Bride of Thunder (41 page)

Clever Celeste! Only if he thought her dead would Mercy be safe. Would Zane be home yet? She hoped so, yet she hated the certainty that if he was, he'd have read that letter and considered her a faint-hearted deserter.

Whatever he thought, though, she could explain. If he were only alive and well! She lay sleepless, even after Eric had finally exhausted himself and slumbered heavily. She feared the journey. Chances were against her getting through to Zane. But at least she'd be trying. She was taking her fate in her hands and plunging, and in that, along with dread, was great exhilaration.

It was still dark when Eric awoke and possessed her a last time, deeply, slowly. “Good-bye, love,” he said. “McNulty's in charge while I'm gone. Tell him if you need anything.”

“I'd go downstairs with you, but my head …”

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” His hands strayed over her and he kissed her. “I'd rather think of you like this the few nights I'll be stringing my hammock in the jungle.” He crossed the room and was gone.

Out beyond the stable, there were voices and commotion, but within fifteen minutes the sounds faded away. Mercy dozed, for it had been agreed that Celeste would tell Pierre she wanted no breakfast. There'd be no luncheon, either, and by dinner time Celeste would begin to act frightened and ask the symptoms for the black vomit. Francisca would be fetched and confirm the terrible suspicion.

After that, no one would want to see Mercy, and she'd leave before dawn. The young Indian whose arm had been putrefying when Mercy saved him would wait for her at a landing out of sight just down the river. He would take her across and put her on the trail going north, the Cruzob supply line.

Compelled to stay in her room that day, Mercy dreamed of Zane, of being back at La Quinta with Chepa, Jolie, Salvador, and Mayel. It helped keep up her courage. Even if she were destined to die on the way or be captured by warriors of the Talking Cross, dwelling on those not-so-remote possibilities wouldn't arm her for the effort.

She asked about Dionisio. He was remarkably strong and resilient, according to Francisca. She had given him some of the healing ointment kept prepared in the infirmary and he was back at work. Mercy hoped that the
batab
would feel released from his work bond after the way Eric had treated him.

Strange, he was the reason she could no longer endure life here, yet she'd probably never know what happened to him. Much as she hated to lose touch with her helpers at the infirmary and Celeste, Mercy took satisfaction in knowing that the medical care she'd begun would continue since it was something Eric knew was to the estate's benefit.

Mercy couldn't bring herself to give up her treasured medical books, but she spent most of that day copying out treatments and directions for mixing medicines. None of the infirmary workers could read, but Celeste could, so it would be useful to leave behind as much information as possible.

Pierre had insisted on sending up some custard and fruit juices. Mercy enjoyed these, though she felt a trifle guilty at the genial cook's concern. However, she couldn't think of any way Eric would blame his staff for her illness, and though Pierre and McNulty might feel sad over her untimely death, neither would mourn.

When Celeste smuggled up healthy portions of food from the servants' table, Mercy invited her to share them. Though she was diffident at first about sitting with her mistress, Celeste was soon talking about how happy she and Thomas were. Though both now lived in dormitories for unmarried servants, he was building them a house. All they needed was a clergyman.

“And if one doesn't come soon,” Celeste announced, “Thomas will ask the master to let us go to Belize. That would be grand! A real wedding trip!” She hugged her arms against herself. “I wish Thomas weren't a good shot, wish he hadn't had to go on this raid. But the master is sure to thrash that Canul, isn't he,
madame?
”

“He certainly seemed to think so,” Mercy reassured her. There were almost certain to be dead and wounded, but why talk of that?

Mercy had a last luxurious bath and hair-washing that evening, lying with her face turned to the wall when the boys brought in the water. It was too bad that they'd have to worry for a while about catching the black vomit, but their stories would confirm Mercy's illness.

Upon hearing Celeste's worried questions about the signs of the dreaded plague, Pierre had muttered numerous prayers and sent up broth. Mercy disposed of this while relishing rice and chicken with Celeste. Then Francisca was brought in.

Her eyes glistened as she caressed the cures Mercy had written down. “You have been good to us. Go safely to your own place, but think of us sometimes.”

Francisca pushed back a straggle of gray hair. “That young
batab,
that Dionisio, he asked who you were. Don Gerardo told him he'd be vulture's meat except for you. Dionisio asked me to thank you.” She gave an amused cackle. “He also said you look like the Virgin before she was with child, but I was not, I think, supposed to say that.”

Mercy blushed, but she was pleased that the hawk-handsome Maya had noticed her, and not just as a hated
ladina
. Francisca confirmed that Pablo, the young Indian of the artery wound, would meet her in the morning at the agreed-upon spot. Then, before Mercy could prevent it, the old woman kissed her hands, blessed her, and said good-bye.

To ensure a sound night's sleep, Mercy had a soothing cup of tea at bedtime and the potion worked, for Celeste, who'd slung her hammock in the room, had to shake her awake in the predawn darkness.

While Mercy dressed, Celeste put out some fruit with juice and rolls she'd brought from the kitchen the night before, insisted they be consumed to the last drop and crumb, and then showed Mercy a back way out from upstairs, which avoided the guards. Carrying the pack, Celeste guided her along a path that turned, off the route to the village, leading to a small pier used by the villagers for fishing.

Pablo greeted Mercy as if it were his regular morning habit to help his master's mistresses escape. He put the pack in the middle of his dugout, a smaller version of the pitpan in which she'd been brought to the House of Quetzals two months before, months that even now seemed unreal, like a half-waking nightmare interspersed with the baroque ostentation of Pierre's concoctions and the sanity-preserving hours at the infirmary.

Mercy embraced Celeste. Then with Pablo's help she got into the boat.

The hand that had once looked useless and dead was now as facile as the other, but before they shoved off he pushed up his sleeve and showed her the scar, still slightly ridged. It was haard to believe the sound, firm brown flesh had once been a mass of poison. If those blood-strangulating cords had stayed in place a few more hours, another half a day … The body was subject to so many ills, yet wonderfully self-healing when given a chance. It was a benediction to cross the river by the grace of a man she had saved.

Mercy waved to Celeste, who made an answering gesture and faded into the cypress and willows, festooned with passionflowers and morning glories just becoming visible in the pale light.

The river was shallow here and Pablo poled more than he rowed, but they were soon on the other shore. Taking the pack, he led her for a little way across tangled bare roots and vines, then moved up the bank past a giant tree whose huge palmate leaves had a silvery underside. Pausing, the young man drew aside a mass of vines, disclosing a narrow trail through the dense growth.

“This will take you to the trade route above Bacalar,” he said. “You're not likely to meet Cruzob till then. But if you hear anyone, leave the trail and hide. Don't go far, though. You could get fatally lost half a stone's throw from the path.”

Mercy thanked him and took the pack, looping it over her shoulders with the wide straps she and Celeste had devised. When she glanced back, Pablo had vanished. Only slightly moving vines showed anyone had been there.

The jungle pressed in on all sides and from the top, which almost touched her head in places, stifling, seeming to grasp at her with clinging, entrapping vines, hidden thorns, and protruding branches.

It would take ten days, at least, probably two weeks, more if she wandered. How would she ever sleep? The hammock would lift her off the ground, but things could drop from above, or crawl along the woven strands. She remembered where the horses had mired in the swamps and shuddered to think she must travel that road, wade up to her knees, or worse, in that black slime.

It was one thing to see crocodiles when mounted and protected by half a dozen rifles and men. She thought she would simply die of fright if she met one of the loathsome beasts while struggling through muck. She had a long knife sheathed at her waist, but she devoutly hoped she wouldn't have to use it on anything but vines.

You can go back,
she told herself,
now, before the story of your death gets out, now, while you can still shout to Pablo. But you must decide now. In an hour, Celeste will have lied for you, and to give that away would be unthinkable
.

So was going back. Again, Mercy weighed crocodiles, Cruzob, and the jungle against watching Dionisio being whipped and against bearing Eric's child. She knew that only through the jungle trail did she have a chance for life, a chance to find her love. She begged her father's spirit to be with her, sent her love and hope silently to Zane, and started on.

18

The sandals she wore were comfortable, but she was not used to steady walking. By the time the sun sent luminous shafts spiraling through the various layers of leaves so that the diffused glow reached her, she stopped by a seeping from the rocks to drink, rest, chew some dried meat, and rub into her feet the ointment she'd brought, a concoction of
toloache
and oils of turpentine and artemisia. The artemisia healed blisters and cracks, turpentine was an irritant and cleanser, and
toloache
dulled pain. She was likely to need a lot of it before this trip was over!

Her pack couldn't weigh more than fifteen pounds, but it seemed to double and triple in weight as the afternoon wore on and the humid heat grew oppressive. Mercy had chosen her divided muslin skirt and blouse as the most practical garments, and the change she carried was the poplin divided skirt and another thin blouse. The skirts were long, somewhat full, and terribly in the way, catching on roots, vines, and taking on the hue of mud.

Tripping as a hem caught on a fallen log, Mercy reached for her knife and was going to hack off the encumbering material at the knee when she remembered that the cloth was some protection from chiggers, mosquitoes, and scratches. She compromised, ripping and cutting away the bottom five or six inches. Relieved of several yards of cloth, which she buried in a hollow tree trunk and felt much freer without, Mercy promised herself a rest and food at the next sight of water.

This was a spring slowed to a trickle by the dry season, but sweet to the taste. She made a hollow to accumulate enough to soak her weary feet, mixed water into the sour cornmeal in her hollow gourd cup, and savored the pungent gruel, rather liking the taste, though she smiled to imagine what Pierre would have said.

The sun was slanting low to the west. She reckoned she'd been walking for most of the past eleven hours and was thoroughly tired. Should she stay all the night near this water?

In the short time she had been resting, all kinds of rustling sounds had seemed to multiply. She heard a scuffling above and a crashing sound as something struck the ground a short distance ahead. A scream pushed to her lips, but she swallowed it as she recognized the monster shape as an iguana, which lay stunned for a moment before it raised its thick, dragon-like body and darted into the brush. It must have been after birds or birds' eggs and ventured onto a limb too thin for its weight.

Iguanas were harmless and reputed to have excellent chicken-like meat, but the startling materialization of a four-foot-long lizard convinced Mercy that she'd be stupid to stop any sooner than she had to and be devoured by taut nerves and imagining. There were enough real dangers without fantasizing any. So she rubbed in more salve, changed sandals in the hope that differently angled straps would discourage blisters, and started out again.

The sun dipped lower and lower. She was beginning to think she should have filled the waterskin, because she was going to have to stop soon before real darkness, when she heard the sound of water and found a stream welling from the roots of a huge cedar.

She drank gratefully, then secured her hammock out of sight of the trail and far enough from water so that, she hoped, any creatures that wanted to drink would be neither frightened nor tempted by her.

Jaguars weren't supposed to attack people, but if one got curious and came sniffing around, she'd probably screech and scare it into jumping on her. And spider monkeys could be unpleasant if threatened. She refused to even think about snakes.

Her clothes were sodden with sweat and she felt muddy, as if the dust of travel was glued to her. Undressing, she hung her things to air out over a limb, stood in the stream, and washed all over. She had no towel so she dried by the air, rubbed on some of the resin Chepa recommended to keep off mosquitoes and chiggers, anointed her feet, relieved that she had no blisters or open sores, and decided to sleep in her clean clothes.

In the twilight that thickened swiftly in the forest, she sat in her hammock and slowly chewed spiced dry meat and sipped sour corn gruel. It was highly concentrated food and very satisfying. Spreading her soiled clothes over her pack at the end of the hammock, Mercy covered herself with the light poncho and seemed to fall asleep.

She awoke to stealthy padding and lay frozen as something touched the lowest-hanging part of the hammock, then nudged her hip. Opening her eyes slowly, she could see nothing in the darkness. The nudging came again, reminding her of a rooting pig's snout.