A few days after Etalcaxi's triumphant return from the "Trial of the Jaguar-God," the caravan was a knot of frayed nerves and aching limbs. Coatl-Cuahuitl was no longer a path; it was a series of relentless obstacles. They were now navigating a rocky, overgrown trail where the air was thick with humidity. Tensions were high.
Etalcaxi alone seemed immune. He walked with a light step, a stark contrast to the weary shuffling of the porters. He kept glancing into the dense canopy of trees, a hopeful, expectant look on his face. Now and then, a goofy, unfocused smile would touch his lips, only to be quickly suppressed when he noticed someone watching.
Tlico, walking nearby and ostensibly checking the load on the perpetually miserable llama, was not checking the load at all. His narrowed, suspicious eyes were fixed on Etalcaxi's every move. He had seen men in love, men in fever, and men possessed by spirits. The warrior's current state was a strange, unsettling combination of all three. This was not the same arrogant peacock who had entered the woods. This man was distracted, blissful, and a terrible liar.
Suddenly, a loud, sharp CRACK echoed along the trail, a sound like a giant bone snapping. The caravan's single supply cart, a sturdy vehicle pulled by the llama and laden with their remaining food supplies and some carefully wrapped honey pots, lurched to a violent, immediate halt. Zolin, the clumsy porter who had been guiding the llama, yelped as the cart's sudden stop nearly sent him sprawling.
"Cursed luck!" Ixa, his sister, snarled, though her voice lacked its usual fire, replaced by a weary resignation.
Tlico's lips pressed into a thin, hard line. He walked over to the cart and inspected the damage. One of the solid wooden wheels, crafted from the heart of a sturdy ironwood tree, had split clean down the middle. It had not broken along the grain; it had fractured across it, as if an immense, invisible force had simply torn it in two. He ran a finger along the break. The wood was splintered, the fibers blasted outward, as if it had exploded from the inside out. There was no sign of impact from a rock, no sign of rot or weakness in the wood.
"Strange," Tlico muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. "Good, solid ironwood does not break like this."
Etalcaxi, who had been peering hopefully into the trees, now turned his attention to the calamity. He threw his hands up in a grand display of theatrical frustration. "Cursed luck!" he boomed, his voice echoing with false despair. "The spirits of this jungle test us at every turn! This axle is shattered! The wheel is useless! This will delay us for hours, perhaps a full day!"
The performance was energetic, but it rang completely hollow. His eyes, far from showing frustration, were practically sparkling with glee. From Tlico's vantage point, the warrior looked like a man who had just been told his favorite meal was being prepared for him.
"Stay here and guard the goods!" Etalcaxi commanded, his voice full of forced urgency. "We must have a replacement! I will scout the area for a tree with wood strong enough for the task!" Before Tlico could voice the obvious objection—that felling a tree and carving a new wheel would take far more than a few hours of scouting—Etalcaxi had eagerly disappeared into the jungle, moving with a speed that suggested great anticipation rather than dutiful concern.
Tlico stared after the warrior, then looked back at the strangely broken wheel. He knelt, picking up a splinter of the ironwood. He sniffed it. It did not smell of rot or age. It smelled faintly tangy, like the air after a lightning strike. His suspicion, already a heavy stone in his gut, began to harden.
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The next day found them moving again, the cart fitted with a new, hastily made wheel that wobbled precariously with every turn. The sky above was a brilliant, clear blue. Then, with a speed that defied all laws of nature, the sky began to dark. It was as if a giant bowl had been upturned over their heads. The blue vanished, replaced by a churning, bruised purple, then a midnight black. The change took minutes.
A torrential downpour erupted without warning. Rain came down in solid, vertical sheets, a wall of water that turned the path into a slick, treacherous river of mud in seconds. The noise was a deafening roar. The porters, caught completely off guard, huddled under the broad leaves of a giant kapok tree, already soaked to the bone and miserable.
"The sky-serpent is angry!" Coyotl wailed, his voice barely audible over the deluge. He clutched his protective amulet, his face a mask of terror.
A small mudslide, originating from a bank where the ground had been perfectly firm moments before, suddenly cascaded down, a wave of earth and rock. It was not a large slide, but it was perfectly placed. It flowed across the path, separating Etalcaxi, who had been at the head of the line, from the rest of the group.
"The path is gone!" he shouted, his voice faint over the roar of the rain. "Wait there! Do not move! I will find shelter and a way around!"
The moment he was out of sight of the others, concealed by a thick curtain of rain and foliage, the deluge directly over his head lessened. The roaring downpour softened to a gentle, warm mist, a private, personal reprieve from the storm that still raged over the rest of the caravan. A few yards away, perfectly visible through the mist, was the dark, dry entrance to a small cave nestled at the base of a rock outcropping.
A wide, triumphant grin spread across Etalcaxi's face. He started toward the cave, his heart pounding with an excitement that had nothing to do with finding shelter. As he approached, a figure emerged from the shadows within. It was Ixtic. She was completely, serenely dry, a smug, welcoming smile on her face. A crown of fresh, glowing orchids was woven into her dark hair.
"The little warrior looks cold and wet," she purred, her voice a warm counterpoint to the distant roar of the storm. "Ixtic knows a place to get warm."
She took his hand, her touch cool and familiar, and pulled him into the welcoming darkness of the cave.
Two hours later, the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The sun re-emerged, the black clouds vanishing. Etalcaxi strolled back toward the caravan's position. His hair was still damp, but he was warm, relaxed, and had a dazed, utterly satisfied grin on his face. He smelled faintly of damp earth, sweet flowers, and the unique, wild scent of Ixtic.
He found the place where the mudslide had blocked the path. The mudslide was gone. The ground was firm and dry, showing no sign of the recent torrent of mud or water. It was as if it had never happened.
Tlico stood waiting for him. He said nothing. He simply looked at the dry path. Then he looked at Etalcaxi's blissed-out expression, at the dreamy look in his eyes. He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring slightly as he caught the strange, floral scent clinging to the warrior. The last vestiges of Tlico's skepticism solidified into a cold, hard certainty. This was not bad luck. This was not the anger of spirits. And Etalcaxi was the beneficiary.
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Night fell. The caravan had made a tense, uneasy camp. The porters were huddled close to the fire, their fear of the jungle's magic overriding their usual squabbles. Tlico sat slightly apart from them, his face a thunderous mask of frustration. He had his precious map—the one drawn by his own grandfather—spread out on a flat rock beside him. He was trying to calculate how much time they had lost to these "calamities," trying to find an alternate route on the faded maguey fiber paper that might take them away from this cursed stretch of woods. He weighed down its corners with small, smooth stones and leaned closer, his finger tracing a faint line.
A sudden, sharp chittering broke the silence of the camp. A troop of coatimundis, their long snouts twitching and their ringed tails held high like banners, darted out of the darkness and into the firelight. But they did not move like normal animals. They moved with an unnatural purpose, a coordinated, intelligent strategy. Two of them created a diversion, making a mad dash for the sacks of food supplies.
"Get away, you beasts!" Zolin shouted, jumping to his feet along with Xochi, who snatched up a burning branch from the fire to wave at them. As the two porters chased the decoys back into the darkness, a third coatimundi, larger than the rest, made a beeline for the rock where the map lay.
With shocking speed and precision, the creature shoved the stones aside with its snout. It snatched the map in its teeth, shook its head violently, and began tearing the precious paper to shreds.
Tlico's head snapped around at the sound of tearing fiber. His eyes widened in horror and fury. "NO!" he roared, a sound of pure, animalistic rage. "Get away from there, you striped demon!"
He scrambled to his feet and lunged toward the rock, but it was too late. The coatimundis, their mission accomplished, vanished into the night as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a pathetic, useless pile of map pieces.
Tlico stood over the remains of his priceless map, his entire body trembling with a rage that left him speechless. His guide to the entire region, his family heirloom, was destroyed.
The whole camp was in shock. The porters stared at the shredded map, their faces pale. This was a true disaster. They were lost.
Etalcaxi walked over from the other side of the fire, carefully arranging his features into a mask of grave concern. The performance was his worst yet. He could barely contain the electric thrill of excitement that was coursing through him. He looked down at the shredded map, then at the devastated Tlico.
"A disaster!" he announced, his voice ringing with false solemnity. "A tragedy! Without the map, we are blind! Truly, this is our darkest hour!" He paused for dramatic effect, letting the weight of their doom settle upon the terrified porters. "But do not despair!" he declared, his voice suddenly full of hope. "I made contact with a... local guide during my ordeal with the jaguar-god. This guide knows these woods better than any map. I will go at once to seek this guide's aid!"
The lie was so thin it was translucent. Citli looked confused. Even the porters seemed to sense the falsity in his tone. But before anyone could question the "local guide", before Tlico could unleash the torrent of fury building in his chest, Etalcaxi turned and jogged eagerly into the darkness of the jungle.
He did not even try to be quiet. "Ixtic!" he called out into the night, his voice full of a desperate, longing joy. "Oh, Ixtic Your mighty Itzotec requires your assistance!"
His voice faded into the darkness. The old merchant knelt, picking up a single, useless shred of his grandfather's map. He slowly, deliberately, crumpled the piece of fiber in his powerful fist, his eyes glaring into the jungle where Etalcaxi had vanished. His face was a mask of cold, hard fury.