The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden. Greta Gilbert
she had to do now was listen for his movements and adjust her own location accordingly. Night would fall soon and her friend the darkness would keep her concealed as she slunk out of the field and made her way home.
The same thought must have occurred to the man’s mind, however, for in that very instant, he halted his search. She listened closely and thought she heard him march back across the same path he had forged.
Immediately she realised her error. She ran towards the edge of the field, but it was too late. She looked up, and there he was, looking down at her from the rosewood tree that towered over the field. He dropped with puma-like stealth from its high branches and was soon charging towards her.
There was nothing to do but run. His footfalls grew louder behind her and she felt tears come to her eyes as she imagined what he might do to her after he repossessed his ring. When he had grabbed her wrist, she had sensed his capacity for violence and she feared that she had now pushed him over the edge.
But, suddenly, it was she who was falling over the edge. It was as if the very earth had opened up to consume her and her heart leapt into her throat as she accelerated towards a certain, crushing death. Down, down she fell, kicking the air in terror as she careened into a dark chasm.
Then—splash. Not rock, but water broke her fall. Sweet, cool water—a pool without bottom. She held her breath as she plunged through the inky depths, letting her momentum slow. Instinctively, she began kicking.
She kicked and kicked, propelling herself upwards towards the murky light until she burst to the surface. She was exhausted, confused, terrified and never happier to be alive.
She had fallen into a cenote. The sunken, freshwater ponds were rare in Totonac territory and the Totonac priests kept their locations secret. Still, Tula had come across several on her journeys to the ocean and had always stopped to give thanks to the old gods that lurked in their mysterious depths.
‘I am humble,’ she sputtered now, to any god who would listen. It was her third encounter with death in only a few hours and she could not believe her good fortune. She looked inside her fist. She had even retained her golden prize.
But not for long.
Suddenly, the bearded man surged to the surface next to her, sending a wave of water splashing against the high walls. He had fallen into the cenote beside her and, when he saw her treading the water near him, he swam towards her with cold, terrifying purpose.
She glanced up at the high walls that surrounded them. They were made of smooth rock and were uniformly bare, save for a small cluster of roots that dangled over the edge, totally out of reach.
There was no escape.
He made no loud demands, no violent movements. He simply opened her fist and pulled the ring gently off her thumb. He slipped the golden prize on to his little finger, then narrowed his eyes at her.
She trod water to a dry, rocky area at the edge of the pool, trying not to reveal her fear. Then she lifted herself on to a boulder and pulled her legs up against her chest.
He was like a crocodile in the black water, his large muscular limbs making slow, menacing strokes towards where she sat. He hoisted himself up on to the rock beside her and she readied herself to make another deep dive.
He made no movements towards her, however. Instead, he placed his feet in the water and looked out over the pool. She saw him steal a glance at her legs, aware that the yellow fabric of her skirt clung to them.
She felt a strange thrill travel through her, followed by a withering dread. The light of day was fading fast. In a short time, they would not be able to see anything at all. The distance between the pool and the jungle floor was greater than the height of a house. No man—or woman—could bridge it alone.
But Tula had to try. She could not remain here alone with him. Even if she shouted loudly for help, nobody would be travelling in this part of the jungle at this time of day. If she did not escape now, she would have to pass the night with him.
She stood upon one of the rocks and jumped, uselessly attempting to grasp the cluster of zapote roots hanging down from above. She scraped the walls, struggling to find a toehold to sustain her weight. She collapsed back on to the rock in frustration.
They sat together in silence for what seemed an eternity. She knew that at any moment he could simply hold her under the water, or smash her head in anger upon the rocks.
Or worse. Much, much worse.
Surely he considered it. She had humiliated him, after all. She had used her womanliness to distract him so that she could once again steal his ring. It was a shameful thing, what she had done. A dishonourable thing. A Totonac man would be justified in seeking punishment for such an act. Any man would be within his rights to pierce her with cactus spines, or force her to breathe in the smoke of burning chilli, or worse.
Still, something inside her—something she did not understand—went to him.
He was so unusual for a man—so large and pale compared to the men of her tribe and so gracelessly unadorned. His body was vigorous and immensely strong, yet his eyes were an ethereal, otherworldly blue. It did not seem as though his spirit had deserted him, however. Instead it seemed as if a kind of sky spirit dwelt within him. She wondered if he was some kind of a shaman, though she hoped he could not hear her thoughts. She did not want him to know that despite his uncivilised appearance, she had enjoyed kissing him.
Had enjoyed it very much.
If only she could speak his tongue, she would explain to him about her family and her circumstances and how very sorry she was for stealing his golden prize—twice. Treasure was treasure and surely he could understand that she’d done what she’d had to do to help her family survive?
She stared at the zapote roots once again. He was so very tall. If she could just stand upon his shoulders, she might be able to reach them.
He looked into her eyes, as if he was having the same thought. His face was chiselled and balanced, with prominent cheekbones and a heavy brow that he lifted slightly to an unnerving effect. And his nose was...broken.
‘Your nose,’ she said, pointing at the bent bone.
He lifted his hand and gently traced the length of it, cringing as he travelled past the abrupt bend.
‘If you do not bend it back, it will heal that way,’ she said in her language, hoping he might glean her meaning.
He shook his head, but she could not tell if it was because he did not understand her, or if he simply did not wish to listen. He stared at the quiet pool.
‘Taak’in,’ he said finally.
She could not believe her ears. ‘You speak the Maya tongue?’ she asked in that language.
‘Taak’in,’ he repeated, clearly not understanding her question.
‘Taak’in,’ she said and pointed to his little finger. Surely he knew the word he spoke was the Maya name for gold?
‘Taak’in?’ he asked, holding up his finger.
She nodded, studying the enormous diamond-framed jadestone that could have been hers. Upon it was a gilded etching of the Feathered Serpent God, Quetzalcoatl. It was the finest such etching that she had ever seen.
Benicio pointed to the jadestone. ‘Taak’in?’ he asked.
She shook her head. No, no, no. He turned the ring upside down and pointed to its golden base. ‘Taak’in?’ he asked again.
She nodded. Yes, yes, that is gold.
He appeared to strike upon an idea. He pulled a cloth out from between his boots and stretched it on the boulder between them. The cloth appeared to be a kind of canvas for a drawing of a large tilted square. Around each of the square’s four points was a small circle. A single, finger-sized dot decorated its centre. The man pointed to the dot.
‘Taak’in?’ he asked.