Eye of the Serpent

By Ross Tarry

Sometimes love can be so great, so powerful, as to over shadow all other realities. Dominic Garcia, a young American archeologist, finds himself drawn to the accent Mayan site of Ojos de Agua in southern Mexico by an energy much older than himself. There is also another draw. A woman who's passion is justice. A strong, single minded woman who leads him into a world of deceit, deception, and the violence of a blossoming revolution. And along the way he learns that having something to live for means having something to die for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ross Tarry
• Release date: Nov 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465947789

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Eye of the Serpent

Copyright © 2011 by

Ross Tarry

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be

reproduced without

the written permission of the Publisher.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance

to actual persons, events

or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copy editing by Angela Tarantino Brekenritch

Cover design by Genny Kieley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Chapter One

April 18th

Chiapas, Mexico

Dominic Garcia opened one eye when the dogs started, the other when the howler monkey, Ruth had named Chauncy, broke into his thumping bawl in the nearby jungle. The grumble of a motor starting and the clunk of a door closing added the shrill cry of the spider monkeys to the clamor. Through the din, He recognized the sound of the Henson's RV as it crossed the compound and faded down the road. Last evening he had helped Robert and his wife Sparky tie the blue plastic canvas to the rails around the top, covering two large trunks, several pieces of luggage, a table, chairs, and a huge red and white umbrella. He recalled Sparky saying how anxious she was to get home.

In pre-dawn light that filled the room he picked out a thin, black, long-legged spider making its way up the dingy, chalk-white wall. His gaze shifted to the letter from his mother propped against the kerosene lamp. He moved, brushing his leg against Ruth's foot. She pulled away. He turned toward her. Last night she had accused him of, among other things, being sullen and contentious. She was right, he admitted. As their last few days here approached, the building frenzy that had infected her and the others had only depressed him. A beam of sunlight broke over the tree-covered mountain tops and filtered through the screened window in a dusty yellow column. He wished this Mayan expedition would last longer, and had told her so.

A screaming whine cracked the climbing morning heat and shattered his reverie. Bolting from bed, he pushed through the curtain dividing the room to the single front window and watched a green helicopter settle to the parched earth in the center of the compound in a cloud of dirt and debris. He sagged against the adobe wall of the cabana, letting the pounding in his chest slow. Jesus! he said through his teeth.

From behind the curtain he heard Ruth's panicked shout. Dominic! Dominic! What is it?!

The thudding in his chest slowed enough to speak. "The one and only Capitan Morron," he answered, in disgust.

He pushed through the curtain. Ruth, her hair tangled from sleep was sitting up in bed, her hand to her mouth, the distress on her face waning slowly.

Can you believe it? He said. "Capitan Aurelio Manuel Morron. Come to harass us for the last time."

The sun that flowed through the window like golden syrup, highlighted the splotch of freckles saddled across her face. I suppose he figures we may have gotten used to his more routine arrivals. He wanted to make his last one memorable.

The arrival of Army Captain Morron had, again, set off the noisy racket from the forest. The din gradually settled as Dominic sat on the edge of the bed, palms pressed to his face.

It had been a long night in the cantina. While the others had talked excitedly of going home, he had spent most of the evening at the corner table sipping the local drink and classifying photos of stela. Back in the states, scholars would read the hieroglyphic text inscribed on those stone monuments, adding to the store of knowledge on Mayan society. Afterwards, he and Ruth had walked the outer ring of the compound under a sky filled with stars. The moon, cold and white, bathed the not-too-distant tree tops in an incandescent light, turning the high green canopy almost black. They had stopped under the lone amopola tree, one of the few trees left to stand in the cleared safety area between the jungle and the buildings, and listened to the night sounds; the constant screech of nocturnal birds searching out mates or meals, the agonizing cries of a small animal caught in unyielding predator jaws, the occasional shrill scream of a jaguar. The sounds that had frightened them all in the beginning, had become a comforting nightly sedative for him.

Watching wisps of vapor rise from the warm forest floor to lie in faint layers just above the trees, he had tried to explain why he wanted to stay. There was something significant here. Something he must discover himself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his face buried in his hands he recalled every word of Ruth's short, vindictive response. Living out here in the jungle with nothing to do but dig in the earth and nothing to eat but rice and beans.

Her words had resounded through him, striking chords that were still ringing. Are you searching for an ancient world, Dom, or burying your own?

Last August nine months had seemed a long time, but it had gone by too quickly. Now, after today, this small community of a dozen people deep in the mountains of southern Mexico would cease to exist. And who knew when another group would arrive. Better not be too long. Nature buries civilizations very quickly in the jungle, just as it did the one down in the valley.

Dominic pulled his hands from his face and reached for his jeans.

Do you remember, before we came here, how we used to talk at night? Her words were soft and spoken with a sad sincerity.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed and tugged on his boots. Yes, he replied, softly. I remember.

And he did. He remembered how excited she had been to leave the classes and the labs behind, and begin the field work.

Ruth folded her arms and rocked gently. Sometimes, we talked 'til we had to get up for class.

Talking isn't all we did those nights. He remembered last night. For the first time in weeks they had made love. She had been reluctant to give in to abandon at first, but in time, with knowing effort, he had her whimpering and sighing deep and long.

A smile tugged at her lips as she folded her legs in, pulling the large, worn t-shirt over her bare knees. We planned our future. Coming here was a part of it, but--- Her words trailed off.

He looked at Ruth, bathed in the morning sun streaming through the screened window. After nine months of the sun, dirt and mud of the rain forest, her chestnut hair had streaked and her skin had darkened to the tint of the Lacandon; the Indians who showed up every few days selling squash and corn.

She brushed a wisp of hair from her face with her fingers and looked away. This place has changed you, Dom. You're not the same person I knew before, and I'm not sure I can deal with that.

In her face, he saw a weariness he hadn't seen before. Her cheeks were drawn, her eyes looked tired. He felt a sharp pang of guilt at not seeing this before. Things change, Ruth. People change.

She sighed heavily. Yes, I know people change. We've both changed. The problem is--- She stopped short, stared down at her fingers for a moment, then looked up. The problem is you don't want or care about anything really. Except yourself, and this damn ghost thing you're chasing.

He felt his neck muscles tighten and he started to speak.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way, she interrupted. You're not selfish, just unaware.

He picked the rumpled shirt from the chair and grabbed his tan sombrero and the letter from the table. You're wrong, Ruth. I do care for you.

Her lips drew to a tight thin line. See what I mean? You can't even say love anymore.

* * *

Dominic latched the screen door and leaned against the adobe wall of the cabana. Dead center in the compound sat the big green helicopter surrounded by six heavily armed soldiers. Pretty impressive, he thought. More than enough fire power to fend off an assault by eight hardened archaeologists from the states.

Across the compound, an old multi-colored coach sat near the cantina; that's where Captain Morron and David would be. "The Capitan," a tall chiseled-faced man with bushy eye-brows would seat himself at a table. Two of his men, armed with automatic weapons, would stand behind him. He would inspect all the permits and the lists of recovered artifacts just as he'd done the last time, and the time before. Then, accompanied by Dr. David Pearson, he would strut around the compound making comments that held the hint of a threat. Poking through the living quarters and grunting sounds of contempt, he'd make it plain he didn't like gringos, especially gringos with Indian features.

The base camp was located deep in the interior of the rain forest, along the upper reaches of the Lacandon River, in the state of Chiapas, at the end of a seldom-traveled dirt trail that began at the pueblo of Teopisca, twisted across narrow ravines and sharp ridges, and ended in a clearing above the horseshoe-shaped valley of Ojos de Agua, named centuries ago by the Maya.

As he stood watching, he wondered how long before this ring of ramshackle buildings would begin to fade from his memory. The wide veranda on the front of the cantina where he and Ruth had sat and watched sunsets. The longhouse. Its coat of thick gray paint bubbling and peeling in fist-size blotches, revealing a darker underside. The tool shed. The cook house. The three adobe bungalows. On his left, the sun sat poised on the top of the trees, in a nest of fiery clouds, as its stinging rays beat back the shadows.

Finally he pulled the faded blue cotton shirt over his shoulders, not bothering to button the front and started for the cook house, his boots lifting miniature clouds of flour-like dust that settled lazily back to earth. The blue and white bandana tied around his neck caught the rivulets of sweat tickling their way through his thick black hair. The soft purr of the generator hummed off to his right.

"Buenas dias, Señor Dominic," hailed Miguel Lara, stepping from the coach with a paperboard box. The driver of the coach, his face buried in half of a melon, stood alongside.

Dominic nodded toward the cantina. Making sure everything is accounted for, I would guess.

"Si. Miguel removed his frayed sombrero and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. They will make me unload everything. Check everything against the list. Go through all the boxes."

Dominic looked to the coach. He could see cardboard boxes stacked against the back window. David suspected they would come. He should have had you wait to load the coach.

Miguel threw up his hands. "Si. Dr. David warned me. I wanted to be done before it was too hot. Now I will have to do it all over again."

He lifted his hand in a hurried wave. "I'll be at the temple. I don't need Capitan Morron spoiling my last day."

He felt Miguel's stare sink into him. "You will be back, señor." It was as if Miguel had said, the sun will rise tomorrow, with the intonation of a poet.

From the corner of his eye, He caught the driver watching him, a melon seed clung to the side of the man's face.

He looked back at Miguel. Why do you say that?

"Because I can see it in your eyes, señor. You look at the mountains, the river, the temple, differently than the others. He thumped his closed hand to his chest. It is in here, Señor Dominic. You will be back."

Dominic felt a lifting of his heart. Sometimes when another can sense and understand something unspoken of a person, it lends acceptance to the knowledge that is already there. You may be right, amigo. One never knows.

But for now, he glanced around at the armed troops, if they want me, they'll have to come find me.

He hurried past the cook shack. Capitan Morron would not bother to count heads today. He would be too busy with opening each of Miguel's carefully packed shipping cartons, examining each artifact, and slipping what he could into his pockets. David had confided to him that items had always disappeared after each of the 'Capitan's' visits.

He waved to Carlota, the huge-bosomed woman who seemed to be reaching around her chest as she slapped balls of coarse yellow corn flour into perfect disks and flopped them onto the hot griddle.

Her copper face opened in a warm smile. "Buenos dias, Dominic." The sagging skin of her upper arms shook gently as she formed another tortilla.

"Buenos dias, Señora Avila." He grabbed a handful of cocoa leaves from a basket on the table, stuffed his mouth full and bolted down the wide, worn path that led into the forest and to the excavation site in the valley.

At the small spring near the bottom, he stopped to listen to the familiar sounds. At mid-morning, the air was clear and the trails shrouded in shadows as toucans and parrots competed for air time with the monkeys in the drying but still green forest. Here, near the river, the jungle lie covered by a canopy of branches of chicle, mahogany, and cedar trees, some eighty feet tall. These in turn were draped in tropical vines and strangling figs. In the spring, the palo blanco trees shower the fern and fauna of the jungle floor with brilliant yellow flowers.

Iguanas rustle in the litter or cling to low branches munching on tender leaves and though they are seldom seen, jaguars still prowl the forest. In May, when the rains come, the trails turn to mud, the small creeks explode into torrents, and the jungle transforms into a rain forest veiled in a gray wet haze, with water dripping off of the leaves for weeks on end.

He removed his sombrero, cautiously inspected the area for snakes then dropped to his knees. Using a stick, he brushed away the floating debris and tucked the cocoa leaves high in his cheek with his tongue. With his hand, he scooped the bugs off the surface and touched his lips to the cold, refreshing water.

He straightened, wiping his thin, dark mustache with the back of his hand. A glint near the edge of the pool caught his eye. He picked the object from the water, and stood examining it; a jade-colored disc, the size of a button that at times looked black. He turned the stone in his fingers. It had been polished to a deep gloss by the sand and water. One side was flawless; the other held a tiny dimple in the center. ‘Strange’, he thought. ‘I've drunk from this pool a hundred times and never seen it before.’

He rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface, slipped the stone into his pocket and turned down the trail.

The path ended at the base of the narrow U-shaped valley where an ancient city had once flourished. A small temple rose on the right atop a grassy mound, dry and browning in the heat. Down the middle of the valley, mounds of earth of varying diameters rose in grid two feet high off the valley floor. To his left, a dirt track twisted down through the trees from the main road above. Further down, at the base of the hillside, was the ball court where the exotic game of the Maya had been played. Two partially exposed limestone platforms tapering toward each other on either side of the playing field had served as the grandstand where the populace cheered the winner, and the loser often forfeited his life.

Dominic walked through the fen grass and climbed the grand staircase to the temple. At the top, he slid to the ground and sat with his back against the hard limestone of the temple wall. A spider monkey's scream echoed down the valley. Nearby, antbirds whistled unafraid as they dug for ants among the mat of dead leaves around the juniper and fern.

Digging his boot-heels into the dry earth, he looked out over the valley floor at what had once been a thriving community of merchants and craftsmen.

He could almost picture this thing that held him to this spot in the jungle. It had no distinct form, like a forgotten face from the past. Wisps of an image free floated in his brain with no substance and no name. And try as he might, he couldn't make the image come into focus, couldn't put a name on it. He pulled the letter from his pocket. Addressed in his mother's neat hand it read:

Dominique Avila Garcia

Ojos de Agua,

Postal Box 271994

Villahermosa, Chiapas, Mexico.

His mother had written Emanuel and Rosalina Garcia's address at the bottom. He recalled listening to his father talk of his older brother, Andres. And the way tears ran down his father’s face as he read that letter from Andres' son, Emanuel, telling of their father's death. A picture of his father settled in his thoughts, then an image of an older man with the same eyes, the same long sweeping nose. Did Andres Garcia have more sons? Daughters? This was not the first time faces of people he had never met had come to him, here at the temple.

He reflected on Ruth's refusal to go to Cordoba. If it's so important to find these people, you will have to do it by yourself. I want to go home.

His eyes followed the staircase down to the low mound at its base. I know this place has changed me, but why does she think that's so bad?

He finished reading, folded the letter carefully and stuck it into his shirt pocket, then dug out the jade disc he had found. He held it in his fingers and rubbed his thumb over it. Could it have been an adornment of some kind? He folded the stone in his hand and packed an extra wad of the cocoa leaves into his mouth then pulled his sombrero down to shade his eyes. He savored the sweetness of the leaves and liked the effect, the gentle rush that crept from his breast to his brain and slowed his thoughts, like a single glass of red wine.

He breathed deeply and buried his chin tighter into his neck. The chattering in the trees faded. The air became still. Below, beyond the grand staircase, whitewashed adobe huts appeared in close neat rows, raised off the valley floor on mounds of earth. In the doorway of an adobe at the foot of the staircase, a black-braided woman in white cloth and wooden sandals bent diligently. Silently, over a stone slab between her out-stretched legs she worked small nuggets of gold from the woven baskets at her side, into fine yellow powder. A large black bird settled in the top of a distant tree. A dog ran quietly through the hamlet to the ball court beyond. A young man in a loin cloth stood at one end of the court looking back at the woman. He turned and tossed a sphere neatly onto a reed basket placed at the other end. The woman in white arose with her basket, her bronze face turned up toward the temple. Her eyes, clear white orbs reflecting the light of the sun, settled fleetingly on Dominic before she turned and disappeared inside. At the ball court, the boy and the dog ran to the opposite end. He picked the ball from the basket, straightened and faced the temple, while odorless smoke from unseen cooking fires wafted overhead and vanished in the shimmering blue sky.

Chapter Two

Close to noon now, the dirty, blue-and-white coach stood in the center of the dusty yard. Black exhaust puffed up around the rear wheel and flowed up the side, leaving behind the unpleasant smell of carbon.

David Pearson stood in the doorway, reluctance to leave plain on his face. There is so much more to recover here, Dom.

Miguel said many of the local workers will continue with the work.

The sigh that escaped from David was one of resignation. No. The few who have accepted us being here, will come occasionally. They will keep the temple clear because it's sacred to them. The others were here only for the pesos.

Dominic slid his duffel and Ruth's suitcase into the belly of the coach and gazed around. He wasn't so sure. Miguel and Carlota had been here from the beginning, and while most of the locals only stayed for a week at a time, he had observed the respect they had shown for the ruins of Ojos de Agua.

He stepped into the coach, turned and looked back. Heat waves shimmered over the top of the forest canopy like the wandering spirits of the ancient civilization they had intruded upon. He wished he could understand this sadness he felt; the strange pull that kept drawing his eyes toward the valley that lay beyond the trees. Do any of the others feel it, he wondered. Then decided it was only for him.

A blast of tepid air puffed out of the vent above the driver. He stopped and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The seat beside David was filled with boxes of photographs. Larry Moore sat near the back where boxes, packs and equipment were piled in the seats and stacked in the aisle up to the roof. He spotted Ruth part way back, across from Charlene and Charley Cummings.

Wouldn't you be in a fix if we left without you, Charlene snorted as he picked his way down the cluttered aisle.

He gave her a fuck-off look and slipped his sombrero into the wire rack above the seats. Maybe it'll cool off after we get moving, he said to Ruth as he slid past her legs into the window seat.

Ruth sat quietly, her face blank. He settled in and stared through the dirty window as the engine coughed, then roared to life. The coach started with a jerk then moved slowly across the compound. Ruth strained forward to see through the darkened glass beside him, then sat back without comment. He wondered what she had seen that caught her attention then decided it was her brief good-bye to a place she was glad to leave.

A rhythmic scraping noise came from somewhere below. By sheer will and clenched jaw the driver, it seemed, forced the old coach up the road leaving the Ojos de Agua compound behind. The erratic, fitful roar coming from the back finally gave way to a low, even rumble, while the heavy blue smoke blended with billows of rolling dust to create a huge tail.

Dominic turned away from the window. There is something about this place that makes it hard to leave, he said, watching her face, hoping for a spark of agreement he knew wasn't there.

Their eyes locked for an instant, then she sat back. No. But I won't forget it.

In a few years, he said. We will both look back on this place differently. Good and bad, it's part of us, now.

She fingered the hem of her shorts. You promised you would stay in Cordoba no more than three weeks.

He laid his hand over her wrist as she worked the material in her fingers. I have to try and find Emanuel and Rosalina, Ruth. I may never have the opportunity again.

Her mouth scrunched up, she nodded, but her eyes held a deep sadness. Two days, he said. If I can't find them by then by then I'll come home. Promise.

Her fingers stilled. She had turned to face the front of the coach. He watched the twitch in her cheek for a moment then released her hand and turned back to the window, the heaviness in his throat sinking lower.

He wanted to tell her of his dream at the temple. Of the young man and the strange woman and the promise he'd made to himself that he would return someday, then thought better. She would only give him her you're crazy look. The look he'd seen every time he'd spoken of his feelings for the area. He no longer expected her to understand. A word crossed his mind that he regretted instantly. How could he even think the word gringo, referring to Ruth. He, himself was a gringo, a foreigner. Yet she was more a foreigner than he. She was fair-skinned. Her hair was light, while his was black. His complexion darkened to copper by the sun, belonging to these environs. His roots were here, somewhere.

As vulgar as the word foreigner sounded, it fit her, in a way. In the life of the earth, humans are but an instant. Any archeologist understands this truth; that man is not far from his beginning. ‘If we were traveling in England, she would feel a comfort of place that I wouldn't. Wouldn't she?’

He turned his head enough to watch her from the corner of his eye. He wanted to apologize for his thoughts. To say he loved her. But the words wouldn't come.

The coach lurched through a dip in the dirt road. The turnoff that led down along the valley rim to the excavation site was just ahead.

"We'll get our last