The Jaguar Man. Lara Naughton

       TWO

      MYTH. The angry man kicks a grave in the jaguar sanctuary floor, big enough. It’s an early hour when jaguars could be out—there’s only a one-in-seventeen thousand chance he’ll see one—but he keeps a sharp eye for Balam. The man is slow fury as he pushes his things into the handmade pit. First the red woven pouch he stole from the wrinkled Guatemalan lady whose name he can’t remember, memories like money rush out of his life, water at low tide, the pouch empty too long.

      He hears frogs from a creek in the sanctuary forest. The frogs make a tremendous noise. He brought his son once to hear these frogs. His son imitated the noise, and the angry man and his son laughed—papa’s big boy—a laugh he hasn’t heard since his boy was taken from home, the government on the angry man’s back. He adds his bandana and T-shirt, drops them in the shallow grave. He is furious with despair in the summer heat. It’s rainy season, more than 60 inches of rain from June to November, sometimes 160. It’s sure to rain today, his body can feel the steam, the rain before it falls. He lays out everything else he brought: a knife, a lighter, the joint he’s about to smoke, a six-pack of Belikin beer, and a rope.

      Balam. Jaguar. The ancient Maya worshipped the animal. Their kings were reincarnated as jaguars, and their shamans could transform into the animal, six feet tail to nose, 200 pounds, muscles that run. The angry man is part Maya, part Spanish, part animal, part man, part of his mind, part beyond reason. If he could be anything he’d be Balam—beautiful, rare, worthy of reverence and fear. Desperate, the angry man puts his foot on the rope.

      FACT. The jaguar is the third largest cat in the world. The tiger and lion are bigger, but they don’t live in this tropical forest, only the jaguar, along with puma, margay, jaguarundi, and ocelot. Jaguars sometimes use the trails to cross the sanctuary, leaving tracks and scat.

      The angry man knows how to spot their tracks, he knows the forest, he’s seen jaguars before, his eyes adjust to them, like elders who see spirits, going beyond sight to see animal mists in the dense green sea.

      Balam will appear. The angry man can sense the animal in the basin.

      I’m preparing for you, he says. He lets the wind carry the message to Balam.

      The angry man sits beneath the tree with his feet in the grave, holds the knife in his right hand, and uncoils the rope with his left. He touches the knife to the rope, like the priest blessing his shoulder when he was a boy, then slides it against the rope lengthwise, as if to sharpen the blade.

      He leans back on the thick root of the tree, sticks the tip of his knife in a crack in the root, opens a Belikin, and drinks the lager in several swallows without quenching his thirst. He knows if he harms the forest bad things will happen to him in life and after death; it’s natural law.

      Howler monkeys toss nuts from above. The frogs thunder. He finishes the second beer more slowly, tastes it in his throat. The third one is like water, easy, it goes directly to the edge of his rage and dulls it. He squints at the light trying to break through the canopy’s massive ferns and palms. There are powerful things in the forest only wise elders and gods understand. The fourth beer builds his rage back up. He lights the fat joint, inhales deeply, holds the smoke in his mouth. He smokes and drinks until his plan makes sense again.

      No more beer, the joint down to a blunt, his mind and heart in sync with disappointment and blame. His ex-wife, the government on his back. They took away his son. If there were a way to capture his boy and cross the Guatemala border he’d do it. His son is his life. They took away his life. The $10,000 fine he was slapped with for holding a joint might as well be $10 million. He won’t go to jail, can’t. He won’t live without his son. He pulls the knife out of the root then plunges the knife in and out of the curve, the foot of the tree, its hard bones.

      The canopy shines and shimmers dark to light to dark, plays with his moods. The angry man stumbles to his feet, circles the rope, kicks the empty beer bottles to the grave, and tosses in the lighter. He pulls the knife from the root and stabs the trunk of the tree once, a swift stab to the heart. He leaves the knife there, blade in the meat. He pisses on the side of the tree.

      On other visits here, the angry man watched shy heron on the bank of the creek. He drank from the creek and never got sick, his stomach like a riverbed. Snakes, birds, butterflies, and lizards are in the trees and on the ground. The tropical forest is alive, but today he only looks for Balam.

      FACT. There are hundreds of species of birds in the basin. Scarlet macaw, king vulture, bat falcon. When the sun blazes the birds rest in the canopy’s shade, tucked among thick layers of leaves.

      Carrying the rope, the angry man climbs, branch by branch, up the tree until he is high enough. He stabilizes himself and the rough bark bites his bare skin. He ties one end of the rope around a branch, and tugs at it several times to make sure it holds secure. He wants a beer or another joint or a woman to calm him down, anything to distract himself from how the vibration of the frogs’ call carries the thought, again and again, of his son.

      The angry man looks for Balam, but his perception is blurred like his thoughts, and he can’t focus past the trees. To see Balam, he has to penetrate behind and between the trees, above and below, through the past and into the future.

      The angry man loops the free end of the rope around his neck and ties a noose. He positions himself, feet on the branch, knees by his ears, crouches like a two-legged creature about to take flight, wet with sweat and fear. He looks at the green around him, so much green, rolling walls of green and a hard green ceiling and floor.

      Come out, he says to Balam, I’m ready to die.

      He isn’t a man of hope. The regret of his life is constant. His knees ache in this contorted position. He runs his hand over his long hair, wipes it out of his face, and wishes he wore his bandana. He needs to see Balam before he jumps, hangs himself on the tree. Balam will give him final courage.

      FACT. Jaguars are masters of stealth. They observe but are seldom observed.

      The angry man senses Balam is watching him and peers down at the grave. Beside it, fresh jaguar prints, the size of a man’s palm. He is locked in his five senses, can’t get past them to find Balam, but he knows once he jumps Balam will eat his meat and leave his bones for the grave.

      He spits at the belongings he left in the dirt. Spits at life. Spits at his ex-wife. At the government on his back. At his son. Spits like rain. Spits and curses Balam until he chokes and has to slide a finger between his neck and the noose.

      The angry man crouches on the branch until his legs numb. He shivers with exhaustion. He is dizzy from holding his pose, and for a moment his mind blanks. He closes his eyes and sees jaguars. He opens his eyes and sees jaguars. Jaguars and jaguar spirits, two thousand jaguars suddenly populate the forest. He sees them between the trees, past and future, six feet tail to nose, some running, some still, jaguars with cubs, females in heat, outlined in mist, killing prey, drinking at the creek. Jaguars dot the basin like the rosettes of their fur. Their power makes him powerful. Their intense animal scent becomes his own. He feels strength in his legs.