THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SEVEN: CUAHTENOTL EPACT

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

José Macias declined the Jefe's polite offer of a bench in the jail upon which to sleep, and returned to the ghost town south of the village, this time making better use of the tin slab as protection from the intermittent rain and constant fog; he positioned it so that all but his extremities would remain dry and brought, with him, some scrap wood to serve as a mattress. Still, comfort was not at issue... luscious, deep sleep was the Major's enemy, for he had the Devil's business to conduct, and this required that he be up, and alert, well before dawn.

His eyes opened to darkness... the tin had kept most of the rain off of him, but the fog had seeped through his clothes and his bones, causing his neck and shoulder to ache and reminding him of that strange encounter with the indian on the road to Okop, so many years ago. He had brought nothing to eat, for the hunger... not yet debilitating... sharpened his senses, made a cup of his hands, found rainwater and drank. He had kept the Webley under his head, wrapped in a second shirt which was damp on the outside, but dry within... protecting the integrity of the weapon. He inspected it, using a cigarette in lieu of a lamp... an hour before dawn, the air had the color and consistency of coffee into which milk has been added, though the smell was what it had been since his arrival in Cuahtenotl... dankness and decay.

At length the Major stepped outside into a stronger, sharper rain than Tuesday's drizzle, proceeded to the east so as to circle the sleeping village, then made his way north, reckoning by the moon and by several of the larger pieces of debris that littered the valley as if to mock the temples of the aboriginal tribes of Mexico. There was the ruined Ferris Wheel, further to the northeast the deck of one of Colombo's ships... the Santa Maria, perhaps... more visible for having landed on end. By these and other lodestars, José was able to triangulate the dark patch of monte on the eastern slope where El Chacol and Consuela had erected their queer homestead; he climbed until he was level with the place, then hurried along a line of scrub, rocks and mud... head lowered, boots constantly slipping and sliding while stones and clods from regions above spattered into his knees.

Finally, José reached a copse just south of the desperados' lair... he leaned against a tree, peering out to the southern wall of the choza, with its charge in block letters of a faded (but still alarming) hue somewhere between red and orange... "Inquietude! Rapidez! Precisión!" He lifted the Webley from his belt, wiped it on a dry swath of shirt beneath his overcoat, removed his hat, slapped it against the tree to expel at least some moisture, drew it low over his head and, still crouching, scuttled towards the Futurist billboard and placed an ear against it in an attempt to determine whether his quarry was awake. Hearing nothing, he glided as a shadow... if, however, a shadow whose muddy boots still made sucking, squishing sounds every time they touched or departed the earth... around the corner of the choza, running his left hand over the banister of the midget railcar. It had been a thing of happiness, once... the Major could tell by its festive, if faded, colours... perhaps conveying children around in circles enclosing a fountain or zoo. Now, he could lift the flag of... was it Chile, Paraguay?... and in the opacity of the choza, discern a cheap, sagging hamaca, overstuffed with two shapes (one of these snoring profoundly).

Do not underestimate Consuela, the Major reminded himself and, consequently, lowered his hand to his boot, from which the little Browning had almost fallen out owing to gravity and his exertions. When it was righted and within reach, he pushed through the canvas that made a door to the choza, marched to the hamaca and pressed Webley gun to the temple of the larger of the two shapes.

"Chacol!" he spat, tapping the automatic against the bridge of the deserter's nose to awaken him... though not suddenly... glancing furiously left, then right to see what had happened to the man's own gun, or the machete, streaked with monkey blood. Receiving no reply save a moan from Consuela, he stepped back and ripped the hammock from its posts, sending the both of them tumbling into the thin colloid covering the dirt floor, where skeins of rainwater had trickled in between cracks in the shabby carnival scenery, plaster novelties and rotted canvas.

"Ouf!" was all that the treacherous giant could say upon his sudden restoration to consciousness. Consuela scrabbled backwards on her hips and elbows, making for the dank curtain of the northern aperture and the Major shifted his aim towards her, then back to the Jackal. A dizzy, broken-toothed smile diffused over the giant's face as his head lolled against the western wall near the juncture of the model of the lunatic asylum and the slab of stage scenery... which, José now saw, was painted as a sort of perfumed bower or balcony as some Romeo might have lingered beneath for a glimpse of his beloved, Upside down, however, it had, more likely, come from some sentimental and interminable Teutonic opera. He raised himself to one elbow, as if to greet his long-lost comrade from Akbal, but instead of a greeting gave only a long sigh, like the hiss of gases escaping a balloon.

"The General is concerned about his saddlebags," José began, keeping the whole of his left eye and half the right upon the reclining man, the other half upon Consuela, who had risen to her hands and knees. "He..."

But he could proceed no further, for the Jackal's leg had whipped forward, catching José behind the knee and tossing him to the mud floor of the choza as swiftly and effectively as the lightweight wrestling champion, Isaac Niflot, had tossed his adversaries at the St. Louis Olympics. The Webley automatic discharged harmlessly into the roof, producing a hole through which a stream of water tumbled, and bounced away towards the rude cookstove that Consuela had prepared from a few blanched stones. She hesitated by the northern egress, caught between flight and fighting, but her companion had no such hesitations... with a roar, and spitting great chunks of phlegm that spattered the Major's face with flakes of his monkey-supper, the giant leaped upon his prostrate persecutor, tugging the slouch hat over his face to blind José and pummeling his ribs with blows from a hamlike right fist.

But, in straddling his enemy, the deserter had left himself vulnerable in one relevant place, and José drove a knee upwards, crushing the giant's testicles against bone. Chacol fell away, his head bouncing off the black rose-trellis of the painted balcony with a crack, leaving the Major opportunity to drive his left fist into his left ear and his right into the giant's nose, which splattered in gouts of blood and gristle. José drove another right towards the Jackal's chin, but the giant lowered this at the last moment and all that the Major caught was a fistful of teeth that sliced and lacerated his knuckles as they crumbled.

"One last time," José gasped, raising his ruined fist to strike again... "where are the General's saddlebags?"

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