The fires burned hot and filled the air with white smoke and the fine ash that they’d seen on the leaves some distance away. Stacks of wood lay behind them, which the younger members of the tribe were continuously adding to.
The Chollokwan sentries acknowledged Putock as he approached and then sprang to their feet at the sight of the Westerners. Putock waved them back, said a few words and then the group of foreigners passed by, walking between the fires and into the village.
McCarter strained to take it all in. The land itself was almost bare, stripped of anything that could be used as fuel for the fires. Only the larger trees remained. It was more of a camp than a village, the only structures being rickety shelters of animal skins and bundled wood. But then, the Chollokwan were nomads and when the time came, they would tear the place down and disappear, carrying their shelters away with them. McCarter wondered how long they would stay. Until the rains came, he guessed, or until the first wave of rains passed.
As they followed Putock, they passed additional blazes. Around these fires lay the wounded and the dying, and around those victims gathered loved ones who mourned them.
A pair of distraught women hovered over a recent, bloodied arrival, wailing in anguish at the sight. Other men with similar gashes were tended by more stoic guardians—mothers, sisters and wives long since cried out.
All of the victims had been slashed and torn open, skin and muscle cut cleanly to the bone, or torn away in great chunks. Smaller wounds had been cauterized with the scalding heat of stone tools from the fires, while larger injuries were covered with dressings of mud and leaves. McCarter counted twenty badly wounded men and a dozen more that must be dead already. He wondered how many hadn’t come home from their sorties, how many had been taken by the Zipacna and hung in distant trees.
Beside one of the dying, a woman and an older child sobbed. Not far from them, a three-year-old played. Too young to understand, the little boy danced around, chirping like a small bird, throwing a stone at the fire. It reminded McCarter of his wife’s funeral and their grandchild dressed for church, who just wanted to run and laugh. As he thought about the universality of life and death, it grieved him to consider the pain his group had helped cause.
Putock led them past the wounded and brought the foreigners to the largest blaze yet, a huge bonfire near the center of the village, beside which sat a mountainous pile of wood.
The envoys from the NRI stood beside it, enduring waves of heat and murmurs and stares from the Chollokwan crowd. As the number of onlookers grew, they pressed closer together, and McCarter soon felt claustrophobic, encircled by a human wall.
After several minutes a stir went through the crowd, and the Chollokwan bystanders parted. The council of elders had arrived, as promised.
The council numbered five, but of primary importance was the leader, a tiny man, slight of build to begin with and shrunken further with his great age. He moved with a grace born of caution and a frame twisted and bent like an ancient tree. Scaly, mottled skin covered his hands and face, and his eyes lay half-hidden behind folds of wrinkled flesh. He was called the Ualon, the Old One: the Great Father and leader of the tribe. The Chollokwan honored this frail man above all others. His decision would bind them.
Before he would talk, the Old One inspected his guests. He stepped close to them, touching their faces in spots and some of their hands, judging them against a lifetime’s priceless knowledge.
He looked at the bandage around Danielle’s leg, touched the wound on McCarter’s shoulder, the bloody gash etched on Hawker’s cheek. “Warriors,” he said in the Chollokwan language.
The Old One and his fellow council members took a position across from them. Both groups sat down and the crowd closed ranks around them.
A cracking whisper came from the ancient man’s throat, his words forming slowly in the strangely labored Chollokwan tongue.
Devers translated. “He says that the seers have foretold the arrival of the ‘West Men’ and that there would be a struggle between the ancient and the new. He says his father told him this when he was a boy, and now it has come to pass.”
Devers had used the term “West Men,” but McCarter suspected it was one of his own invention, as there was likely no English translation for the Chollokwan word that described outsiders. He was patently aware that to the Chollokwan the NRI team had in fact come from the East, from Manaus, downriver.
He looked at Danielle. She nodded.
“Tell him we’ve not come here to struggle against them,” McCarter began. “Tell him we’ve come here to ask for their help and …” McCarter bobbed his head slightly, “to return what was stolen from them, probably in the time of his father.”
“You’ll have to show him the crystals,” Devers said. “The warriors didn’t seem to understand me, and I think they may have a proper term instead of a description.”
Devers turned to speak and Danielle pulled out the box she had reacquired from Kaufman before his demise. From it she produced the Martin’s crystals. She handed them to McCarter as a murmur of surprise surged through the crowd.
The Old One leaned closer to inspect the crystals.
McCarter reeled from the statement. It told him he was right, these simple nomads were the descendants of the Maya.
“Zipacna are the Stealers of Life,” the Old One explained. “They are the Takers of Men; the Plague, the Zipacna are the Many Deaths Who Walk the Night. All these names are for the Zipacna.”
No further explanation was needed.
The Old One raised his hands outward to indicate the entire tribe. “The People come to watch for the Zipacna, to see if they rise from the pit—from the depths of the stone mount. It has been more than the time of many great fathers since they were seen. Yes, always they have slept until now. Until the West Men set them free. Because of this, the Great Sky Heart is angry, the rains will not fall.”
McCarter addressed the Old One directly. “The rains would kill the Zipacna,” he said. “If the Black Rain fell it would save the People.”
Now the Old One stared at McCarter, perhaps reeling in the same way McCarter had only moments before. His eyes were open wide, their luminescent brilliance no longer hidden by the curtains of skin. McCarter had used the words “Black Rain” because they were an integral part of the ancient legend—what he didn’t know was that the Chollokwan used the same words to describe the first heavy rain of the season.
McCarter could see the essence of this on the Old One’s face and he felt an opening. He watched as the frail body turned and conferred with his council before speaking again.
“He wants to know what kind of help we request,” Devers said. “And what kind of help we believe they could give us.”
“Tell him we want to leave the jungle. We were asked to leave before and now we will, but we need their help to make the journey. We offer the crystals, the Eyes of Zipacna in exchange for this help.” McCarter held up the box again. “Tell him we wish to return to our homes, to a place beneath our own sky.”
The other elders whispered among themselves but the Old One did not consult them. He looked at McCarter and spoke, his words flowing through Devers.
“Many who journey do not return to their homes.” He pointed to the river. “The water flows strongly.” He made a fist. “The current takes men away. To return home one must fight against the power of the stream. For some this is too much. For you,” he said, waving a hand over the NRI group, “it will be too much, it seems.”
“But the current flows to our home; the river will take us.” McCarter replied this way, though he guessed that the statement had not been meant literally. “It was the journey to this place that was most difficult for us.”
“Then you must go,” the Old One said. “With or without help, you must leave.”
As the Old One spoke, McCarter’s heart sank. He had assumed that the crystals held a high place in the
