Beautiful Blood

In late afternoon they arrived at the village of Becan, on the edge of the king’s hunting ground amidst banana trees and one towering mago tree whose ripening fruit hung from structures that looked as ornate as candelabras—it was a dismal collection of huts constructed of sapling poles and thatch, its muddy streets dappled with puddles. At the center of the village was a longhouse where travelers were permitted to sleep in hammocks for the night, and close by the longhouse was a largish hut, overhung by the leaves of a banana tree, wherein a wizened, white-haired old man, dressed in clothes made from flour sacking, with perhaps a dozen teeth left in his head, sat behind an empty crate and dispensed cups of unrefined rum. The late sun shining through the poles striped the dirt floor. Four wooden tables were arranged about the interior, but only six chairs, one toppled on its side and another occupied by a young woman who might have been pretty had she run a brush through her tangled hair and washed away the grime from her face and worn something more appealing than loose canvas trousers and a blouse that was mostly rips and stains. She affected what Rosacher judged to be a seductive pose and smiled at the two men as they entered, thus advertising her function. With a palsied hand, the old man began to pour from a bottle half-full of yellowish liquid. Rosacher laid a hand over the cup the old man had provided, but Cerruti gulped down his measure and gave a satisfied sigh.

“Another?” the old man asked.

Cerruti looked to Rosacher, who nodded, and the old man proceeded to pour.

“Do you have anything else to drink?” Rosacher asked.

“Yes, but it’s very expensive. Twelve quetzales for a small measure.”

“Let’s see it.”

Cerruti pulled up a chair next to the woman and they spoke together in muted tones.

From the rear of the packing crate, the old man withdrew a bottle wrapped in a red cloth and displayed it: Scotch whiskey, a decent brand. Rosacher signaled him to pour and leaned against the crate, gazing through the door of the cantina. A rooster hurried past, clucking, pursued in short order by a naked toddler. At the rear of one of the huts, a matronly woman in a striped dress was taking down her wash. The old man made a production out of cleaning Rosacher’s cup with a filthy rag and poured. As Rosacher drank, he asked if they had come from Teocinte.

“From Mospiel.” Rosacher pushed his cup toward the old man, asking for a refill, and handed him a fifty quetzal note.

“I have no change,” the old man said.

“I’ll drink it up,” said Rosacher, and the old man beamed.

Cerruti stood, linked arms with the woman and, with a salute to Rosacher, the two of them headed toward a hut on the far side of the longhouse.

“And what are you doing in Temalagua?” asked the old man.

“I am a trader in exotic birds. I’m going to the market in Alta Miron to buy stock.” Rosacher sipped the whiskey. “Truly, I did not think I would ever come to Alta Miron. Last night we were attacked in our camp by a beast. We were lucky to survive.”

“What manner of beast?”

“I did not get a good look at it. But it was black and very large. It trampled the jungle flat around our campsite. We eluded it by diving into the river. It killed one of our horses.”

The old man attempted a whistle in appreciation of Rosacher’s story, but due to his lack of teeth all that emerged was a breathy sound. “I have heard of this beast,” he said. “It’s said it killed a mother and her daughter in Dulce Nombre.”

“What a pity!” Rosacher said, chalking up the story to the rumors started by the riders he had sent on ahead and the typical hyperbole of Temalaguan storytellers.

“Indeed! But there is good news. It is said King Carlos will hunt the beast. Some of the men from our village have gone to the capital to volunteer their services.”

“Why would Carlos look to Becan for help? I’m certain his guards can ably assist him.”

“The men of Becan are accomplished trackers,” said the old man pridefully. “We have assisted the king on other hunts. And Carlos is a friend to the village. In fact it was he who presented me with this bottle”—he indicated the whiskey—“so he might have something suitable to drink when he stops by.”

“If that’s the case, should you be selling me whiskey?”

“Carlos is generous and kind. All I needs do is tell him I’ve run out and he sends me a new bottle.”

“Then I’ll have another.”