ZUMA’S SUMMONING

Mexico, AD 1519

The Spaniard stumbled, splashing through the swamp with panicked strides. There was a wail behind him as the last of his companions fell – his fellow conquistadors had all met the same terrible fate. Across his shoulder, the man carried an open chest that brimmed with gold. In the crook of his left arm he gripped his upturned helmet; this too was overflowing with jewellery fashioned from the precious metal. The temple had appeared to be unguarded, the hoard there for the taking. More fool the Spaniard and his companions. They hadn’t reckoned upon the beast that guarded the Aztec gold.

He looked back as he ran, clambering over the exposed roots of mangrove trees and sliding over muddy banks. He had to keep moving, to put distance between himself and the temple. If he continued in this direction, following the morning light, he would reach the beach where his landing party had come ashore. Then he could return to the jungle with more men, more weapons. But for now he simply had to shake his foe off his trail. His enemy was out there somewhere, a demon in the jungle that attacked in the darkness.

Had the monster followed the conquistador? Or had the Spaniard given it the slip? He clambered along the edge of a mosquito-infested swamp before collapsing against an enormous mangrove. The soldier paused for the briefest moment to catch his breath and look back the way he had come. It was a mistake.

The arrow punched clean through his breastplate, breaking the flesh below his ribs. The Spaniard grunted, wheezed, then stumbled down the banks of the incline, hitting the thick swamp with a heavy splash. It was like quicksand, slowly taking hold of him and pulling him down.

He struggled to free himself, but his ornate steel breastplate was weighing him down. The poisoned arrow was already working its dark magic, slowing him, making his internal organs shut down. The chest of gold remained afloat next to him, as did his helmet, but they were also sinking. The Spaniard was sinking faster though.

He snorted when he saw a shape emerge from behind the roots of the giant mangrove tree. Its skin was golden, spotted with black marks, its teeth white and deadly. A giant cat of some kind, here to watch his demise. It rose, tall on its hind legs, staring down at the dying man. The Spaniard spat mud from his mouth as the sucking pit dragged him ever deeper. He could see that this was no beast now; it was a man, wearing the skin of a jungle cat. The pelt covered his arms and the clawed paws hung over the Aztec’s clenched fists. He carried a bow and a quiver on his back.

The Spaniard begged for help, straining with all his might to raise a hand from the stinking swamp. The Aztec saw this and, grabbing a root of the mangrove, lowered himself, reaching out towards the temple robber. The conquistador managed a panicked smile, his hope rising. It was extinguished in a flash when the wild man seized the chest of gold, dragging the half-sunk box back across the swamp to the safety of the shore. Through the dark open maw of the catskin hood, the Spaniard saw the man smile.

Then the light came. The Spaniard imagined this was his Lord coming for him, ready to take him to heaven. He closed his eyes before the blue light, accepting that his suffering was over and he was going to a better place. Tranquillity was only a heartbeat away. Still the pit sucked him down, the gloopy mud surging into his throat and choking him.

The conquistador’s eyes flicked open. The Aztec – and the bright light – were gone. The chest of gold remained on the bank, untouched. Then the thieving Spaniard was swallowed by the mangrove swamp, his slow, agonizing death anything but peaceful.