The Seven Serpents Trilogy (14 page)

I stayed awake most of the night, kept company by the howling monkeys, but I heard no unfamiliar sounds. Bravo was grazing peacefully at dawn when I fell asleep, to dream of pots of steaming food and snow-cooled milk. I awakened to the smell of smoke.

Looking out, I saw, to my great surprise, a shallow pit surrounded by a neat pile of stones, not ten paces from the hut. In the center of the pit burned a lively fire.

I ran outside, scarcely trusting my eyes. But the fire was real. It burned my hand. No one was in sight. I found no footprints in the grass. Raising my voice, I shouted, “
¡Hola, amigo, hola!
” I shouted the greeting over and over, but received no answer.

On a flat stone beside the fire was a length of cotton fishing line and a hook made of gold. Yes, gold. Only a friend would have built a fire for me. Only someone who wished me well would have left me the means by which to feed myself. The gold hook meant that the metal was common on the island. But who was this In dian friend who watched over me? Boy or man, why did he come to the camp by stealth in the night and flee with the dawn?

I lost no time getting to the beach. With my new line and the golden hook baited with clams, I cast out into the estuary. Losing more than I landed, because the hook was barbless, I still caught two silver-sided fish, each of a good size, which I cleaned and split.

I went to the shore again and brought back driftwood for two days' burning. I built up the fire, made a fine bed of glowing coals, and grilled my catch. Though I lacked soup and vegetables and a cool beverage, it was the best meal I had tasted in many long months.

That night, determined to learn who my visitor was, I built up the fire and slept near the open door of my hut. It was stormy, with waves crashing upon the shore and wind whipping the tall grass in the meadow. The horde of little dogs appeared and sat beside the fire, chattering away for an hour or so.

The wind died toward morning. In the silence, I heard someone moving around beyond the ring of fire light. I got up and stealthily circled the meadow, stopping now and then to listen for sounds in the tall grass.

I heard nothing as I moved, but at dawn I found be side the fire a stout hardwood club. It was longer than my arm and faced at the larger end with a sharp flake of obsidian. It could be used as either a weapon or a cut ting tool. Beside it lay a bowl of fruit, several strands of fiber, and a needle made of a fish bone.

My friend, whoever it was, must have watched me while I struggled to cut cloth with the honed edge of a clamshell. He must have seen me trying to make the poncho, piecing it together with a handful of thorns.

I discovered fresh footprints on the beach, but all of them belonged to the same person. It was puzzling that only one Indian came to my camp. Could there be only one living in the jungle? Or did he live in a nearby village, for some reason keeping my presence a secret from all others in the tribe?

The bowl held several kinds of fruit. Especially good was a small green melon with orange-colored flesh that melted softlyin the mouth, leaving a taste of custard seasoned with spice. As I ate it, I cast about in my mind for some small gift I could leave by the fire in return for the gifts left for me.

Something. Anything. Alas, I was as poor as a mouse that lives in a village church. But gift or not, I wouldn't rest until I had discovered the identity of my elusive vis itor and friend.

 

N
OW THAT
I
FELT SAFE, WITH A HANDY WEAPON AT MY SIDE AND A FIRE
burning, I decided to sleep in the open, for the nights were hot. I made a bed of meadow grass against the front of the hut and lay down as soon as it grew dark, thinking to get my sleep before the hour when the visitor might appear.

I awoke after midnight, judging by the position of the stars. As I lay in the open, encircled by the black jungle, I thought of my books, those I'd had to leave at home as well as those, the Canticles of St. Francis and the Bible, that were lying beneath the waters. I knew my books almost by heart, but it was always a happy moment when I took them up and turned the pages and saw the words again. It was like meeting friends you have not seen for a long time.

A half-moon rose above the trees. From far off came the soft rumble of the volcano. A reddish light shone on the water; I presumed it to be a reflection of its fire.

The stars that wheeled toward the dawn also looked down on the stone idol, who stood with her bloody tal ons gripping the same earth I lay upon. She had haunted me since the moment when I had fled the clearing. Soon, this very day, I must go back to the jungle and stand in front of her. I must meet her half-closed eyes and stony gaze and face her down.

Toward daylight I dozed but suddenly awakened to the sound of Bravo neighing. Cautiously, I got to my feet, taking care to stand in the shadow of the doorway.

Light began to show in the east and on the highest branches of the trees. Beyond the fire and the circle where the stallion grazed, at the very edge of the jungle, I saw a figure. It stood for a moment looking in my di rection, then, no more than a moving shadow, crossed the meadow in the direction of the beach.

It was possible that there were two Indians, even more, who visited the camp. I waited, standing in the shadows. The lone figure disappeared from view.

Now was the moment to follow and call out a greet ing. I hesitated, thinking that the visitor planned to re turn, possibly with a gift. Then would be the time to step forth quietly, to speak, to give my thanks.

The eastern sky had grown light. There was no sign of the visitor. I started for the shore without delay. I found it deserted, but in the wet sand were fresh prints. I fol lowed them to the far end of the cove, where they moved about in a circle, then turned away from the shore.

Here, I lost them in the grass. I stood for a while, un decided about what to do. I had an odd feeling that whoever it might be was not far away, perhaps hidden at the edge of the jungle, watching. As I stood there, gazing in all directions, I felt somewhat like a fool.

After a moment it occurred to me to follow the path I had taken four mornings before. I went quietly. When I reached the grove of trees and thorn bushes. I paused to listen. I heard nothing except a pair of macaws chat tering in a tree.

I made my way through the thorns, taking one careful step at a time. I reached the triangular clearing in front of the image. The evil place was still in darkness, save for a glimmer of light on the winged monster that adorned the head of the goddess.

With the rising sun the light descended, revealing the stone face, the slashes across cheeks and chin, the half-closed eyes. I crossed myself and met her gaze. I did not move from where I stood.

I became aware of the strong, not unpleasant odor of burning copal, which I had encountered on the island of gold. It rose in wisps of resinous smoke from a bowl that someone had placed at the foot of the goddess.

I had thought I was alone. But as the light grew, I made out a figure lying prone, arms outstretched, before the stone image. The figure was clothed in a scarlet huipil. It was the same person, man or boy, I had seen in the meadow. The worshiper lay motionless, but I heard a few faint words, the same words said slowly over and over.

It must have been my labored breathing, for I did not move or speak. Suddenly the worshiper arose and, with a cry of surprise, turned to face me.

It was neither a man nor a boy who stood there be fore me, but a girl, no older than my young sister. Her hair was glossy black, reaching to her waist. She grasped it in both hands, whether in alarm or surprise, I cannot say.

The next moment, without a word spoken, she was gone. Not by the way I had come, but by a different, a secret way, perhaps, toward the south and the volcano, on a path that led into the deepest heart of the jungle.

 

T
HE GIRL WAS GONE SO SUDDENLY THAT
I
HAD NO CHANCE TO UTTER
more than one feeble word of greeting.

I ran along the path she had taken, past the stone im age to the far end of the clearing and the edge of the jungle. There I halted and, cupping my hands, shouted a word I had learned on Isla del Oro, an Indian saluta tion. I shouted it with all the breath I could summon. There was no reply.

The path led into a tangle of trees, thorns, and loop ing vines so dense that, after a half-dozen steps, I gave up my pursuit and turned back. Yet the girl had made her way into this jungle and, without a sound, had swiftly disappeared. Who was she? Where was her home? Why had she come in the dark to bring me gifts? Why had she fled?

These questions and many others I pondered.

There was little doubt that the girl lived close by and, considering her age, which I took to be thirteen or fourteen, with her mother and father. On her way to the beach to fish or gather clams, she had seen me in the meadow, a tall, white-skinned stranger. She had seen the stallion. She had marveled at both, but she had kept these marvels a secret. For what reason I didn't know, except that my sister loved secrets and often made them up when they didn't really exist.

Watching me as I went about the meadow, when I traveled to the volcano and came back with a shell full of ashes, seeing that I ate nothing but fruit, that I had to pin my shirt together with thorns, she had taken pity on me.

 

I
SLEPT OUTSIDE THAT NIGHT, AS
I
HAD BEFORE, WITH A GOOD FIRE
burning, but apparently she didn't return. If she did so during the brief times I dozed, she left no gifts.

Nor did she return the following night, though I kept a wakeful watch. Toward dawn of the third night after our encounter, with a halfmoon shining in my eyes, I awakened to see a figure as it left the fire and started away. It looked to be larger than the girl, but this proved only a trick of the moonlight.

I jumped to my feet, not pausing to see if she had left another gift.

Determined to catch the girl before she reached the jungle, I wasted no breath on an idle greeting.

She ran with her black hair streaming, not awkwardly with flailing arms as my sister ran, but gracefully, like a forest animal.

Before she reached the stream, I had gained a few steps on her. I lost them when she came to a boulder and had to make a circle while boldly I leaped over it but stumbled as I landed. In the tall grass I gained back what I'd lost.

At the very edge of the jungle, just as she was about to disappear from sight, I overtook the girl. I grasped her arm lightly, too lightly, for she pulled away and the next moment would have faded off into the trees had I not taken hold of her with both hands.

It had been a game she was playing with me. Now the game was over and she was in the grasp of a stranger she had seen only from a distance. She hid her face against her shoulder. I could feel her trembling.

“Señorita,” I said, though out of breath and knowing that she wouldn't understand one word of what I was about to say, “I only wish to thank you for all you have given me.”

No words ever fell upon less comprehending ears.

The Spanish tongue possesses many beautiful sounds—I wouldn't set myself up as a judge, since I have a knowledge of only three other languages, French and Latin and Italian—the most beautiful sounds I think in all the world. But—I might have been speaking with my mouth full of pebbles. The girl tried to cover her ears. She squirmed to get free.

I dared not let go lest she disappear. Yet what had I gained by running her down, standing there with a firm grip on her shoulders, speaking words that she not only didn't understand but whose sound actually pained her?

I let go my hold and stepped back.

She looked up at me in surprise, settling her dress around her shoulders. She had black eyes and high cheekbones. In each ear she wore a small gold plug. On the point of her chin was a single blue dot. She was what I would call a comely girl and seemed to know it.

To express my thanks, I waved toward the fire, in pantomime carefully threaded a needle, and went through the act of sewing. I pretended to eat a piece of fruit that dripped juice. I then took a step backward and made a low bow, placing my hands on my chest, as is the custom when addressing a queen.

As I straightened up after this elaborate mimicry, the girl was no longer there. She had fled without a sound through the tall grass into the fastness of the jungle. I listened and heard nothing. I waited, thinking that now she was free, she might venture back. I waited a long time, until the sun rose on the new day.

Disappointed at the turn events had taken, I walked to the shore to catch my breakfast. The tide was out and the fish were not biting, so I gathered clams on the beach. Being in no mood to trudge back to my hut, I sat on the sand and ate them raw.

I felt foolish when I thought of how I had lamely struggled through the dumb show of thanking the girl for her gifts. Languages were easy for me. I could learn in time to speak her tongue well.

It was possible that she had circled back by her secret path and was now in the clearing. She apparently went there every morning to burn copal and prostrate herself before the stone image. With the prospect of meeting the girl for the second time that morning, I started off for the jungle clearing.

I approached it with care, so silently that the macaws never paused in their chattering, and a bright-banded coral snake, whose bite could bring death within the hour, never moved as I passed by.

I smelled the sweet odor of copal and saw its blue smoke drifting high among the trees. The clearing was deserted, but someone had been there that morning, for the bowl that held the incense was nearly full.

The goddess had not changed. The eyes were still half closed; they still looked down upon me with a stony gaze that was at once piercing and slumberous. Upon the protruding lips was the beginning or the end ing of a smile that, as before, both repelled and at tracted me.