicinal herbs. Monsieur Jolicoeur works for a pharmaceutical company based in… Rennes, is it?”
He looked to Stuart, who nodded.
“They’re constantly on the lookout for new drugs to develop from traditional natural remedies. Like jatoba bark.” Zotz took out a handful of his own supply from his pocket, to show the policemen. “It’s a huge market, and Anahuac is at the centre of it. As ever, the Land Between The Seas leads the way, and the rest of the world follows. What we have, everyone else desires.”
The Jaguars nodded to one another as though Zotz had uttered pearls of great wisdom.
“And Anahuac has provided the cure to all ills,” said Zotz, still pursuing his not-so-subtle subtext.
“True,” said the Jaguars’ leader. Abruptly he turned back to Stuart. “I’d like to see some ID, if I may.” He held out a hand. Stuart fished out his bogus passport.
He’ll see that it’s been doctored. He’ll ask me to show him plant samples I’ve collected. The whole charade was about to crumble to pieces. Stuart tensed, preparing himself for a quick, dirty fight.
“Seems to be in order.” The Jaguar handed the passport back. “I wish you luck, Mr Jolicoeur.” He turned and motioned to the other three with a circular sweep of his arm. “Let’s move out, men. We’ve wasted enough time here. We’ve another half-dozen of these hick-towns to cover today.”
They tramped out of the village along the path that led to a nearby dirt track. Shortly, there was the sound of two-stroke engines spluttering into life. Motorbikes. The waspish drone faded into the forest.
“Whew,” said Stuart to Zotz. “Nicely done. I thought they were here looking for me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Englishman. Like I said, routine. Jaguar patrols come through every so often. They shake down the villages. Kick in a few doors, prise up a few floorboards. Not sure what they hope to find. Some sort of contraband. There isn’t any. What do these people have? Nothing. Mainly it’s a show of power, to remind everybody, even in the boondocks, who’s carrying the biggest stick. A bit of swaggering. The locals know to keep their heads down and wait until they pass.”
Sure enough, with the Jaguar Warriors gone, the villagers emerged from indoors. In just a few minutes the air was filled with shouting and hurly-burly again. Normal village life had been resumed.
“Still,” said Zotz, as he and Stuart began the arduous four-hour hike uphill to the village where Xibalba were billeted, “we’d better tell Chel. There’s a chance one of them might not be as lazy and complacent as the Jaguars round these parts usually are. He might check with his counterparts in France to see if there really is a botanist called Rene Jolicoeur.”
“And is there?”
“Yes, there is. That’s his stolen passport you’re carrying. Trouble is, he doesn’t look a bit like you.”
Ah Balam Chel agreed that they had a problem. The encounter with the patrol was unfortunate. He’d known having Stuart among them would be a risk. A tall white man in the company of a group of short, brown-skinned Anahuac nationals was always going to attract attention.
“You are, at least as far as physical appearance goes, a liability, Reston. And it means, I’m afraid, that we must abandon this cosy little perch sooner than planned.”
“And go where?”
“Where we have to go,” Chel replied cryptically. “To the place the military would call our forward operating base. The bad news is, we won’t be travelling by truck. We can’t. We’ll be too visible on the roads — you will be. We’ll have to go cross-country instead, on foot. But we have enough time, that’s the main thing. Still enough time. We’re ahead of schedule.”
“Schedule? What schedule? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“The countdown, Reston. The cosmic clock is ticking.”
“You what?”
“Come now, don’t look like that.”
“No, you’re really going to have that explain that remark.”
“I will, I swear. But tomorrow, after we head out. Go get some sleep. You look done in. In the morning, we march.”
THIRTEEN
4 Deer — 6 Water 1 Lizard 1 House
(Saturday 8th — Monday 10th December 2012)
The rain was like no rain Stuart had ever known. Britain had its downpours — torrential cloudbursts that could soak you to the skin in seconds. They seldom lasted long, though. They came, they went.
This rain was relentless, merciless, endless.
The deluge started shortly after dawn, and Stuart expected that Chel would postpone departure. But instead, Chel claimed the rain was a great opportunity. “It’ll keep the Jaguar Warriors off our backs. If we wait for it to stop, we could be hanging around for days.”
So, heads bent, packs on backs, they set out. Within minutes they were drenched. The trees were no protection. The forest canopy didn’t act as an umbrella; instead, the foliage served to channel and focus the rain, turning it into thick rods and shimmering, sluicing sheets. It was like taking a tepid shower, fully clothed. You couldn’t see much further than a dozen yards ahead. Everything beyond dissolved into a haze of falling water.