Temple of the Jaguar God (4 page)

“
Uncle Harry!” Nothing.

No
response.

He could
have sworn this was the right place. It was the same little
clearing. On impulse, he followed the bank northeast, rather than
southwest as it curved along. Fifteen, twenty yards…the jungle was
marginally clearer, with the semblance of a path even. It was the
first such sign he’d seen in days, over a week since leaving the
Orinoco.

There
was another large clear spot, just red dirt stamped flat either by
rain, judging by the close-packed dimples, or human feet…before the
rain.

His jaw
dropped.

Hearing
voices just on the edge of earshot, he threw his head back, filled
his lungs and shouted for all he was worth.

“
Uncle Harry!”

***

Once
they had cleared some of the brush and vines away, the eerie face,
the one that had practically scared Jeremy to death, was properly
revealed. The thing had stopped him right in his tracks.

A
crouching jaguar—with flashing, exaggerated eyes and big stone
teeth. It was big. The thing had to weigh thirty tons, sinking
further into the soft ground with every passing year. The feet were
well underground at this point. The dirt was halfway up the
shins.

“
Well, I’ll be damned.” His Uncle Harry stood there, biting his
lip and marveling. “It proves the culture is related. There is such
a thing as an individual style. People dispute that, but it’s true
in my opinion. I have to admit, this is a new one on me. So. I hope
your thirst for adventure has been sated, young man—”

“
That’s very funny, Uncle.”

“
Er, yes.” Uncle Harry grinned, happy enough to see him
again.

Impulsively, he gave Jeremy an awkward hug.

Explaining to his mother would have been difficult and there
were certain human feelings.

But
there was more.

The
temple might be real, then—and if so, it couldn’t be all that far
away. This was a major sculpture, sitting out in the middle of
nowhere otherwise.

“
Yes, wonderful, but where’s Mister O’Dell?”

Mister
Syrmes had a point. All Jeremy could do was to shake his
head.

In a few
short yards, he’d gotten all off track, and disoriented. He was
just plain lucky that they had set out to find him with the
previous day’s plan still firm in their heads.

The fact was that
someone
had just gotten very lucky indeed.

“
Shit.” Jeremy pointed. “That’s his walking stick.”

Syrmes’
chin came up as Jeremy stepped over and fetched it from under the
low bushes and tall weeds.

“
There’s no need for profanity, Jeremy.”

“
Ah, yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

“
Yes. It is, isn’t it?” Syrmes’ dull grey-blue eyes came up and
there was something in them—something unspoken. “Well, well. I
wonder where he’s gotten off to—”

There
was just something about the way the stone cat lurked, stained and
dirty and still steaming from the rain, those deadly, unseeing eyes
staring off into nowhere, another time perhaps, another
place.

Harry
mopped his forehead as Syrmes took the stick and rooted around in
the underbrush.

“
Damn. Here’s his water-bottle. And his glasses.”

This did
not look good, thought Jeremy with sinking heart.

He gave
his own bottle a shake. Empty.

“
Is there anything in it?”

Syrmes
handed it over speculatively. It was quite full, perhaps a third
gone.

Jeremy
nodded. Unscrewing the cap, he drank.

No sense
in wasting it, hot water as it was by now, and he took another
drink. After this, he would never complain about anything
again.

Hot water never tasted so good.

“
Huh. Mine was half full when I realized he was gone and then
the storm came.” They had been consciously trying to conserve
water, especially once they’d been out there a while.
“Theoretically, he hasn’t had any water since. Not unless he’s
taking a chance on river water.”

Which
they had all been repeatedly told not to do.

“
All right, spread out and we’ll look for signs.”

“
I don’t know—Uncle?”

“
The camp is
thataway,
Jeremy. Fourteen hundred yards, maybe fifteen.
West-by-southwest.”

“
Er—of course. Would you by any chance have a sandwich in that
bag of yours, Uncle Harry?”

“
Possibly. Possibly, young Jeremy—it might even be bully beef
with a slathering of mustard.”

Juices
squirted in his mouth as his uncle unslung the bag and handed it
over.

With a
sigh, Jeremy thought it better to stick to his uncle, and Syrmes,
who had a rifle, like the proverbial glue.

Especially with that damned stone cat crouching there like it
was ready to pounce and nothing more than a thousand-year stare to
show for all of its waiting.

***

Smoke
from the native cook-fire hung in the trees like a soggy wet
blanket, with dead monkey-meat stinking of being over-cooked and
over-dried. Positively blackened monkey meat, and yet it would
still be raw inside. The natives would eat so much and then hang
the rest over the fire again.

Jeremy,
after sagging into a wood and canvas deck chair, (thank God I don’t
have to carry it), was unbelievably tired. They’d been going all
day, with nary a sign of Mister O’Dell.

There
was a kind of nausea—first the fear for O’Dell’s fate, and the sick
realization that he was probably dead, and then there was the
hunger and water deprivation of the last eight or ten
hours.

Kevin
handed him a warm (very warm) stout.

“
There, lad, I reckon you’ve earned it.” He snickered quietly
for a moment. “A night alone in the jungle. I am impressed,
Jeremy.”

“
Oh, God.” Jeremy’s eyes slid over to Melody, seemingly not
very concerned with her husband Peter’s fate.

She knew
him best, of course, and it was entirely possible that he had
simply gone off on his own! Without so much as a jacket. Maybe that
was her attitude, but if so it was a damned strange one. Meeting
Mister Smith’s eyes for a second, he exhaled in
gratitude.

Jeremy
wasn’t much for drink, but he had to admit it wasn’t bad. The tang
of the stuff went straight to something deep inside and the head
was all creamy and soft on the palate. Other than that, it didn’t
seem to taste very good. He’d had wine before, of
course.

“
Thank you, Mister Smith.”

“
Oh, poor boy. You must have been terrified. I know I would
be.”

“
Yes, I have to admit I was concerned, ah, Mrs. O’Dell.” Such
formality might seem strange to a woman who appeared to be barely
dressed in what looked like pajama-bottoms or some sort of
sleepwear under her thin housecoat—imagine the native boys lugging
that uphill all the way, and smelling of her all that
time.

It was
his only defense.

One had
to wonder what sort of thoughts they might have had—

“
I might have even panicked for a minute there. I must admit,
the thoughts were not good…standing under that big old tree the
whole bloody night…”

She sat
up, eyeing Paolo like some kind of a bug, as he sweated and
strained over their dinner less than forty feet away. Grease flared
up and he cursed, (presumably), in Spanish.

It was
almost inhuman, the way she just didn’t seem to care about Peter’s
disappearance, although Jeremy wasn’t too familiar with people in
shock.

“
I think you were very brave.” Her face fell, and maybe she was
worried about her husband after all.

“
Peter will turn up…er, Melody.”

She gave
him a startled look.

“
Oh—thank you.” Her fingers plucked at each other and she
seemed very cold, distant and far away at that exact moment in
time.

Fear.
Perhaps she was trying not to show it.

As for
Jeremy, he itched all over, although he’d had time for a cool
shower in their canvas stall before changing into something a
little more suitable for dinner. The clothes from the day before
were soaking in a bucket and that was about the best that could be
said for them.

If
nothing else, he had survived a night in the jungle—a jungle which
had swallowed up an older and much more experienced man.

He
caught Kevin’s eye again and the fellow lifted an eyebrow, having a
swig at his own hot brew.

His
uncle came out of the big tent, the attentive Mister Day in tow, as
the pair conferred in low tones.

“
I’d never really thought about luck before.”

“
Hmn. Yeah—” That one got a curt nod as Mister Smith dragged
himself upright to go and see if there was anything he could do
about getting dinner moving any faster.

Jeremy’s
eyelids were hanging heavy and he couldn’t recall the last time
he’d been so whipped.

It was
right about then that Melody reached over and patted him on his
scratched, bruised and sunburnt right knee.

“
Thank you. What’s for dinner, anyways?”

“
Roast peccary, I believe.” She had an interesting tone, almost
one of amusement.

He
didn’t waste too much time on that one.

Roast
peccary.

Awesome.

***

They
were holding court over the dessert dishes.

Even
Melody was participating, more animated now with a bit of grub and
a half a bottle of calvados in her.

“
But where could he have gone?” Her voice, increasing in pitch
and intensity, bewailed her own fate as much as her
husband’s.

The
problem was that she just didn’t seem to get it.

“
Well. My dear. You really must admit that there’s nowhere else
for him to go. I mean, really. No, I fear we must reconcile
ourselves to the possibility.”

She was
hardly stupid.

“
But—but what do you mean?”

Mister
Syrmes stepped in, using a gentle tone and placating
gestures.

“
We really must consider the possibility, well—that’s
he’s
gone,
Melody.”

There
was no shyness in using her first name with Syrmes. He was pure
business all the way, one of his less attractive qualities. Like
all such men, he was completely unaware of it. Jeremy had wondered
once or twice why Uncle Harry had hired him to begin with, let
alone put up with him in the bush. His qualifications were
impressive enough and he’d come with good references.

References weren’t everything, and Jeremy was very
tired.

“
Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

Uncle
Harry sighed, patting the lady on the back of the hand from his
place at the head of the table.

“
What he means, my dear, is that there are possibilities. And
it doesn’t make much sense for him to go walking off on his own, no
matter how absent-minded or scatter-brained a person may be. I must
say, your husband didn’t impress me as that type. No, we must
consider the facts. He may have fallen or hit his head on
something. There are crocodiles, electric eels, and
caribes,
ah, piranha. He
may have cut himself and fallen into the water—”

Her hand
was over her mouth as she stared at him.

“
You mean, like dead?”

“
Ah, yes, my dear. However, if so, we certainly didn’t find any
signs of it. There is always hope. At least until we know
better.”

Other
than the walking stick and the water bottle, thought Jeremy. The
eye-glasses—that really said something.

“
He might have had a heart attack, Melody.” The matter seemed
settled to Mister Syrmes.

She stared, and slowly the hand came down. She turned and
stared in interrogative fashion at
him
of all people.

All
Jeremy could do was to shrug and nod helplessly.

At that,
tears welled up in her eyes and then she sort of collapsed into a
short paroxysm of grief. They sat there in poignant silence and she
seemed to get a hold of herself again…

At that
point, the damned ocelot came roaring down the trail. It stopped
dead upon seeing a group.

“
Hey. Ozzie—”

Uncle
Harry’s eyebrows were climbing and Jeremy launched into the rest of
his story.

The
ocelot, jumping into his lap and nuzzling contentedly at his hand,
was a nice touch.

***

“
We know it has to be around here somewhere.” Mister Day seemed
pretty adamant.