Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (5 page)

“Someone was … hurt?” I soft-pedaled. “In the jungle?” I pictured a snakebite or a fall off a cliff.

Clark sighed then spoke. “Someone was killed. Accidentally. There were drugs involved.”

“I see,” I said, recognizing the bad public relations connotations in the tragedy.

“Yes. Please don’t dredge up the story again, Allison. It would serve no purpose.”

“I won’t. Thanks for telling me,” I said, making plans to check local newspaper archives for the original coverage.

There had to be more to the story. A drug overdose, no matter how tragic, wouldn’t cause the flash of energy I’d felt, like a breath held, in the SUV.

Shifting gears, I asked Clark about that accent I could hear in his voice on certain words.

“Oh, I was born in Austria,” he explained. “My parents brought me to the States when I was just a boy, six or seven. I’m American, now, through and through, but that accent,” he stopped to wave a finger at me, “it remains with me. We still travel back to see the relatives every once in a while,” he said as Sylvia nodded. “Maybe we can have a trek there one day.”

And he was off again, thinking out loud, making big plans, which seemed to be the only sort of plans this man made.

He went on and on as the vehicles bucked and jumped over the ridges of earth, jolting us about. The week before our arrival, the rains had been moderately heavy, deepening the ruts in the road. Now, the ruts were at least a foot deep and some were still filled with water.

Several times, my head made contact with the window at my side. A few more times, I bounded in the opposite direction, up against Mart, who gallantly righted me.

“Have you been to Tikal before?” I asked Mart as the SUV continued to creep, rock, and bounce along at about fifteen miles per hour.

“Oh, three or four times, I guess,” he said, screwing up his face to think back. “Four, actually, but this is my first time here with the zoo.”

“Oh, really.” I found this — and him — interesting. “How long have you been at the zoo?”

“Too long,” Clark muttered from his seat in front of me, but Mart didn’t hear.

“I’ve been at Rochester just over a year now,” Mart told me. “Before that, I worked more directly with animal conservation and protection.” At my puzzled look, he elaborated. “I’d been working with a rhino relocation program in Namibia.”

“That sounds fascinating,” I said, my mind conjuring up romantic scenes from
Out of Africa.

“Yes,” he nodded. “It was.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Grant money ran out,” he stated. “No money, no rescue missions. The end.” Before he looked away, his eyes became huge, dark pools, unfathomable and distant. I knew he must have been recalling the animals.

I didn’t know what to say, so I clammed up. Lifting the camera from around my neck, I pointed it out the window and snapped a few frames.

All around us, the jungle pressed in, a hundred shades of green. I craned my neck, trying to see the tops of the trees, but couldn’t. I’d read some grew to more than one hundred feet. A light mist hung within the foliage, brought on, I assumed, by the combination of moisture and heat.

We were well into Guatemala now, forty miles beyond the border of Belize. Picking up the sheet of information Mart had compiled, I read it over for the fourth or fifth time and felt a surge of excitement course through me. This trip hadn’t been my idea, but right now, in the midst of the forest on the edge of the ruins, I was glad to be here.

“Here we go,” Mart said, nudging me from my studies. “Put that away, Allison. It’s time for the real thing.”

I looked up, gazing out the window. The road had led us to a clearing where a white, contemporary-looking, flat-roofed building stood.

“This is where our tour begins,” Mart said as the SUV came to a halt and Clark opened the door. “It’s the museum — and the gift stalls, of course. You can pick up guidebooks and postcards.”

As the rest of the SUVs pulled in behind us and discharged group members I looked over my shoulder at the museum. “I think I’ll just see what’s in there.”

It took only a few seconds to reach the entryway and once I stepped inside, I was fascinated.

There was a model of the city as it must have looked long ago, detailing many of the structures which, at the present time, were still covered with jungle growth. Photo displays illustrated the long, tedious process of uncovering the ruins. Most enthralling, however, were the stelae — stone monuments standing up to twelve feet high. From a plaque nearby I learned one was believed to be the oldest from Tikal, dating back to 292
A.D.
Standing next to it, I tried to imagine what the world had looked like 1700 years ago. What had these forests been like then? When no SUVs drove into its depths with tourists? When no planes flew overhead? When pollution of water, air, and land was unheard of?

Gingerly, gently, I reached out and touched the relief carving on the stelae, thinking of the history recorded there. Moving on, I saw other artifacts from the site — beautiful stone statues and other objects made from wood, bone, and jade.

There were also books and postcards available for purchase and I chose a few, paying for them with quetzales, the local currency I’d gotten at the hotel.

Out in the hot sun once more, I wandered over to the stalls where many of our group had already congregated, joining crowds of other tourists. Colorful woven textiles of all varieties spread on shelves and draped over wooden framework.

I ran my fingers over the nubby texture of a shirt done in tones of orange, red and blue.

“That’s a huipil,” a voice came from behind me.

When I turned, I saw a native Guatemalan about my own age. Her long, dark hair fell past her shoulders and I noticed she wore an outfit like those up for sale, this one in vivid shades of blue and green. Despite the temperature, she looked cool and comfortable. She smiled as she approached, her teeth gleaming white against her darker complexion.

“These are all handmade by local people,” she explained, “woven in a method that dates back many generations.” She gestured and I noticed for the first time two young girls working on looms. A bright, patterned material, the basis for the huipils, stretched before them.

“Now, remember, you told me you’d take it easy on the souvenirs this time.”

“Yes, yes, dear. I know.”

I smiled, recognizing the Underwoods. Gruff Dan Underwood sounded determined to keep an eye on Elaine’s spending. Recalling the jewelry that had flashed on her fingers, I wished him luck.

More trekkers crowded into the stalls. While I hemmed and hawed over my choice, other shoppers snatched up blankets, belts, and tops at an amazing rate.

I stepped back, out of the fray, and came smack up against another body. I knew it wasn’t Dan. I’d have bounced off his ample mid-section.

“Excuse me,” I apologized, turning.

“No problem,” Mart said. “Can’t be helped in this crowd. We’ll be starting the walk to the ruins in about ten minutes. If you’re planning to make any purchases, you’d better do it now so you can get them stowed in the truck.”

I held up my guidebooks and postcards. “I’ve just got these for now. But I want a huipil.” I trailed off, considering.

Mart surveyed the clustered Americans and sighed. “These folks don’t care about the ruins, the antiquities. They’re more interested in getting a few goodies to take home.”

Watching the shoppers pick over the merchandise, I had to wonder if he was right. The scene did resemble the opening minutes of a white sale.

Mart moved into the thick of the group and I heard him relaying the message about the tour. Inside of ten minutes, we were once again assembling.

The ruins, we were told by Clark, were a twenty-minute walk away. He pointed at a path leading into the forest and informed us he would lead the way, while Mart brought up the rear.

“I hope you have all applied your insect repellent. Conditions are always right for mosquitoes in Guatemala,” he told us. “The path here is clearly discernible, so no one is in any real danger of wandering off,” he assured us. Turning on his heel, he set off at a brisk pace. A few of us took a moment to squirt a fresh coating of bug spray on our exposed skin then hurried to catch up.

Conversation dimmed as we progressed through the jungle. Like the others, I swiveled my head to try and see everything at once, marveling at the sights and sounds. Plants I’d never seen before. The breeze through the treetops. Scurrying noises of some small creature not far off. The insistent buzz of a mosquito even nearer at hand.

Brightly colored butterflies flitted nearby, dancing from one vibrant plant to another. Birds called from high up in the trees, their squawks harsh but melodic.

I was glad they were far overhead and not inquisitive about their two-legged intruders. Their lovely markings in brilliant hues were beautiful viewed from a distance and I hoped it would stay that way. Birds are not my favorite creatures, although I try not to mention it. Something about them makes me nervous. In my heart, I know that’s silly; but it doesn’t change things.

While I searched the immediate vicinity for birds, Jen, just in front of me, paused on the path. I came close to tumbling over her when she knelt to tie a shoelace.

“How are you enjoying the journey so far, Allison?” she asked, tightening the knot on her sneaker and rising. “I think it’s gorgeous!” She gestured expansively, spreading her arms out as if to gather the whole forest up.

“Yes, it’s breathtaking,” I agreed. “In more ways than one!” Taking my fact sheet, I fanned my face. The forest was naturally quite humid and even the little bit of exertion we’d done had brought a slick of perspiration to my skin.

“Good for the complexion. Helps the pores breathe.”

The people behind us were beginning to grumble at the human roadblock we made. Jen took a few running steps to catch up on the trail, the full sleeves of her purple top floating out around her. The red sash at her waist flopped in time to her footfalls.

I trotted along in her wake, thinking she looked like some species of bird — one of those awkward but striking ones. It was difficult not to think about birds here, when the jungle echoed with their songs and the sounds of their flapping wings could be heard. But there was so much else to see, as well.

Huge, four-foot-tall cones were a frequent sight just off the path. They seemed to be made of dirt and when I wondered aloud what they were, the answer was quick to come.

“Those are termite nests,” the professor spoke up from behind me. He shifted his glasses back up his nose, which was slippery with sweat, and enlightened everyone within earshot. He had done his reading and was more than happy to share his knowledge, as he did the day we arrived. “Just one acre of the forest can have up to a thousand of these nests,” he told us. “And each one — each one — contains as many as ten million termites!”

The next time we passed by one of the cones, I thought about the swarming insects within. Back home, termites were considered a nuisance. Here in the jungle, it was obvious they were an important part of the ecosystem, the web of life.

Oh, Mart, I said to myself, see how wrong you are about bringing tour groups here? I’ve only been in the jungle half an hour and I’m already reconsidering termites!

Suddenly, there was a rustling in some trees on our left and everyone froze. From the looks on some faces, I’m sure we expected King Kong to emerge, even though this was a different continent. Instead, a marmoset monkey rocketed out, his long tail waving like a banner behind him. The contrast between what some of us had pictured — a hairy ape of some kind — and the foot-long, five-pound reality caused relieved laughter among the crowd.

This world of the jungle was totally different from my urban world. So natural, so pristine — at least in this area — it was like paradise. Except a little too warm.

I forgot all about the temperature when we broke through the forest, into the clearing.

Lying peacefully under the blazing sun, the ruins of the city spread all around us. I stopped in my tracks and hardly noticed as others pushed past me, fanning out over the area.

“Pretty spectacular, hmm?” Mart said as he came up behind me, crossing his arms over his chest. He rocked back on his heels, turning his head to look in both directions. “You know, I think I could see this sight every day and always be amazed by it.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer, struck dumb by the sheer size of the sprawling city. Towering stone structures stretched up to meet the clouds, massive monuments to the ingenuity of humankind. Steps cut into the front of these Mayan pyramids were dotted with tourists braving heat and height to climb well over one hundred feet up.

Lifting my sunglasses, I blinked into the glare, half expecting the vision to disappear when I opened my eyes.

Mart, watching me, gave a laugh. “Hard to believe it’s real. And that it’s thousands of years old.”

I found my voice. “Are you used to people just standing and staring, then?”

He nodded, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah. And who could blame them?” He looked away, squinting. Something across the smooth lawn caught his eye and I could sense him tensing. He straightened up, craning his neck and narrowing his eyes. “What the — ” he broke off.

Catching his mood, I tried to follow his gaze, but couldn’t see anything amiss. Our group had joined other tourists and scattered over the site. We’d been instructed earlier to rendezvous at a specific time, and as a result, no one seemed to be sticking together. At a distance, I couldn’t discern faces, but obviously Mart could.

“What?” I prodded. “What?”

Mart came back quickly, giving his head a brisk shake. “Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew.”

I shrugged. “Well, that could be. You said you’ve been here before.”

“Hmm? What?” He hadn’t been listening. “Look, Allison, I’ve got to go,” he said briskly, reaching out to put his hand on my arm. “Take a good look around. Use your guidebook.” He smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks. “I’ll see you later.” With a brief squeeze to my shoulder, he loped off across the grass in the direction he’d been studying.