Find the Feathered Serpent

Chapter 7 Captured!

Heat, intolerable, blazing down through the treetops, scorching the forest. Sound. A medley of sounds that rose in cacophony to greet the eardrums. The ceaseless shrieking of the monkeys, the droning of the insects, the chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of an industrious cricket in the tall grass.

And over all this, a wearisome fatigue that pulled at the leg muscles and worked its way across your back and your shoulders. Sweat oozed from every pore in your body, and your shirt clung to your back, hugging your skin. You felt hot and thirsty and you wanted to lie down and rest-but you had to find your way back to the beach and back to the machine that would take you home one day.

And so you pushed the tall grass aside, pulling your hand back occasionally when you ripped the skin on a jagged, saw-toothed blade. And you tripped every now and then, scraping your elbows, your head buried in the tall grass, with the smell of the earth deep in your nostrils, and the animal smell, and the smell of green things growing in a vast wilderness, a wilderness a little too awesome to comprehend.

You struggled onward, because it seemed the only thing to do, and because two Norsemen were following you: one who believed in you and another who hated your guts.

You struggled onward.

Neil’s breath came in hurried gasps. He pushed the grass aside and stepped forward again. A branch slashed across his face, and he stepped to one side in a vain effort to dodge it. Ahead, a monkey sat on a low limb, raising his eyes foolishly, his mouth babbling incoherent nonsense. Neil swatted at an insect that buzzed unmercifully about his head. He glanced at his watch.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes since they’d left the flat rock, and they hadn’t come across it again. At least, he reassured himself, they weren’t now going in a circle. But were they headed back for the beach or were they only penetrating deeper into the forest?

Back in America, back in the University ball park, the kids were playing baseball now. It was the twentieth century there, and somewhere there was probably a kid dreaming of a Norseman or a forest adventure. Neil’s mother would be preparing supper, or was it still a little too early; yes, probably it was. And his father would be reading a book perhaps, propped up in his bed, his leg stretched out ahead of him, his head resting on the pillows.

Neil suddenly felt terribly alone, terribly far from the people he loved and the places he knew. Irritably, he swatted at a fly and doggedly pushed against the growth again.

He stopped, raising his head like a bird dog sniffing the wind. His eyes squinted through the trees, and every muscle in his body went stiff.

“What is it?” Erik asked behind him.

Neil didn’t answer. His eyes kept staring straight ahead. Perhaps it was only a trick his vision was playing. Perhaps the sunlight and the trees and the insects and the noise of the forest…

“Do you see something?” Erik asked.

“Yes. Yes. That is, I think so. I think I see something.”

He was vaguely aware that his speech was hesitant and a little incoherent. With a trembling finger, he pointed through the trees, through the leaves that formed a natural arch of green.

“It is a house,” Erik said, a little surprised. “A stone house.”

Neil let out his breath. “You see it too?”

“Yes. Not all of it. Just the top. But it is a house of some sort.”

Olaf pushed forward, his eyes flashing behind their puffed lids like the worried eyes of an English bulldog. “Where?” he demanded, his voice rising expectantly.

Erik pointed. “See there? Beyond the trees. The stone dwelling? Do you see it?”

“No.”

“Use the eyes the gods gave you,” Erik said in anger, relieved at finding signs of life and annoyed because Olaf could not, or would not, see it. “There, ahead there.” He looked at Olaf’s face and found blankness there. He seized Olaf by the shoulder and pointed again. “Follow this branch, do you see? Follow my finger along the branch.”

Olafs eyes followed Erik’s finger as it moved along the line of the branch. “Now. Do you see where the branch forks at the tip? Near that cluster of leaves? There. Do you see, or are you truly blind?”

“I see,” Olaf answered. “It is the top of a stone dwelling.”

“Ah-h-h-h,” Erik said, “ah-h-h-h. He sees. He sees, Neil. We may now proceed.”

Together they made their way forward, never losing sight of the stone building ahead. The forest began to thin, with large clearings now, and fewer trees and bushes.

On the edge of the forest, they stopped and climbed to the top of a huge rock. Here they sprawled flat on their bellies and looked toward the place where they had seen the stone building.

Neil blinked at the sight that confronted his eyes. He shook his head, blinked again, and then stared in open wonder.

Below them lay not only one building, but a profusion of buildings, clean and majestic-looking, well-ordered, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Temples and palaces greeted their awe-struck eyes, well-paved courts and plazas, immense pyramids, tall, carved blocks of stone.

Neil’s mind flicked back to the photographs he had seen on Dr. Falsen’s desk, photographs of the ruins of a once great city. These were the pictures of Chichen-Itza, the fabulous Maya city in Yucatan.

Neil knew he was looking at that very city now, seeing it as no archaeologist had ever seen it, seeing it in its splendid perfection-the complete glory of ages past.

He sucked in a great gulp of air and murmured, “Chichen-Itza. Yucatan. We’re in Yucatan.”

“What?” Erik asked.

“Yucatan,” Neil said, “this is Yucatan, Erik.” He spoke in Swedish now.

Erik struggled with the word. “Yook-tan? Is that the name of this city?”

Neil remembered that the land was completely unfamiliar to the Norseman. “It is a city far from your home,” he said. “It is called Chichen-Itza.”

“It is a beautiful city,” Erik said.

“Yes.”

Olaf suddenly spoke. “There is water in the city. I see water there.”

He pointed to a small stone building that faced a large, open wall.

“Yes,” Erik said. “But where are the people?”

Neil said, almost to himself, “I wish my father were here.”

“Your father? Why?”

“He knows the people of this land well. If he were here, he could help us.”

“What people?” Olaf wanted to know. “I see no people. Let us go down for the water.”

“Perhaps we had better ask for it,” Erik said wisely.

“Ask whom?” Olaf demanded. “There is no one to ask.”

“There must be people living here,” Erik replied “We will talk to them.”

“I have my ax and a strong right arm,” Olaf declared, rising to his feet and sliding down the face of the large rock. “They are the only bargaining tools I need.”

Erik and Neil hastily jumped to the ground beside Olaf.

And at that moment there was a rustling in the woods. Six men burst into the clearing, spears thrust before them. Erik and Neil turned to scramble up the face of the rock again, but six more spear bearers had climbed it from the other side and were standing on top of it now, their sharp weapons ready.

The spear bearers clutched the spear shafts tightly, their eyes hard and unfriendly. They were short men, none of them very much over five feet, but they were well-proportioned and heavily muscled where their arms showed. Their coloring varied, the skin of some being almost pure white, while that of others was the color of light chocolate. Their hair was long and black, coarse, and grew low on their foreheads.

They had large, dark-brown eyes, small ears, and broad noses. Their jaws protruded, and they stood squat before the trio, watching them from hostile eyes.

Suddenly Olaf gave a wild scream and reached for the ax hanging from his belt. He tore it loose and raised it over his head, screaming wildly all the time. Then, like a loosed beast, he burst forward, the ax raised.

Before Olaf had moved a foot, Erik’s fist lashed out and his powerful fingers tightened about the other Norseman’s wrist.

“They are armed,” Olaf shouted, but as Erik twisted, Olaf opened his hand and let the ax drop to the ground.

The spearsmen watched the scene with interest, their eyes flicking from the red-bearded captain to the short, squat Norseman.

Erik probably realized that they were three men pitted against an armed group of twelve, and peace was the only way out of this situation. To this Neil heartily agreed. Undoubtedly there were more Mayas where these came from. He began thinking of the bigger stakes involved, the chances of getting home, and more than before he understood the necessity of maintaining peace with these men.

These were not ordinary citizens, he figured. They were, more likely, professional soldiers strung about the city for the special purpose of protecting their people from unwelcome visitors.

Unlike Erik, the Mayas were clean-shaven, their skins bright and shining. Covering their bodies, starting at their necks and ending below their knees, was a cotton quilt that probably served as armor against the crude weapons of the day.

These weapons, Neil saw, were many and diversified.

Each of the Mayas carried a spear with a pointed blade of what seemed to be sharp, dark glass. Other weapons were also visible among the soldiers. Several carried swords of hardwood, into the sides of which were set blades of the same dark glass. Others carried slings and pouches that probably contained stones. Some of the soldiers carried something that looked very much like a top with a string wound about it, and Neil surmised that this, too, was a weapon. They all carried shields, some square, some round, all covered with deerskin.

Slowly, carefully, Erik unbuckled his ax and dropped it to the feet of the nearest Maya, The man stepped back nimbly and looked to a fellow soldier, with confusion clouding his face.

The other soldier put up his spear and moved closer to the ax.

This is their leader, Neil thought. This is the manwoe must deal with.

The leader had a long scar stretching down the length of his face. It crossed the ends of his lip and twisted his mouth sideways, in what appeared to be a comical grin. Neil knew he wasn’t smiling, though.

The soldier poked at the ax with his spear point, and then stooped to pick it up. He was surprised at its weight as he lifted it. His fingers went to the blade and rested there, his eyes widening in respect of its keenness.

Quickly he turned and shouted an order at one of the other soldiers, who stepped forward and picked up Olaf’s ax. This he presented to the scarred leader, then rapidly returned to the place he had left in the spear-bristling circle.

The leader barked an order to another soldier, who stepped forward and placed his shield on the ground. With puzzled brow, his teeth clamping his lower lip where the scar crossed it, the leader lifted the ax to test it, and then brought it smashing down on the deerskin-covered shield.

The shield splintered into a hundred flying pieces of wood and hide. A general outburst went up from the Mayas, and the leader beamed from ear to ear, his smile threatening to flow all over his ruddy face. He turned then and said something to Erik.

“What does he want?” Erik asked Neil.

“I-I don’t know,” Neil answered. In desperation, he faced the scarred leader and asked, “Habla usted español?”

The scarred lips clamped shut again, and the eyes expressed bewilderment.

Slowly, painstakingly, the Maya leader repeated something in his own tongue, and waited for a response.

“What did he say?” Erik asked.

“I don’t know. But he looks kind of angry because we’re not answering.”

The scowl deepened on the scarred face. Angrily, the leader shouted another order, and the Mayas began to close in, their spears ahead of them.

“Friends,” Neil said frantically. “We are friends.”

The leader of the band frowned again and raised his hand. Immediately the soldiers stopped advancing. He studied Neil closely.

“Friends,” Neil repeated, almost making it a question this time. “Let’s show him what we mean.” he said to Erik.

He grasped Erik’s hand and began to shake it. “Friends, see? Big friends. All big friends. Shake hands, see?” He grinned at the Maya soldiers, feeling quite foolish at his own antics.

Erik grinned too, his teeth flashing behind his brilliant beard. He pumped Neil’s hand vigorously and then threw his arms around him and caught him to his chest in a bear hug.

“Gee whiz, Erik,” Neil protested. “You’re Strang- hey, for Pete’s sake!”

“Smile,” Erik muttered through clenched, glistening teeth. “Smile, Neil.”

Neil beamed as Erik released him and took his hand again, squeezing it tightly, threatening to rip his arm from the socket.

Olaf stood by, obviously displeased with all this nonsense.

Neil smiled graciously at the Maya leader and extended his hand. “Friends?” he asked.

The dark eyes clouded in the scarred face, and the leader stepped back cautiously, away from Neil’s extended hand.

Neil shook hands with Erik again. “Friends,” he said.

He turned to the scarred soldier once more and held out his hand.

“Friends?” he repeated.

The soldier’s face changed a little, and a flicker of understanding sparked in his eyes. His mouth began to edge upward at the corners as he stepped forward cautiously. He stopped and said something to another soldier. The other soldier nodded his head vigorously and answered the leader.

Neil kept his hand outstretched and said, “Friends.”

Slowly, the leader of the band took another hesitant step forward, his spear ready. He stood several feet away from Neil, and leaned over, extending his hand in cautious little spurts of movement. His eyes were on Neil’s-large and brown.

Suddenly they crinkled at the corners and the Maya’s twisted mouth split into a wide grin. He extended his hand fully, ready to grip Neil’s in friendship.

And at that moment, Olaf decided to ram his heavy shoulders into one of the Mayas and make a break for the forest!