Act V: A Road Between Worlds

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Riviera Maya

Alfredo knew he must make a decision. He had arrived in Cancun the previous afternoon. He was initially exhilarated to be back in Mexico, but as soon as he climbed aboard a taxi and was asked for his destination, he was sure he didn’t want to go to his father’s home. He needed to think. Thinking was not something he could do quickly, so he sought out a smart but discrete hotel on the edge of the city. He got to his room and immediately wanted to leave it again: it looked just like the one he had left behind in London. His life was still in stasis and he needed to figure out why.

He sat at a small circular table on a wooden balcony overlooking the sea, toying with a plate of meat. Luis he must help, but how was he to deal with his father? The villa, which had increasingly become old Paulo’s main residence, was a symbol of the distance between them. There his father had installed a succession of women, to whom the boys were expected to defer during their infrequent visits south, even though each trip seemed to bring a new female face. These women had invariably loathed the presence of the boys: unwelcome reminders both that Paulo had a family and of their own uncertain status. Alfredo now felt closer to his mother than ever before. A visit to the villa would be an act of betrayal.

He turned off his phone. His father would ring, or Luis would ring, and he had no idea what he would say to either. He decided to hire a car - he thought more clearly whilst driving. Forcing down a few rapid mouthfuls of food, Alfredo gestured to the waiter for the bill. He would get his hair cut and buy some clothes more suited to the climate. After that he would drive until he knew where he was going.

Three hours later, Alfredo was on his way south. The road from the sandy island, which was home to the tight cluster of high-rise buildings which formed downtown Cancun, merged seamlessly with the main coastal highway. A massive cruise ship dominated the seascape to his left. The villa was two hours ahead, but if he just kept driving he and his four-by-four could be on the Belize border before nightfall. It was a tempting prospect, but he wouldn’t be much use to Luis down there. He turned on the stereo and joined in clumsily as Orishas sang Represente, relaxing into the music and the rhythm of the road.

All too quickly he recognised the first features of the area which his father called home. He was not ready. The journey had brought a sore throat, but no resolution to his inner turmoil. There was still time to turn off the highway and take a country road, but he didn’t. He drew up at the entrance to a golf course. Beyond a low white wall covered in picture tiles, the vibrant green of the fairways rolled away between manicured borders and stands of tropical forest. Alfredo stopped at the barrier and handed his membership card to the guard. He weaved his way across the car park, stopping briefly for a line of buggies, before climbing onto a bridge that crossed an expanse of lagoon and swamp. From the top of the bridge he got the first sight of his father’s villa. It was set back from a number of similar, but smaller properties, and surrounded by a garden and high wall. The land between the bridge and the first homes was pock-marked by greens, ponds and deep bunkers. The whole scene had a hyper-real quality, as though created on a computer screen for an animated feature.

Alfredo stopped in the middle of the bridge. Something was not right and he was no longer sure that it was just his mental state. He climbed out of the jeep into the heat of late afternoon and peered ahead of him. Two trolleys raced along a fairway and a small group in the middle distance huddled over their putts. The sound of squabbling waterfowl echoed from beneath the bridge. Alfredo glanced briefly over the edge, at a couple of large and lazy fish. He thought of time spent angling as a child. Luis would organise the bait. He would cast the line into a pool within a fast-flowing mountain stream then pass the rod to his baby brother. Alfredo remembered the thrill of his first rainbow trout. He was so excited he had dropped everything into the water. Luis had leapt with a whoop from a rock into the iron brown flow, emerging triumphantly with tackle and fish. Alfredo had stared in awe as his brother brought out his prize possession - a Swiss-army penknife - and expertly gutted the animal. They had pulled the fire-cooked steaming flesh from the bone with dirty fingers, and lain in the grass chewing and swapping childish insults.

Alfredo sensed that an important issue had just found resolution. Luis was his hero. Alfredo had spent most of his life trying to emulate his brother, but had not known how. He had shown off, rather than providing for the family, as Luis had done. That is what he, Alfredo, must begin to do now.

He walked back to the car and rummaged in a jacket pocket for his phone. He turned it on to discover a string of missed calls, all from Luis.

“Alfredo, thank God. Where the fuck are you, brother?”

“I’m on the golf course.”

“What do you mean you’re on the golf course? You don’t play fucking golf.”

“I mean, I’ve got a car and I’ve stopped on the bridge in the middle of the course by the villa because, to be honest, I’m not looking forward to spending time at Papa’s place.”

“Alfredo, don’t say anything, just listen. There’s no time to explain, but you must do exactly what I tell you.” There was a long pause, during which Alfredo dutifully said nothing. “Eusabio has betrayed the family. He is almost certainly at the villa, possibly with Marcelo. You cannot trust anybody. There’s no way of knowing who they’ve turned against us. Can you see anyone?”

Alfredo peered through the shimmering haze. He could just make out a number of dark figures assembling in the grounds. “Yes, maybe five or six men.”

“They’re after you and will almost certainly have been tipped off by the guards on the gate. Have you been seen?”

“No.”

“Then back slowly off the bridge. Try and slip into the car park unnoticed and stop somewhere discrete. I’m assuming you’re not armed, so you’ll need to judge whether you can make it through security. Call me back, as soon as you can.”

Alfredo climbed back into the jeep, keeping a wary eye on the distant compound. Halfway back down the slope he wheeled around and drove cautiously along the empty access road. Everything ahead of him appeared still. He slipped his vehicle between two large vans and inspected the entrance. The barrier was raised and the guard was chatting unhurriedly to the driver of a black sedan. Taking one deliberate, deep breath Alfredo made his decision and edged forward. A quick smile and a wave to the guard and he would be through. Now he had a better view of the small security building between the clubhouse and the barrier. Two more guards stood to one side, in deep conversation. One looked up and, for a moment, stared straight at the jeep. Then he called out to his colleagues and pointed. The dark saloon beneath the barrier revved and headed straight for Alfredo.

Into reverse, foot flat to the floor, wheel hard over. Go, go, go! Then shit! He’d left the handbrake on. Don’t look behind. Just drive. Just drive. Past the last car, past the buggy shed, past the maintenance depot and - where to go, where to go now? The first gunshot barely registered as he bounced over the curb onto the grass. The jeep slewed from side to side as it tried to contour the increasingly steep slope. Don’t roll it, don’t go into the water. The vehicle clung on to the fairway, brushing at a long line of russet brown sedge and scattering ducks like bullets across the lake. Deep grooves in the turf marked its progress. Where are they? Three armed men were following on foot, another had claimed a buggy. Keep going - make some distance. Up the slope again: around the bunker; over the green. The fairway was almost done now. Into the rough: through the long grass; into the trees. There was a track - overgrown - ideal for the jeep. I must be nearly at the next hole. There is no hole; there’s just more trees, more track, thicker undergrowth, then - thud - there’s a frigging log buried in the brambles.

The driver’s door flew open and Alfredo leapt into the brier. There was no sign of the chasing pack. The wood had turned to jungle, except for a clearing, just ahead. Keeping low, he forced his way through the vegetation. His feet sank into damp soil, then sticky mud. His new brogues filled with liquid. The clearing was a mixture of water-cress beds, mud-flats and oily streams. There, across the glade, were three young foxes, slender-limbed creatures no bigger than domestic cats, jumping at flies and pawing at each other in the dirt. Sensing Alfredo’s presence, they disappeared - one pausing for a backward glance - down a well-warn animal trail. He plunged up to his knees in slime, emerging at the point where the creatures had played, to find that he was now without his keys and shoes. Following, he was drawn between broad-based trees into a mess of marsh and fallen limbs. The path disappeared completely, so he hopped from one mossy island or tree stump to the next. Losing his balance, one foot went crashing straight through unexpectedly rotten timber. In an instant he was lying, face-down in a dark, stinking pool. A moss-soaked branch shattered and fell in on top of him, forcing the air from his body. In a panic he attempted to lever himself upright, at the same time trying not to cause more commotion. Only his head broke free of the water. Mired in pain and bog, his eyesight failing from the shock, he managed to turn just enough to keep breathing. There he lay shivering as a snake, disturbed by the frenzy, progressed its lazy, looping path through the swamp towards him. Alfredo was terrified - convinced he would die - but the reptile barely noticed him as it changed course and slid on by.

Alfredo lay still, concentrating hard to keep his nose and mouth clear of the surface. An ever growing range of insects bit or stung him at will. Any moment, he thought, it will be over. Any moment he would hear the clamour of the chase and then the call of discovery, but he wouldn’t hear the bullet that dispatched him. There was movement close by, he was sure of it. Then there was a single call: I think he’s gone this way. After that there was quiet and anticipation, but the coup de grace did not come.

As he waited, back and neck muscles straining, it grew rapidly darker. Finally, Alfredo could bear the tension no longer. Heaving upwards against the weight of the branch, he managed to half burrow, half drag his way into the clear. He pulled himself onto a stump, chest heaving, and felt for the comfort of his mobile. He gave it a hopeful wipe. Almost certainly it would not work, but it did. The signal was unexpectedly clear.

“I’m still here, Luis,” Alfredo almost chuckled. “Although, for a while - I thought - God had other plans.”

“Where are you, Bro?”

Alberto tried to control his trembling frame. “In a swamp - on the edge of the golf course - they were waiting for me, just like you said. Killing Eusabio - is going to be - a real pleasure.”

“It’s not that simple. I need to get to you as soon as possible then I will explain. Can you make it to the highway?”

“I’ll try. It can’t be far, but I’d better wait until it’s properly dark.”

“Fine, I’m only about half an hour away. I took a business flight from Chihuahua to Playa del Carmen. Do you remember the restaurant on the beach: the one Papa would take us to? I’ll park up somewhere quiet along the track that leads there. It can’t be more than a mile or so from where you are.”

“O.K. Luis, one way or another I’ll be with you soon. I’ll call again, if I don’t see you first.”

It was too dangerous to backtrack to the jeep. If his trail had been seen, it might also be risky to continue ahead. Alfredo peered through the gloom to his left. For as far as he could see the trees grew straight out of the water. He dreaded the prospect of further cold, but at least the swamp would provide cover if he encountered his pursuers. He tucked his trousers into his socks and his polo top into his belt then slipped his cell-phone into a top pocket. Lowering himself carefully into the mire, his feet feeling for the bottom, he realised it was deeper than anticipated. Up to his waist in floating plants, Alfredo pushed slowly forward, a cacophony of birds and insects marking the passing of day into night. Bats skimmed the surface, circling lazily past, almost within touching distance. Moths danced through the branches above him and the first star shone weakly through a gap in the canopy. Somewhere up ahead there was the faint glow of artificial light. Alfredo stopped and listened intently. The ephemeral sound of distant music meandered through the trees. He redoubled his efforts. His feet seemed to be finding firmer ground, but the vegetation was getting thicker. Suddenly the water began to recede around him and he was scrambling up a low, fern-covered bank. Alfredo crouched low, one hand clutching at the stems, the other checking for his phone. Beyond the slope was a wire fence, marking the edge of golf course property. Beyond that was an open field. He could just make out two horses standing under a grove of trees in a far corner, and the whitewashed walls of a farmstead beyond.

Reluctant to break cover, even in the dark, Alfredo decided to circle the field, keeping as far away from the house and horses as possible. The wire formed a useful handrail and he made good progress, but suddenly lost his footing and tumbled into the undergrowth. As he examined a twisted ankle he realised he had also cut his arm on the metal barbs of the fence. He limped on, pressing a thumb to the gash. Soon he was between the house and the main road. A line of shrubs marked the course of a drive connecting the two. As he forced his way through the strands of rusty wire, a dog barked and Alfredo flung himself down. In the distance another hound answered, but all else remained still. The music was coming from the house and was probably too loud for anyone to hear the noise outside. He crawled over new mown grass, sending shooting pains through his arm and ankle, and buried himself in the middle of the nearest shrub. Rolling over and letting out a sigh of relief, he contemplated the moon through a jumble of tiny leaves.

Half an hour later, Alfredo was crouched on the verge of a watery ditch marking the edge of the main highway. He had stayed within it as far as he could. Now he must either walk under a large concrete bridge and across four lanes of fast moving traffic, or climb the exposed slip road. He decided on the former, but would wait until there was a large enough gap in the stream of passing cars to ensure he would not be caught in the headlights. Growing giddy with exhaustion, he could feel the puffy, throbbing flesh swelling under his threadbare left sock. He was almost too cold to shiver. At last, there was a break, so he limped awkwardly across. Following the hard shoulder now, his shadow stretched ahead as each vehicle sped past as though desperate to abandon him. An incongruous figure, shuffling through the night, Alfredo cared for nothing but getting to Luis.

He was almost upon the sign for the Blue Marlin restaurant before he saw it. The turning was unlit, the road a simple gravel track bisecting neighbouring tropical plantations. Alfredo almost cried with relief as he rounded the corner. Luis could not be far away and he had never appreciated his brother more. The profile of a vehicle lay ahead, tucked into a gateway. Behind it a burst of spikes marked a field of agave. Casting all caution aside and oblivious to pain, Alfredo began to run. The car door opened, Luis stepped out and Alfredo stumbled into his arms. He broke down in tears. Luis’ shoulders were heaving too.

“Come on, brother.” Luis spoke at last. “I thought I’d lost you.” He put a supportive arm around Alfredo and helped him into the car. They drove slowly down the dark track. Luis cautiously turned on the headlights. He wondered how he could share his dreadful news, but decided not to try. “We’re going to the restaurant. The owner’s an ex-con who worked as a gardener for Father. I’ve already warned him we’re on our way. You might remember him, his name is Hugo. Papa gave the money to buy his place. He’s the only person we can trust and he certainly owes us a favour. You need clothes and medical attention. We both need weapons.”

“And a good meal,” Alfredo grinned through a fog of tiredness and pain.

The Blue Marlin was closed, the owner and his wife alone. Luis returned to the car to fetch Alfredo, finding him asleep. He tousled his brother’s hair. It reeked of sweat and swamp. Even by moonlight Luis could tell that Alfredo was deathly pale - more than could be accounted for by his sojourn in the UK. As he stirred, Luis grabbed his arm. Alfredo cried out like a child and swung instinctively in his brother’s direction.

“Good to see you haven’t lost your fighting spirit,” Luis laughed, helping him up. “There’ll be plenty of time for violence soon, but first you need to recover.”

The restaurant was lit only by moonlight, straying through patio doors which led out onto an expansive seaside terrace. Sky coloured tables, wicker chairs covered in cream cushions, and a bar and windows inlaid with blue glass fishes gave the room a cool and tasteful air. Large pot-plants cast ghostly shadows. Amongst the plants stood the stout, robust, moon-faced form of Hugo, the owner. “You two always were trouble,” he joked dryly, baring his yellow teeth. “Come on through.”

The muscles in Alfredo’s legs had stiffened to a point where he could barely move. Luis had to almost drag him across the room. Hugo led them through a small study into a comfortable sitting room. “Down the corridor on the left you’ll find a shower, Alfredo. Help yourself to towels. The room at the end is yours. By the time you’re ready, my wife will have sorted out some clothes for you. They’ll be a little old, I’m afraid. As you can see, good living has done nothing for my waistline. Shoes may have to wait until I can ask a favour of the neighbours in the morning.”

“Thank you, Hugo,” responded Luis, appreciatively. The two men watched as Alfredo shuffled his way along the corridor.

“Tell me, Luis,” Hugo frowned, the deep furrows beneath his shock of white hair revealing both his age and his previous life in the open air. “What has happened to your father? You wouldn’t be here unless something was seriously wrong.”

Luis slumped into an old red armchair and stared at the rug on the terracotta tiled floor. For a moment it transported him home to El Paso and the dogs that would lie on a similar rug. “I’m sorry, Hugo, but my father is dead. So is Gennaro. My brother and I have only just found each other again, so he does not know. He was lucky to survive himself - the villa is no longer safe. Nobody knows we are here, but people will be looking for us soon.

Hugo read his mind. “I would rather die than betray you, Luis. Your father’s responsible for everything good in my life.”

“Yes, but we need to be out of here by the morning, for your sake, as much as ours. It was Eusabio who betrayed the family. He is responsible for their deaths. It won’t be long before he and his cronies come.”

“Don’t worry, Luis, you sleep. I’ll hide the car and then stand guard. I’ll do nothing stupid if he turns up. After you’re gone, I’ll find a way to get to him. Eusabio always was a creep. Your family will be avenged.”

“Be careful, Hugo, this is not the North. If the police aren’t already involved, they will be soon. If someone dies, they’ll want the perpetrator.”

“I can take care of myself - and you would be surprised who eats in this restaurant.” Hugo sat down opposite Luis. His wife could be heard preparing food in the kitchen. He leant forward and put a gnarled, mole-speckled hand on the arm of Luis’ chair. “I’m sad about your losses, Luis, but you must understand that this is who they were and how they were meant to die. Could you imagine Gennaro, or your father, Don Paulo, wasting away in some nursing home? Neither would have wanted that.”

Luis shook his head slowly. He didn’t know what to think.

“Don Paulo was here only recently. He sat with me after his meal in this very chair and talked about you and your brother. It’s almost as though you were meant to be here now. He knew his health was failing. The only thing your father was ever afraid of was weakness. But he felt guilty about Alfredo, Luis. He said that you were a better father to him than he had ever been. He also regretted being so distant, when you two were children. Estella, your mother, was always his route to you. Then she was gone. This is what he would have wanted, Luis: you two together, looking out for each other. Do you remember when you would play tricks on me in the garden? Go and have children yourself, Luis, and let that be the worst thing they ever do.”

Chapter Thirty

Tulum road

It was in the same place, but this was not the road which Mulac remembered. That road had burst with life and adventure, as he had done. This road smelled of death and he knew death was stalking him. He stopped and looked around, feeling the weight of the child asleep in his arms. A few yards behind him, his mother struggled under her heavy burden of food and precious possessions. His son trailed listlessly in her wake. This was now the sum total of his world: three fragile and totally dependent souls and a road from misery to misery. At least, he reflected, he had lived and loved, but what of the boy and the baby girl? Through their beauty and serenity lived on the two most extraordinary people that he had ever known: his wife, Emetaly and his priest and greatest friend, Ah Kin Lo. Everything he had ever strived for would now stand or fall on his children’s survival, but Mulac no longer knew how to fight, or even what to fight. The way now led not through the land of men, but through that of the gods - and the gods were vengeful and angry.

He looked to the fields, where once the gods of sun and wind had danced between the sturdy stands of corn, and the goddess of the clouds had scattered her precious liquid jewels. Above a slurry of the dead and the diseased rose a few remaining stems. Battered and broken, they rested one upon the other, offering no other bounty than a visible symbol of the craving that clawed at the innards of every passing traveller. Mulac picked his way through the mess of husk and stalk, sweeping up a pile and placing the girl-child gently within. Staring back across the road, shadows of the forest fingered the rutted surface, as though to tear it from its base and steal it away into the trees. Mulac knew these dark limbs would soon be tearing at his soul as well, offering the doubts of night and the dread of unexpurgated memory. In dreams of the past, the forest had stood respectful, at a distance from the gleaming white way, as though daunted by its purpose and intensity. The homesteads, shrines and stalls, standing proud and boastful, had been slowly and stealthily stolen from sight, leaving only the forest to riot with the demons of the dark, and to suck the life from the day.

Mulac’s mother sat beside him and began to cry in hunger and frustration. The volcanic intensity of love within her was being sucked back into deep chambers of the earth, hour after cloying hour. Mulac took her burden from her and tenderly swept the matted locks of grey from her eyes. She threw a brief, brave smile into an ocean of desperation then curled into a ball amongst the detritus. One arm reached out to touch the boy child, lest the lengthening shadows should get to him first. Seconds later she was lost to sleep.

As he gathered the driest sticks, Mulac reminded himself that he must not stray far. If he lost sight of these three, he knew they would be gone. Loss was his spark and his flame. Loss was the veil that sheltered everything still decent and real. He thought of the priest and of his father, thought of them sitting together at their home in Tulum. They had smoked and laughed, casting him critical glances and each other knowing smiles. His father had gone back to the land of the spirits first. Beyond Mulac’s grief, it had almost felt like a blessing. His father had died of the wasting disease, in the arms of his wife and in the comfort of his old friend’s chants and incantations, whilst Mulac jostled the giggling boy upon his grandfather’s bed.

With his father’s passing, Ah Kin Lo had grown fretful. Reports of the gods of the north had become more frequent and more florid, and seemed to trouble the old man more deeply with each recitation. There were tales of cities set upon by demons, tales of brave men standing their ground and fighting back, only for the gods to spray a spittle of pox to lay waste to their resolve. It was said they had set a curse upon this world. That their own world had been ravaged by war and hate, until they looked with greed, envy and empty hearts upon the fertile lands of the Maya. They could slip between worlds, but the Maya could only die. Perhaps this was at the heart of Ah Kin Lo’s predicament. He no longer knew the nature of each soul’s journey: how it might be received, or by whom.

Ah Kin Lo’s passing had set them on their way, cut them loose from their anchors of stone and cast them upon the sea of lost souls. He had died from the curse - from the terrible plague that could reduce a healthy man to a leaking vessel quicker than the sun could fall from the sky. In his terror Ah Kin Lo had forgotten first his prayers and then his friends. He had spoken in the tongue of the devils as he died, and coughed as though the charnel of his being were gagging for release.

Mulac set a fire then lay between his children and the mysteries roaming the night. Hunched figures still stumbled onwards. He could see their envious eyes in the flicker of flame and reminded himself that he must not sleep.

Before the gods had cast their vengeance upon Ah Kin Lo, he had talked in increasingly troubled tones of the jaguar, the great cat of darkness. It stalked the deepest, densest jungle, with eyes that burned without brightness but as intensely as the sun. It could see into the bleakest corners of a man’s soul. There were rumours that it now walked upon the earth in daylight, when the sun seemed to lose its way and the storm gods fought their clamouring battles in the sky. Some said it was angry with the gods of the north for upsetting the balance of the world, and would drag them back to the underworld to be punished. Others thought it in league with them and that it aimed to put an end to the age of men, still others that it was above such petty squabbles and walked between worlds, an impassive observer of the machinations of lesser beings, as it had always done.

The priest had clutched at Mulac in a sweat and a panic, before the madness set in. Rasping, he recounted his fear that they had brought the wrath of the jaguar upon themselves, by treating him so casually in Coba. They prayed together on his deathbed, to the spirit of Emetaly and to her protector, Ix-Chel. This seemed to bring peace and strength of mind briefly back to Ah Kin Lo. In his last whispered words to Mulac he told him he could never regret that journey. He struggled to take off the heavy gold ring that marked him as a priest then closed Mulac’s fingers around it with a smile. Mulac was too stunned to protest. It was Quetzalcoatl, the Ouroboros, the giant snake wrapped around the world. It stretched across the night sky and guarded the entrance to the afterlife - the only thing greater than the jaguar, K’inich. Ah Kin Lo was offering him safe passage to the underworld. By the time Mulac regained his voice, his friend’s mind was gone. Mulac had shuddered as he prayed, scared for Ah Kin Lo, who jabbered incoherently as though being forced in the language of the gods to explain his sacrifice.

The flames cavorted and twirled over the ashes of someone’s crop. The harder he stared, the more the light entwined and burst inside Mulac’s brain. An intense headache burned behind his eyes. Slowly the brightness faded to pitch and he fell into fitful slumber. He was back on the road, but this time as a child following behind his parents. He called out to them, but they would not stop and he could feel himself being left ever further behind. Mulac was torn between his parents and his shadow, which was lagging at an ever greater distance behind him. It called to him weakly as he, in turn, called to his parents. In its fading voice he heard first Emetaly and then Ah Kin Lo. It wanted him to stop. Every time he ran to catch up, when he looked back it had weakened. Eventually it left him. He sensed it out of a corner of his eye, slipping over the vegetation to be consumed by the trees. Mulac cried and raged at his parents for not slowing down: “I want my shadow, I want my shadow.” He woke up.

It was cold and his mother was preparing a pot of thin gruel. His boy tottered around, picking up sticks and spinning them into the sky. His daughter was still asleep, tightly wrapped within the confines of a narrow wicker basket. It was only another hour into Muyil. The lengthening grey smudge of smoke on the horizon was not a good omen, but there was no other route south, other than through the town. The day had started still and sullen. For once Mulac took comfort from the large number of fellow travellers, although they seemed in an increasing hurry to clear the road. He would not rush. It was not as though there were any place to go, or anyone waiting for them when they arrived. Mulac knew the backstreets of Muyil where travellers sought lodgings. He remembered the drunken nights, the songs, the jibes and the heated conversations. Then he thought of the woman who, on more than one occasion, had let him share her bed. These memories were now no more than the taunts of a jilted lover.

There were shouts then a single scream and the sound of thunder pounding upon the road. They had come: the gods of chaos and plague and misery. The boy turned and stared and dropped his stick. The dull, metallic gleam of pale riders rose and fell and grew in number and in form. They sat astride their vicious beasts, whose long heads tossed proudly at the sky, sweat glistening from their muscular flanks. Mulac’s mother and son ran in terror. They buried their frail, shaking forms into his. The gods wore hats of strange, other-worldly forms. They bore tall spears and flat sticks covered in leather sheaths, baked in the fires of hell to the texture and sharpness of glass. Looking neither left nor right, twenty beings of story and legend swept down the Mayan coast road, as if it had always been theirs. In their wake came slaves, roped and running in lines. They pulled litters full of plunder, which seemed to glide above the coral highway, like birds over the water, immense wooden prayer-wheels spinning curses from their sides.

In the midst of panic, Mulac found rage. Who were these devils who would not even look at him, who had ripped his family from its mooring and cast it into swirling waters? Before he could stop himself, he was shouting - cursing. The boy and the woman stared at him in despair, assuming he had been possessed.

Two gods turned their heads and then their mounts towards him. They were laughing. Mulac could feel the long bone knife against his side. As he drew it out, he was already running. He heard his mother screaming, “No!” He would drag these spirits with him back to the underworld, whatever the cost. Then he saw a face. It was the haggard face of an ordinary man, one who had lived in this world long enough to know suffering. What he saw in that face was fear. No demon would tug his mount from him in fear. These were no gods: these were men who could be brought to battle like any other enemy. Mulac noticed the long stick, raised and pointed and showering sparks, but he did not see the furnace-like flash, or hear the explosion. He was on fire, his heavy frame shaking in the grass. The two men on horseback were laughing again, although not so loudly as before.

Chapter Thirty-One

Tulum road

Marcus, Cesar and Carlos sat in the front of the minibus as it negotiated endless potholes and speed humps on the way back to the main highway. The mood that morning was reflective and Marcus was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the events of the night before. He and Dana had stolen back to the beach in the small hours, careful to keep their distance from David, who still sat alone by the failing embers of the bonfire. Dana clutched a bottle of red wine and two glasses, Marcus a rug and a torch. Giggling like children, they had made their way out of the chill breeze and into a quiet section of the dunes.

Marcus had crouched to arrange the rug then stood and turned, in anticipation of a glass of wine. Instead he gawped, open mouthed, as Dana’s dress tumbled to her toes. Bathed in translucent moonlight she relaxed provocatively onto one hip and gave him a sly, come-on grin. He had stood, transfixed, until Dana held out a slender hand and drew him to her. She skilfully flicked open the buttons on his shirt and stretched to throw it from his shoulders. Marcus recalled the smooth progress of her nails across his back and the tender motion of her nipples against his chest. They had kissed wildly and greedily. Her mouth slipped to his neck, to his pecks, then lingered over the muscular tucks of his belly. Blood and oxygen drained to a single point, rendering Marcus incapable of speech, thought or motion. He had stood, weak-kneed, in a state of rapturous paralysis, as Dana relieved him, unhurriedly, of any last vestige of resistance.

Full of laughter and wine they had coupled again later, embraced, as though in a threesome, by the fine white dust. Drifting, entwined, towards sleep under a reassuring blanket of stars, the whole universe was looking in. It sparkled as though the lights were an extension of their own tingling nerve endings. They were not lost or insignificant in the vastness of space, for it was barely big enough to contain what they were feeling.

Eventually the cold had driven them apart. Marcus settled for a bunk in the staff quarters, to avoid disturbing David. The morning found Dana gone before breakfast and Marcus left to strong coffee, a rare cigarette and an even greater sense of insecurity. Women in his life were as sure as the sea. That one would arrive was as certain as the next tide, but so was their subsequent departure, as though a jealous moon fought for their affection. He thought of his cousin, Isabel. She had died at twenty from blood cancer and remained the one true love of his life. Marcus had known that his feelings for her went well beyond the familial, but she was gone before he could declare himself. They had spent so much time together that she must have known, he reasoned, but somehow this was not the same. She died whilst he was away establishing himself with Tailwind, and so he had missed the only journey in his life that really mattered. Perhaps, he reflected, this was why he was beginning to resent Laura. Her expressions, her features and even certain snippets of conversation, were like communications from the grave.

David squirmed in his seat to avoid a broken spring, noticed Marcus looking glum and realised his own contentment. It had come to him by the bonfire that he was not in love with Culjinder. He had never been in love with Culjinder. But, for the brief period he had known her, he had been in love with life. Culjinder had opened his eyes, but it was Phoebe he wanted to see. David pondered the numbness and introspection that had prevented him appreciating her. He saw her look of poorly concealed disappointment which now sat, like an ill-judged punctuation mark, across his life’s visual narrative.

David determined to squeeze every moment from the expedition. That’s what Phoebe had wanted for him, after all. He would bide his time before phoning home, but was confident that, when the time came, he’d know what to say. He would also contact Culjinder, and again he’d know what to write. And when that letter was written he would await the polite reply which was sure to follow, place it in his photograph album and close the book for good. It was time for new pictures, in different albums, with a woman who could be so much more than a daydream.

The coast road ejected the van onto a main thoroughfare. It swerved and picked up speed across the broad, uneven concrete slabs. They left behind the beach bungalows and palm-trees jostling for space and a view, and the blousy layer of cloud that hung heavily over a grey, listless sea. The bus turned again and now they were in new territory, driving into the modern town of Tulum - some distance inland from its Mayan precursor. Sign after sign would entice them from their path, but they drove on, diverted only by one gaudy creation claiming Tulum to be the cave-diving capital of the world. John Tanner snorted loudly from one of the rear seats and proceeded to depress the group with lengthy details of his none-too-successful diving venture of the previous afternoon. David’s thoughts drifted in and out of the conversation, but he gleaned that their qualifications had been insufficient to allow them into the caves. They had been forced to remain in open water around the base of the cenote, where the sediment had been stirred to such an extent by other divers that there was little to see. Darryl caught the mood of complaint, groaning under the weight of a headache, fuelled by too many margaritas. “They were showing us how to - to make cocktails,” he stumbled over his justification. Sharon had spent the night hugging a toilet bowl and now hid behind dark glasses, resting her head on John’s shoulder.

They pulled into a gas station. Another sign, advertising the Aztec crafts shop next door, caught some of the group’s attention. Hannah and Lloyd skipped across the forecourt, followed by Jackie, Ethan and Felicity. David decided to join them. Patterned rugs hung from the large external canopy, bleached to varying degrees by the elements, as though nothing ever got sold. Three local boys were sitting cross-legged beneath the curved, whitewashed wall of a water tank which stood off to one side. They appeared deep in some game of stones. Through the whitewash could be made out the pale reds and blues of a previous painted message. The wooden lid of the cistern lay broken and hung precariously above the children. Parts of old vehicles rusted in the shadows, adding to the air of careless abandonment.

David had little interest in souvenirs, but was curious about the Aztecs. He knew something of Hernando Cortes and the Spanish Conquistadors, but nothing of those they had defeated. With new found confidence, he decided to talk to the vendor. The interior proved to be a warren of narrow, dusty aisles piled unnervingly high with furniture, painted boxes and tapestry. In the shadows above barely visible pictures, mirrors with elaborately frames, and unsettling tribal masks fought for attention. David could initially find nobody to speak to and only Lloyd and Hannah’s bickering betrayed the presence of other customers. He walked towards a patch of sunlight that marked out the back of the store. There, at a counter covered in fabrics and bric-a-brac, stood a typically broad, seemingly over-weight, middle-aged Mayan male. He sported a faded cream, patterned shirt and a worn-out, lemon-yellow baseball cap. Now somewhat intimidated, David had to steel himself to maintain his resolve.

“Hola. Buenos Dias. Como esta?”

The man appeared not to have heard and continued to stare at a tiny video screen, divided into even smaller panels covering four CCTV cameras. Clearly, he was scrutinising his other new arrivals.

“Hola. What can I do for you?” he enquired, at last. David caught the faint taint of liquor in the air.

“Nothing much, really,” began David, attempting to be casual. “I was just wondering if you could tell me anything about the Aztecs.”

“Are you Americano?”

“No, Ingles.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What happened to them when the Spanish came?”

“I am not Aztec, I am Mayan. There are stores like this one all over Mexico. All I know of the Aztecs is that they let the invaders into Tenochtitlan: Mexico City, believing them to be gods. Then their hospitality was betrayed. We, the Maya, were not a warlike people like the Aztecs. We traded with them and sometimes they would attack us, but we are a people of the rainforest, not the mountains. The trees have always been our protection. Today you will find many Maya, but few who are truly Aztec.”

The man had left his stool. He stood proudly, chest out, looking somewhat fiercely at David. Felicity came to the counter and enquired about the price of a decorated pot she had uncovered. David waited around, playing with a wooden toy that lay in a pile of similar items in front of him. He decided to persist.

“So did the Spanish come here?”

The man coughed, spat into a hidden spittoon and threw away the remains of his cigarette in disgust. “Yes. They came along the coast from one of our cities to the next, sometimes by ship and sometimes along our great trading routes. The road we are on now is Mayan. They said they wanted to trade, but our people thought them devils and often ran away. As they ran, they carried with them the Spanish disease.”

David nodded gravely.

“Some tried to hold on to our great ports, like Tulum, but these places were soon full of smallpox, so the defenders were too weak to put up a good fight. By the time the Spanish got to inland cities, like Chichen Itza and Coba, their plague had already done most of the work for them. Our people became fearful of crowded places and disappeared deeper into the jungle. That is how we survived. That is still the way many Maya prefer to live today.”

“At least the cities survived,” David interjected, naively.

The man spat again, this time in frustration. “That’s the problem. You turistas think the Maya are the temples and the pyramids, but we are not stone. The Maya had culture, art and craftsmanship. We were poets and astronomers, engineers and musicians.” He paused, breathing deeply and rocking as though needing to sit down. Then he pulled himself up to his full, if unimpressive height and continued with a flourish of formality. “The Maya were hunters and fishermen, businessmen and politicians. We traded with many nations. When the Spanish came they saw only our weakness and our superstitions. They treated us with contempt. We were a literate people and all that was most precious to us was recorded in our books. Some of these survived the conquistadors, who were ignorant, not men of learning, but then the church came. There was a Bishop called Diego, who took from us nearly every book and had them burned. Today, only four remain, none in this country. With that burning went our ancestors’ words and a part of our soul.” As if to emphasise the point the man collapsed onto his seat and cursed.

David did not know what to say. The shopkeeper looked genuinely upset, but unleashed an evil grin. “At least we Americans gave you Europeans our syphilis,” he observed.

Smiling back at him, David held out the wooden toy. He didn’t want it, but he bought it anyway. He gave his thanks and turned to leave, but the man pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead.

“Where are you heading?” he enquired.

“Err... I believe the place is called Muyil.”

“Ah, Muyil. You know there’s a legend about that place.”

David turned again, intrigued.

“At the time of the conquest there was a man from this town who fled to Muyil. He realised the Spaniards were only men, despite their guns, horses and armour, which none of our people had seen before. He organised a defence of the town. It is said he was successful, but nobody knows what happened after that. There’s a carving in the jungle out there, which some people say is his likeness. And there are still families close to Tulum that claim him as one of their own. They hold a ceremony in the ruins every year. If I remember correctly, his name was Mulac Hunapu.”

There was a call from outside. Some of those in the van were impatient to depart.

“Muchas gracias, Señor. Me gustó mucho hablar con usted.”

The shopkeeper beamed at David in surprise and appreciation.

“Muy buen Señor, y buena suerte. Good luck.”

David hurried away, smiling broadly. He was beginning to find his voice in this country.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tulum road

“So how did you get that scar?” Alfredo leaned stiffly across from the passenger seat and pinched his brother’s cheek. With an involuntary jerk, Luis recoiled. “Now you are a real bandido. If you wore a sombrero, you would look like Pancho Villa.”

“Brother, I am a gangster and so are you. We are Mafioso although, God knows, I’d rather be anything else at this moment.”

“So, tell me?”

Luis sighed and cast a glance at his brother. Alfredo still looked tired and his face was covered in scratches from the previous day’s experiences. The clothes that had been found for him were ill-fitting and styled for a more mature person. Hugo’s wife had made the most of her opportunity to discard some of her husband’s oldest and least loved items. “O.K. brother, if you must know, I was at home in El Paso cutting the lawn. The mower jammed. When I tried to release it, something flew into my cheek. Getting my face stitched up again was bloody painful.”

Alfredo began a chuckle which descended uncontrollably into a deep belly-laugh. Luis could not help but join in.

“So, my mafioso brother was mowing the lawn,” Alfredo taunted. “Better not tell father.”

Luis’ face fell. He had been putting off this moment all morning.

“Alfredo, our papa is dead. Gennaro is dead. Uncle Felipe is dead. We are Las Contadonas now. We two are all that is left.”

His baby brother looked as though he had been shot in the stomach. He was struggling to breathe and his face lost all colour. Both stared fixedly ahead for some time, the road slipping endlessly beneath their vehicle.

“...but how?”

“Eusabio, Marcelo, Barrio Fuerte, Xterra? I don’t know - all I know is that our enemies are now numerous and powerful. We need to get away to re-group. There will be many people who will still support us, but they will be difficult to reach. Once we are safe, we can think about a plan.”

“What about the ranch?”

“Yes, that is safe and I left it well defended. The local police will look after our interests there. They won’t be easy to turn against us. That is where we’ll go, when we can.”

“Why not now?” Alfredo was clearly beginning to panic.

“It is different down here. The police only care about the tourists. They are bound to know what happened at the villa by now. No doubt Eusabio and his cronies have embellished your exploits. The airports will be covered. Our best bet is to keep heading south. They’ll be looking for you alone, which gives us an edge. In a few hours we shall be in Belize. We’ll get as close as we can then find a boat to take us past the border. It should be easy, as long as we don’t waste time.”

Both fell silent. Alfredo put his head in his hands and soon Luis could hear his stifled sobs. Luis wanted to cry too. He just didn’t know how. He also wanted to be in Alex’s arms, but that wasn’t going to happen either. He could feel every mile of the distance between them, but he must stay focused and keep driving. The sections of concrete, the street lights and the bridges: everything seemed to be marking out time. It felt like a countdown, and Luis could not relax.

Eventually, Alfredo began to regain his composure. He sat up and drew the back of one hand slowly across his face. He took a deep breath - there were so many questions he needed to ask. But even before he regained the power of speech he realised he would not be able to handle the answers. He slumped back into his seat and stared blindly out of the window.

“Shit!” Luis thumped the dashboard in frustration.

Alfredo swivelled and stared uncomprehendingly at his brother.

“There’s a bloody roadblock ahead.”

Alfredo fumbled to open the glove compartment. Beside a fresh flask of coffee was one of the automatic pistols Hugo had provided. The gun was warm to the touch.

Luis grabbed his brother’s arm, gripping the wheel tightly with his other hand to avoid a swerve. “Put it back and keep calm. It’s a routine check. All we have to do is avoid drawing attention to ourselves. When we get there, just look bored. If we do get pulled over, let me do the talking.”

Alfredo nodded. Both took a deep breath and stared at the line of slowing vehicles in front of them. “Here comes the first patrol car. Sit a little lower and pretend that you’re sleeping.”

A single officer leaned across his vehicle, looking irritable and adjusting his sunglasses. There was no sign that he had noticed the brothers as they drove by. Fifty metres later they slowed to a crawl. In the coned off lane ahead were three more police vehicles. A jeep and a truck had been pulled over. Two officers stood guard, cradling carbine rifles. Two others directed the traffic, one using a languid arm to keep things moving. Everything was being waved straight through, with only a cursory glance. By the time Alfredo opened his eyes and sat up, they were already on their way again.

Luis exhaled deeply as he steadily increased the pressure on the accelerator pedal. Alfredo unscrewed the flask, clasped a mug between his knees and began to pour. They were almost out of sight, heading under a bridge that would see them clear. Just beyond it a taxi sat at an angle on the hard shoulder, pressed as far back as possible against the encroaching undergrowth. Alfredo looked up from his pouring and cast a casual glance at the car. He did not know the eyes he met, but there was no mistaking their own look of recognition. He jumped and swore as he felt the heat and dampness of the coffee penetrate through to his skin. He grabbed his trouser leg and shook it vigorously.

“It’s them.”

Luis didn’t respond. He hadn’t needed to be told. As soon as he saw the vehicle, he knew that Eusabio would be in it. He was staring into the rear-view mirror, waiting for it to move. It didn’t. They were still accelerating, slipping past traffic in the outside lane, but without excessive speed.

“Why aren’t they coming?”

“They’re working with the police. Either there will be another roadblock ahead or, pretty soon, we’re going to be in a race.”

“What do we do?”

“We change vehicle. Get everything together. We’re only going to get one shot at this.”

Luis steered into the inside lane. Ahead he could see a line of two storey concrete business premises. The main building was a furniture store, and several customer cars were parked outside.

“Here we go. Ready?”

Alfredo gave a determined nod as he slipped the final few items into a rucksack, also provided by Hugo. They avoided the parking bays and drove around the far end. There was a lumber yard behind, protected by high security fencing. A scattering of lorries, low-loaders and other commercial vehicles made it easy to hide their own. They re-emerged on foot. A family was arguing on the steps of a food wholesalers, but took their dispute inside. One car was occupied. A young man with bleach-blond hair in a white T-shirt sat smoking. One arm protruded from the open window of his small, red saloon. Luis gestured discretely in his direction. The brothers closed in a pincer movement from front and rear.

Luis drew just enough of his pistol to demonstrate his intent. “We need you to drive us a short distance, then we will require your car.”

The boy sat transfixed at the sight of the gun.

“You are in no danger, as long as you co-operate. We’ll leave your car where it can be quickly recovered.”

Alfredo had already slipped into the front passenger seat. Luis moved to sit behind the driver.

“Who are you with?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Don’t worry - we will leave you just far enough away for it to take some time for you to report your car stolen. You will soon be back together. Now, give me your mobile phone and drive south.”

Within ten minutes they had left the main road. The car bounced down a narrow country lane and into a patch of jungle.

“Pull over,” Luis instructed. “We’ll leave your wallet in the car, when we abandon it. Now you can get out.”

The man seemed reluctant to move. Instinctively he stared at the gun-induced bulge in Luis’ jacket pocket. Finally, he slipped cautiously out of the vehicle, his eyes firmly fixed on the pair, expecting a bullet at any moment.

“That should buy us time,” Luis observed, as they reversed and sped away. The young man stood forlornly, watching them go. A trembling hand was pulling a cigarette from the packet Alfredo had passed back to him with an ironic smile.

Once again the brothers returned to the somnambulant rhythm of the road, but Alfredo grew increasingly pensive. “Do you know that I saw our mother?”

Luis turned to study his younger brother’s features, searching for some sense of context.

“What do you mean?” he replied, uncertainly.

“I mean, Luis, that whilst I was in London I saw her as she used to be, in my mind’s eye. She was standing outside the ranch. I saw her so clearly it felt like I could have reached out and touched her. I never knew what she looked like - I mean in real life - not just in photos. I hated London. I hate what has happened whilst I have been away, but having a memory of her is really important to me. I think I’ve grown up. I feel a lot calmer.”

Luis said nothing. Alfredo’s words brought to mind his own cherished memories of their mother and then he could only think of Alex again. As he did so, he felt his resolve slipping away. With it went any thirst for revenge. It was a massive change of heart, but he knew now that he didn’t want to fight for the future of Las Contadonas. That family was a mirage built on subjugation. All the anger, all the pain his family had inflicted on others, was it essentially just displacement, just men missing their wives and mothers? Luis wanted to disappear off the map, to build a new life, as his father had once done with his mother, Estella, all those years ago on the Caribbean coast. And now there was no one to call him back. There was nobody and nothing to fight for, other than the brother who now sat beside him. He did not need to return to the ranch to hold on to the memories it had cradled.

“Let’s not go back.”

Now it was Alfredo’s turn to be silent. He busied himself adjusting the air-conditioning system and radio. As expected, there was no mention on the news of what had happened at the golf club.

“O.K,” he pronounced, eventually.

They were approaching Tulum. Luis eased down as the car reached the first of several speed bumps. He checked the gas as he noticed a station ahead. There was plenty left in the tank and only an hour to go to the border. Entering the main street, he slowed to a crawl and flashed his lights to allow a tourist van to exit a forecourt. The thought of the carefree lives of those within sparked a brief pang of jealousy. There were no police or roadblocks and soon they were clear of the town again, edging ever closer to their goal.

“Luis.” Alfredo had swivelled around and was kneeling on his seat to peer through the rear windscreen.

“What?”

“I think it’s them. There’s a taxi, not far behind us. Each time it gets to a car, it slows down. They’re looking for us. They’ve figured out what we’ve done.”

“O.K. Turn around and don’t look back again. I’ll try to put some distance between us, without them noticing.” Luis waited until they had passed a large articulated lorry, ducked in front of it, and hit the gas. Keeping a close eye on the rear view mirror, he counted the vehicles passing the same lorry: one, two, three, four; still no taxi. They were almost out of sight then, there it was, a non-descript white saloon, but with an unmistakeable rooftop sign. It was going much too fast to be on legitimate business.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, there’s another roadblock. What are we going to do, Luis?” Alfredo had abandoned any pretence of self-control. In answer, he was thrown suddenly sideways, his temple hitting the glass.

Luis had turned hard left across the opposing carriageway into a narrow, tree-lined lane. It ran down towards a barrier and a thatch-roofed hut. The hut was unmanned and the barrier open. Passing cautiously through, Alfredo still rubbing his head, they pulled up by a noticeboard displaying a map of the site.

“Ruins,” Luis observed. “That probably means there’s no way through.”

The road ahead became indeterminate, ending in a short expanse of overlapping dirt tracks and patches of grass, which served as a parking area. A small building covered in graffiti had obviously once been a toilet block. Beside it sat a large open truck, attached to a boat rack. There was still nobody about. Beyond the clearing, the jungle muscled in behind another sign, a gate, and a pathway disappearing into the dappled light.

“What now, Luis?”

“See if that gate will open. If we can hide up somewhere, we can find out if we’re being followed. Hurry!”

In response to Alfredo’s beckoning, Luis plunged the vehicle into the dark green passageway. He kept going, leaving Alfredo to close up and jog on behind. Alfredo caught up, wiping sweat from his brow. Luis stepped from the car into a barrage of animal noise.

“Here, look after the keys. Grab the rucksack and make sure we don’t leave anything behind. Double-check you’ve got our lunch, and the flask - we may need that for fresh water.”

Luis stood contemplating his brother, as Alfredo rummaged around. A little red saloon was an incongruous sight in a rainforest, but no more, thought Luis, than they themselves. Alfredo held up the now heavy sack, his brogues already soiled with dirt. They pushed the car backwards into a screen of vegetation, which hung across an overgrown side track.

Luis was suddenly mired in indecision. He smiled a melancholy smile as Alfredo stood enquiringly before him. It was easy to be led by duty or, more latterly, revenge, but love was proving to be a more difficult mistress. He pulled his brother to him and hugged him tightly.

A bright orange butterfly settled on Luis’ shoulder. Alfredo drew away first, disturbing the insect, which spiralled busily back up into the canopy. He held his older brother at arm’s length, meeting his blank, moist-eyed gaze with a determined display of his new-found resolve. “When we get out of this, we shall make our mother proud.”

Luis betrayed the flicker of an affirming smile then turned to walk back towards the car park. They would make the most of the cover, and wait to see who came.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Muyil

It was drawn towards darkness in a forest festering with evil intent: a lonely shadow that had lost its boy, its human form. Slowly drained of shape and definition, it could feel itself dissolving into nothing. It sensed the eyes upon it. They were drawing closer, the eyes of the jaguar spirit which sucked all light from the land, and summoned lost souls to their destiny. But it heard a voice, the tiny and terrified voice of a child, stumbling and groping its way through the trees. The shadow lengthened towards the call. At the same time it was being clawed and dragged towards the spirit world. It reached out an arm, stretched its fingers until they were no more than a shadow of a shadow. It touched the boy. Suddenly, the night-time features of the forest fell back into sharp relief. Everywhere, shadows sprang to their owners. Stars were painted, in a giant brush stroke across the sky. The shadow had its shape and its companion again. It sensed that the great cat had gone to hunt elsewhere. The boy sat amongst the trees, and cried with relief at the return of his immortal soul.

The boy’s sobs echoed from his dream, but Mulac could also hear real voices. They seemed to surround him. He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see where he was. Rough hands were tugging at his body. He could feel a hard surface beneath him, but also the tickle of tears falling upon his cheeks. He knew it was his son and wanted to reach out to embrace him, but his arms would not respond. As he strained, he was suddenly aware of a crushing headache. Giving up, he let his limbs go limp. Now he could hear the gentle lapping of waves and the drawing of wood through water. The sound was repetitive and soothing and he let it take him where it may. Somehow he knew he would be safe.

When he awoke he was again being manhandled. This time there was light, indeed the sun was directly overhead and he could feel its warmth and power. He was on a stretcher. When the light disappeared, he knew he must have been taken inside. There were even more voices now, and one of them was the fussing of his mother. Someone was trying to offer him a drink - he felt a hand lifting the back of his neck. As he opened his mouth, the first drops trickled down his throat. It was the best sensation he had ever felt, but then the trickle became a stream, and he was coughing in an effort to breathe. As the flow stopped he realised he could see a face. It was strong, old and weather-beaten, definitely male, but not familiar. The face was beaming and calling his name. Strangely, other voices were joining in too. Briefly the face disappeared, but when it returned something large and mobile was being held over him. It was his baby daughter. Mulac smiled - he was sure that he smiled - and as he smiled he felt the relief coursing through his body. Then, once again, he lost consciousness.

It should have been dark, but torchlight flickered from every corner of the room, licking over the rounded forms of broad and muscular torsos. The chamber was long and narrow. At the far end a war council sat huddled in rows, close around a noble who was wearing ornate and spreading white robes. Over his head he held a short spear. Mulac watched him as he brought it down onto his arm, drawing blood as his cohort issued wild incantations. The blood was collected in a simple wooden cup, as the warrior lord threw back his head and began a slow, stamping dance. Once full, the goblet was passed around for the group to drink, each warrior’s swallow followed by a trill war cry, and another vessel would took its place. Eventually the noble began to sway, his legs gave way and he slipped from view, into the inner circle. There was silence and then, from somewhere unseen, a priest began to call in prayer, summoning the gods of war. Soon his voice was drowned by the chanting of the warriors, which grew into a rolling bass roar that might be heard across the worlds of spirits and men.

As Mulac rolled onto his side he heard his mother call his name in joy and relief, but his focus was on the young girl walking towards him, holding a cup. She smiled and held out her offering, and he stretched out a trembling arm to take it. The blood had been mixed with wine, and it wasn’t hard to swallow. His mother was speaking. He was being made a noble and a warrior. The devils had tried to kill him, yet he survived, showing that they were only men. They smote him with their fire spear, but he was already beginning to recover. Mulac could feel his mother’s fingers in his hair, carefully exploring around the fringes of his head-wound, checking the poultice that had been secured there. The city had been closed to the invaders. Many of those who would have fled had chosen to stay and fight, once they learned of Mulac’s deed. Tomorrow, Mayan soldiers would counter-attack and Mulac would give the order to advance, but now he must return to sleep. He was safe amongst friends and his mother would watch over him.

The cup dropped to the floor. Mulac fought to remain conscious. He forced his head to turn towards his mother’s blurred form and found he could not speak. But she knew.

“Your son, my grandson, is safe and well. Now he sleeps alongside your daughter, and you must re-join them. Mulac, I always knew you were special. I always knew your life’s road would lead to a great destination. You are pure of heart and the spirit world works through you, Mulac. That is what Ah Kin Lo used to say. That is why he loved you so much, and why he gave you his ring. Sleep now, my special child, for tomorrow your destiny will be fulfilled.”

The old woman placed an arm tenderly around his shoulder, another behind his head, and cuddled her son as he relaxed back into her embrace. Carefully, she adjusted the pillows: the finest she had ever seen. Her son, the noble - her son, who would not die, she repeated to herself, over and over. As Mulac’s breathing became deep and regular, she carefully disentangled herself and stole away into the shadows, checking the children in the cot once more, before curling up on a mattress in the corner of the earthen floor. She knew that death would summon her and not her son. That was what she had prayed to the jaguar for. This was the bargain she had struck with K’inich. Already she sensed the fever trying to overwhelm her, but she would be there still in the morning. She would see the sunrise and her son rise, for one more time. She would steal away into the jungle and walk until she could walk no more, in this world. Then she would walk some more in the next with Emetaly, Ah Kin Lo and her husband, who would take her hand and lead her out of suffering. It did not matter that she could not sleep, for soon she would never have to wake again.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Muyil

Laura watched David sauntering back to the van. Every day he seemed more relaxed and now she could see him smiling broadly at nothing in particular. By contrast, she was finding it harder and harder to maintain her poise. Although she knew her resentment was unfounded, sleeping badly in staff quarters had left her grumpy and unsettled. Whilst pretending she was just another guest, she had not needed to face the consequences of her leap of faith in so suddenly changing career. Was this really her? Did she actually want to spend four days in a canoe or a tent, with zero prospect of a decent shower? Adventure, she reflected, is sometimes more glamorous at a distance. Bob Marley’s Redemption Song was playing on the radio. She wondered how she would redeem herself with her father. Her earning prospects had probably halved. She wouldn’t be getting a mortgage as her father had advised, anytime soon. Would she even hold on to her friends, if out of the country on a regular basis?

She looked across the van at Marcus - at least ten years older and still rootless. She wondered at his relationship with Dana. Free spirits, undoubtedly, but was there anything in the lifestyle of either which could anchor them to anything lasting? It was a pity Dana was not with them now. Laura needed to talk. She would seek Dana out when they returned, and be open about her concerns.

David was sitting between the children, who cheered when the minibus pulled away. Laura listened from the next row, as he recounted the story from the shopkeeper. For once, Hannah and Lloyd seemed interested, and Lloyd asked a couple of questions. He wanted to know what weapons the Mayans and Spanish had, and why the Mayans abandoned their cities. The conversation spread around the bus, with nobody sure what metals the Mayans had access to, or whether their weapons were forged, or cut from stone. Laura wondered if they had abandoned the cities to escape disease. Carlos interjecting authoritatively, explaining that the Catholic Church would have associated cities with paganism. Moving people away to new settlements, would have made them easier to convert. His seriousness threatened to kill the conversation, but the bus swerved suddenly as a tractor swung out onto the highway. The children cheered and appealed to Cesar to do the same again. He swore loudly, before remembering himself and apologising. The children cheered again at his invective, and chanted Go Cesar. He responded by grinning broadly into the rear view mirror, until catching his father’s disapproving eye.

“We’re here,” he called, grateful for the distraction.

The entrance was scruffy and non-descript: it could have been just another rural estancia. They pulled up ahead of a barrier. A motorbike was parked beside a small wooden shack. Its owner was leant upon a counter, wearing traditional Mayan costume and smoking. Casting her cigarette aside, she hailed a greeting as Cesar, Carlos and Marcus descended to meet her. Shaking hands, they began to discuss the canoes, delivered a couple of hours earlier. All appeared to be in order. The woman pushed down on the counter-weight to raise the beam and Cesar returned to drive them through. Marcus waved them on - he would walk the short distance to the car park with Carlos, who was busy taking a call.

Laura turned in her seat, drawn to the pale green eyes of the lady attendant. Her mother had had similar eyes. She watched the trail-dust kicked up behind the vehicle disappearing into the spiky grass border. Her mother’s ashes had scattered just that way, as she and her father had shaken the urn, early one morning on top of Glastonbury Tor. Through the dust she could see Marcus and Carlos deep in conversation. Felicity tapped her on the shoulder.

“Do you think that is a toilet?”

Laura peered dubiously at the semi-derelict concrete structure ahead of them.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I think it is back to nature for the next few days, although I believe we’ll be rigging something up at each campsite.”

Felicity shrugged in resignation. “I knew I should have gone when we stopped, but there didn’t seem to be anything there, either. It looks as though I’m going to get acquainted with the local wildlife rather sooner than anticipated. Laura, would you mind coming with me?”

“No, not at all. At least there doesn’t appear to be anyone else here.”

Laura slid the side door open, having explained Felicity’s predicament to Cesar. He suggested they open the forest gate to allow the van through, upon their return. As the two picked their way across the rough ground, Laura saw something moving in the trees. She held her tongue, not wanting to make Felicity more nervous.

Cesar turned around, to address those still in the van. “No need to get out. As soon as we’re all back together we’ll drive through to the main ruins. There’s plenty of time to explore. Then we shall walk a trail to our campsite on the lake. You’ll be able to practise your paddling later on, and I know some are keen to go fishing.”

Ethan and David made a high five salute. Marcus clambered back on-board. Carlos followed, but only to make his apologies. They would be meeting their porters and park guide soon, he explained, but he must return to his office, as something important had come up. Another guide would pick up their van later on.

“Now you can be alone with the wilderness,” he declared, somewhat pompously. He leaned across and explained something in a whisper to his son, who was looking surprised at his father’s decision. Then he shook Marcus’ hand and strode purposefully away.

“Right, let’s go,” said Marcus determinedly, although he too was a little bemused.

Laura was holding open the forest gate, whilst Felicity stood beside her, swatting at flies with her jungle hat. They picked the pair up and continued - the track darkening rapidly as the trees swept the grass away. The bus began to pitch and roll violently through ruts and hollows. Muddy pools coated the sides in spatters of brown. The wheels span and squealed in a search for grip. Laura noticed a small red car blocking an overgrown side track. Cesar notice it too. Marcus and he got out to check the interior. “Most probably stolen,” Cesar declared, adding that he would alert his father and pass him the registration number later.

The rainforest pressed in to left and right. Sections of wall and piles of stone betrayed the presence of ruins. Soon they reached a clearing, bathed by the midday sun. It was surrounded by a cluster of single-storey stone structures, in various states of disrepair. Beyond them a tall pyramid, busy with towers and ramparts, rose steeply skyward. People descended carefully from the minibus, daysacks slung over shoulders, blinking in the intense sunlight and looking curiously about. Three porters emerged from one of the buildings to greet them, and were soon busy pulling bags from the back of the van and tying them together with rope. Laura occupied herself helping others adjust various items of kit, and apply repellent and sunscreen. Some held up their water bottles with mock seriousness as she approached. She did not need to ask.

Marcus gathered everyone in the shade of a giant Ceiba tree, its tall buttress roots curving around the group like an open embrace. They would spend an hour here exploring the remains of the city then walk through the jungle to the campsite. He counselled against going too far, or going alone. The structures were insecure and could be wet and slippery with moss. He would check the path up the pyramid. If necessary, he could set a rope to provide a handrail, but it should be O.K. to climb. Several people followed him in that direction.

Laura hung back with David, Ethan and Felicity. David was struggling with his new walking boots, whilst Ethan appeared content taking photos of the scene. Laura sat down on a large tree-stump, next to Felicity.

“Feeling better?”

“Definitely: it was good to get that particular jungle experience out of the way.”

“Do you want to explore?”

“I suppose we should now we’re here. Do you think there are snakes?” Felicity looked around nervously.

“Probably, but I’m told they usually disappear long before people get close.”

“I’d love to see a snake or two,” Ethan added, unhelpfully. “Now smile please, you two.”

Laura and Felicity hugged and smiled dutifully. Laura felt the sweat generated of high humidity breaking through her jungle shirt as their bodies connected.

“Ready, David?” she chirped, as soon as she and Flick had disengaged, hoping that David had been sufficiently distracted by his footwear to miss the mention of snakes.

“Yes, I think so.” He fumbled to secure the laces to the cleats at the top of one boot, stood up and marched around the clearing experimentally. “Let’s go.”

The foursome poked their way through a few of the musty buildings. None looked particularly inviting and it was difficult to ascertain what they might have been used for. The main trail continued, deeper into the complex and they followed, scattering insects in all directions. Marcus, John and Darryl were climbing cautiously towards the circular tower on the summit of the main pyramid. Ethan hailed the lofty adventurers and took a few more shots. A long cut log in a shady corner seemed to function as a seat. All four sat along it and dove into their packed lunches. David chomped his way through his first cheese and ham sandwich then marched around the others, stopping periodically to adjust his socks and boots.

“They told me in the shop that they wouldn’t need breaking in,” he complained, “but it was all such a rush I’m still not sure they actually fit.”

“They’re bound to feel a little awkward at first,” Laura reassured him. “It’s probably partly the heat.”

David looked unconvinced and clambered cautiously onto a particularly large boulder, sat between two trees.

“What an ugly looking chap,” cried Felicity.

David was about to take offence then realised she was pointing at the rock-face between his feet. He jumped down and traced his fingers over the carefully carved grooves in the stone, but couldn’t make out what she had seen.

“Stand back a bit” Ethan instructed. “Let me take a picture.”

As soon as David stepped backwards, the image of the warrior emerged. Head in profile, he stood beneath a broad crown of feathers. Spreading rays rose beyond it, in imitation of the sun. His nose was full and slightly hooked; his eyes deep and painted. From a bulbous ear dangled an enormous pendant and a chain looped across his chest. The figure seemed to be smiling at something unseen, an image reinforced by the upturned curve of his heavily painted cheek.

“I know who that is,” David exclaimed.

The others looked no more than mildly curious.

“His name is Mulan Hatupek, or something like that. Do you remember? I was speaking about him to the children on the bus? I must find them. He was the one who led the defence of this place against the Spanish. The guy in the souvenir shop told me all about him. He said that his image was here.”

David strode off to find Hannah and Lloyd, now totally unaware of his troublesome boots. The others lost interest and returned to their grazing. When the conversation flagged, Laura took a closer look at the scene about her. She twisted around to examine a long avenue cut into the jungle. At the far end, two figures were hurrying across the open space, one clutching a hold-all. She turned again and gulped a few mouthfuls from her water bottle. Marcus and the others were eating their sandwiches too, and Laura began to wonder who she had seen. They hadn’t looked like the porters who were, in any event, well ahead by now. As far as she knew, Cesar was back at the van, and there weren’t supposed to be other tourists around. A call from the circular tower distracted her ruminations. She looked up to see Hannah and Lloyd waving joyfully from the summit. David stood at its base, hands on hips in obvious frustration: he would have to wait to impart his discovery.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Muyil

“Tourists!” Alfredo spat in frustration as David’s party arrived in the van, a short while earlier.

Luis didn’t respond. He watched as two female figures climbed out of their vehicle and looked around as though lost. He knew how they felt. Worryingly, they made a beeline straight towards the brothers’ lair. He gestured his sibling backwards, deeper into the undergrowth, then slapped at the mosquitos which settled on his nose and chin. The girls kept on coming, so the brothers had no choice but to hunker down behind the nearest large tree. Close by came the sound of giggles and swearing.

Alfredo put a hand over his eyes. “Not bloody English again,” he whispered.

Once all was still again, Luis peered cautiously around the trunk of the tree. He toyed with the idea of stealing the minibus, but holding up foreign tourists would bring much trouble. Perhaps they could wait until the tourists left again and talk their way onto the van. If that didn’t work, they could give them no choice. That might be their best way across the border, into Belize. In the meantime, they must keep out of sight. The brothers didn’t look like tourists and the last thing they needed was someone reporting suspicious characters. They backed further into the forest. Where the jungle was at its darkest, there was little vegetation and walking was relatively easy. Luis sank gratefully onto the wall-like root of another large tree. Both he and Alfredo were tired. Alfredo’s ankle ached with every slip or turn of foot. They sat back-to-back, discussing their options, until both fell drowsy and silent.

Alfredo arose from a fitful doze. He was sitting on the forest floor and his neck was stiff from his hard root pillow. Luis was shaking him.

“The van has gone, without the tourists. They must be hiking deeper into the jungle. There are lakes around here and I’m sure some are connected to the sea. That must be how they’re going to get out again. Remember the boat trailer in the car park? If they can take a boat, then so can we.”

Alfredo looked blearily up at his brother. He was far from convinced. “Why don’t we just walk back to the road?”

“And do what, exactly? Stand there and hitchhike? Everyone will be looking for us on the highway. It’s far too dangerous.”

Alfredo shrugged his shoulders. He had spent enough time in the jungle the previous day to last a lifetime, but it looked as though he had little choice. His brother reached out and Alfredo winced as he was pulled upright. They scouted around the temple complex, ducking quickly across open spaces. Gradually the ground became heavier until it was spotted with small peaty pools. Alfredo felt he was being led back into the swamp that had almost consumed him. As their options got ever more limited, he knew he was losing heart, but he would rather be led to hell than disappoint his brother.

A sign marked the start of a boardwalk, clearly the way the tourists must come. It was old and in a poor state of repair, the occasional plank and whole sections of handrail lost to beetles and ants, but it was relatively dry. Suddenly able to progress easily, Alfredo began to feel better. Perhaps there was a way out. After a few hundred metres the land rose from the swamp again. The boardwalk ended abruptly. At the top of a short grassy bank a lattice of open beams marked the base of a tall wooden observation tower.

“Shall we take a look?” Alfredo enquired, but Luis shook his head.

“They’re probably only a few minutes behind. We look no more like bird spotters than we do tourists, so I don’t want to get caught up there. “We’ll climb away from the path and wait and see what they do. At least we can sit and eat.”

It was as much as the brothers could do to maintain their position, as an ever growing cloud of mosquitoes descended. It was nearly thirty minutes before snatches of childish laughter caught their attention. Moving colours signalled the arrival of the group. Two diminutive figures raced up the tower steps, ignoring appeals for caution. A girl’s face appeared at the summit and, for one long second, the brothers thought they had been seen. Then she leaned further over, boasting that she had won the race to the summit. Others joined her, binoculars and cameras appearing periodically over the parapet. Luis and Alfredo sweated profusely in the shadows, fists and teeth tightly clenched.

“Why don’t we keep going, and take one of their boats?” Alfredo recommended.

Luis forced himself to think above the persistent whining in his ears. He too was desperate to move on, but they were too close not to be seen. He thought again.

“We still don’t know where they’re going - I don’t want to get lost. Besides, someone will be with the boats. If we take one, we’ll be reported straight away. Fancy trying to outrun the police in a canoe?”

“So we use the tourists as cover?”

“Yes, I don’t like it, but I can’t see any other way.”

It was Alfredo’s turn to pause and think. “You know we’ll get done for kidnap?”

“I know. But, if Eusabio hasn’t told the police who we are yet, he will do soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if Xterra had connections in this area as well. So, give me an alternative, brother?”

Alfredo didn’t respond.

Luis continued. “We’re not going home to Rancho Morales. We can’t even stay in Mexico. This is a one way trip. That’s O.K. for me: I’ll find Alex and start again, but what about you, Alfredo? Luis paused, once more marooned by doubt. “If you want, we can double back and take our chances on the road.”

Alfredo sighed loudly, his shoulders heaved, but then he shook his head. “I know it’s too late for that. They’ll be all over us if we show our faces. If Eusabio or Xterra get us, we’re dead. If the police get us then we’re dead in prison. Whatever happens, I’m not going to be locked up, Luis. Not after what happened to Uncle Felipe. We still have money and there are places we could go to from Belize. Do you remember Father telling us he started a car business when he married Mother? I could do that. Maybe I’ll start my own family. Somewhere in these forests we lost Las Contadonas for ever.”

“But not each other,” Luis corrected.

“But not each other,” Alfredo echoed, reaching across to Luis and pulling playfully at his beard. “Let’s move on. I’m worried we’re going to be seen.”

They picked their way through the undergrowth and up the hillside. As the ground grew rockier, it also grew drier and the forest more sparse. The mosquitoes were left behind and, for the first time, there was the hint of fresher air. The horizon edged away until they had a view. Beyond the furthest trees a vast lake of intense blue stretched between horizons. Its colour gave it a depthless quality, like some vast chasm. Alfredo turned to the forest behind and below them. The largest trees punched skyward through the smothering green of the canopy, the strongest of these standing proud, like clenched-fist salutes. Those with slender trunks swayed gently in the breeze. Animals repeated alien calls, each with its own pitch and rhythm, the loudest uncannily like human screams. Alfredo shuddered and told himself that he would never enter a rainforest again.

“Come on,” called Luis, who was making for the lake.