Temple of the Jaguar God

By Zach Neal

Jeremy Crowe is in the Sixth Form at Rugby. The term is coming to an end when his weird Uncle Harry, a Fellow of the Royal Society and member of the Explorer’s Club, invites him to Venezuela to join in the search for the Temple of the Jaguar God. Venezuela is a different world, full of threats, and nothing is as it seems. A short and unforgettable story of adventure with just a hint of horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zach Neal
• Release date: Jun 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781927957998

Zach Neal

Zach Neal has been writing ever since he can remember. A forestry management professional, he prefers the outdoors to the office. He lives in the Halton Hills overlooking the Greater Toronto Area. He studied at the University of Toronto. Zach’s a single father of two healthy and energetic children. Zach’s boys, Aaron and Jason, mean everything to him.

Book preview

Temple of the Jaguar God

Zach Neal

Copyright 2016 Zach Neal and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

Original cover image by z-m-k, Wiki Commons.

ISBN 978-1-927957-99-8

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Act One

Act Two

Act Three

About Zach Neal

Temple of the Jaguar God

Zach Neal

Act One

They were in the sixth form at Rugby. The end of term was coming up fast.

Richard Hamble, a year older, threw the letter down. He stared off into space.

What an extraordinary fellow.

They’d been having a bit of a nosh-up in the privacy of Jeremy’s room. The two of them had pooled all kinds of hoarded private tucker when Hamble, always with his nose into everything, scooped up what was another fellow’s private and personal mail. He was a big, hulking fellow with a heart of gold. Jeremy was grateful for his odd friendship—and a bit of protection.

"Floreat Rugbeia. Yes, he really did say that. Hamble shook his head in disgust at the fancy, monogrammed letterhead. Fellow of the Royal Society, member of the Explorer’s Club."

Throwing his feet up on the coffee table, he stuck his hands into his waistcoat pockets in a characteristic pose.

Hah.

Hamble was from a family of genteel county aristocracy, at least to hear him tell it, up Shropshire way. He could be, or beat on a ruffian whenever he wanted to, which was as often as he thought no one was looking and he could get away with it. Not so much evil, as amusing, thought Jeremy. And why not. Other than school, this part of the world—Rugby School in Warwickshire, was as boring as any other place he’d ever been.

Uncle Harry, Doctor Harold C. Fawcett, Ph.D., was an alumni of their good old alma mater. Not that Jeremy Crowe was so fond of it. Not hardly, always with the low grades, and not a snow-ball’s chance of shining at either the letters or the games. If it wasn’t for Uncle Harry, Jeremy wouldn’t even be there. The financial support was more than welcome. Otherwise he would have had to go out and muck and toil for his livelihood, something Jeremey wasn’t all that enthused about. He was still young enough to dream of better things.

Harry was his mother’s younger brother and had made his name quite young, with a fortunate dig in Mesopotamia.

To be good at games was everything, but sweat and strain as he might, run like hell after the ball, bigger fellows, not all of them older men, made him look decidedly sick.

And he’s a doctor?

Yes. Of a sort.

Are you going?

Jeremy raised his eyebrows.

Egads. I hadn’t really thought all that much about it— There was that family connection, and some sense of obligation.

Which was something he’d always hated.

Well, you’d better make up your mind. Pretty damned quick, old cock.

Yes! I suppose I should. Jeremy raised the tea cup and drained it.

Hungry as always, no matter how much he ate, it never seemed to translate onto his lanky five-foot, eight-inch frame.

Flipping longish blond hair out of his right eye, Jeremy picked up the letter and read that last part again.

"Wire me soonest. Will provide money and tickets. We leave from Southampton on the ninth. You have to do something for the summer holidays and this is the opportunity for a little adventure. Yours, your Weird Uncle Harry."

He sighed, deeply. The thoughts of another long and lonely summer at home in Norfolk drained all resistance. Stuffy country society versus the Spanish Main—or so it seemed. Yet at one time he might have looked forward to it, but most of his friends had moved on as well. That was one side of the coin.

There was another—

His mother fussing around, all things great and small, and his father’s evil eye upon him.

Disapproval, questions, what is your big plan in life young man—

Hmn.

Perhaps not—

Harry was at least fun.

The bugger always had been.

Huh. I suppose there’s nothing else for it.

Venezuela—some sort of mad archaeological expedition.

The Temple of the Jaguar God.

And why not?

Why not indeed.

Harry always had been his favourite uncle.

Last Christmas, the last time he’d been around the manor, Jeremy’s facetious name for his father’s rectory, he’d been spouting Lewis Carroll.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back."

One thing he knew for sure—his father would always be poor.

If he wasn’t careful, so would Jeremy.

Whereas Uncle Harry seemed to have the knack of doing whatever he wanted.

Venezuela, you say. Hmn.

***

After the cooling breezes and azure seas of the crossing, and they had been lucky to have good weather for that, the jungle clad hills and olive waters of the Orinoco were a stark contrast. So was the heat. As the old steamer chugged along, painfully wheezing its way upstream, there was little to do but to try and stay cool