THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"So many books," Elena marveled as José closed the door to his father's library behind them exhibiting not a whit of the fear which had driven other young ladies to hysterics under the circumstances… before their inevitable surrender. "My father has many too, of course, but they are all concerned with the law. Is don Antonio a Professor in his spare time?"

That! the disgraced Caballero reckoned. Her father! A man of influence and, perhaps, a vengeful one. "No, just a man who has educated himself... which does not detract from the fact that he is also a great man, as some believe. But tell me more of yourself, rather..."

"Do no such thing!" an intruder ordered. It was young Montez-Betancourt who had followed the pair, for José... in his new confidence... had neglected to lock the door. "Haven't you dishonored her enough for one evening?"

"Not the half of how I shall dismember you," José snarled and... feeling the presence of that angry spirit which had sided with him in numerous prior incidences of mayhem... the young Caballero brushed off an ineffectual blow, grasped Fidel round the throat and threw him against his father's shelves. He pummeled the face behind the eagle's mask so fiercely that the feathers flew and fake pearls clattered to the floor as, soon, did Montez-Betancourt... at which point José delivered a savage kick to break his adversary's jaw in four places. He was poised to deliver another... a blow to the bridge of the nose which, as he'd learned in Marseilles, was usually fatal... when pinioned from behind by Rigoberto, Urzaiz and four other struggling Caballeros summoned by Elena.

The violence of the assault caused don Antonio's books to fall from their places... one after another bouncing off bloody Fidel.

"Are you mad?" Rigoberto demanded, but José brushed him aside, passed through the library and the great hall, through the kitchen and out the back door with no glance to the indians laboring there save a vicious scowl as he regarded, then picked up, one of the sharp, stout knives which the Syrian cook employed to flay such unfortunate beasts as ended their term of life in don Antonio's kitchen. The Caballeros followed, and what had been a triptych of abandon in the kitchen froze as certainly as those Pompeiians at their sin were frozen and preserved by the fulsome outburst of Vesuvio.

Two of the crew from Idznacab were sitting on the table, frozen in the act of passing a long, green bottle hand to hand. Others had tired of the leftovers and opened oven doors to find fresh hams and breads and pastries. Silvestro waved with a fist full of cheese. The cook was gone, the Chinese waiters as well. The mazehualob were alone.

Rigoberto gazed out the back door but, seeing no trace of his brother, snorted with disgust and stormed off, the Caballeros following.

"Well, we're cooked!" Silvestro admitted. "Better to be flogged for a calf than a chicken," he reasoned, and handed Esteban a bottle of newly opened champagne, still bubbling with the vitality of blood pumping from the neck of a freshly slaughtered beast. "Try it! That's the stuff that rich folks drink. What do you think of it?"

Esteban glanced about suspiciously and gulped a mouthful of the wine, setting the bottle down quickly so that, even if the cook chanced to enter at that precise moment, he would not be caught. He swallowed half and swished the rest about, wondering what appeal could it hold for the dzulob. The champagne was thin and sour... not at all like the sweet, creamy balche taken at the festival of bees, nor fiery aguardiente, sold for Christian festivals by Paco Pozo. Then the effervescence caused him to cough and sneeze and a fine spray of the stuff gushed forth from his mouth and nostrils. "It's like the water of the mal dzonot," he said, referring to a natural well on the estancion, noted for its slimy and unhealthy contents.

Silvestro grinned. "Now this other," he said, "smells like a dead and rotting dog, although from the way that it burns my tongue, I gather that, like the aguardiente, it will make a man forget his troubles in short order." He handed Esteban a bottle half filled with brown fluid. On a paper label was some writing neither of them could read, from a language neither could speak.

Esteban took a small sip of the liquor, gagged and spat it out. "The devil's soup!" he judged and snatched up a piece of chocolate cake with heavy, but familiar chocolate frosting to dull the vile taste. "Fit only for crazy devils."

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