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  Her right arm was pulled violently to one side. She screamed and she heard her scream. The pain had become so intense that she wavered at unconsciousness. She knew that something had happened to her right thumb. Agony remained, but the thumb was not there anymore. It had been taken away, forcibly gotten rid of, bitten or brutally ripped off. She felt very cold. In and out of consciousness, she prayed, “Blessed Virgin Mary! Please help me.” She reached with her left hand and found her Green Scapular. She clutched it tightly. Then Molly screamed again as her left arm was wrenched away from her. She anticipated the same suffering and it came to her, surging in intensity as her left thumb was torn off. Molly was no longer lucid. She shifted between torment and a strange unnatural ecstasy as evil loomed about her. She did not know if she existed within her body or outside of it. She tried to see who this man was, this thing about her, but she could not open her eyes. She rapidly receded from reality as she entered an otherworldly nature hurtling between rapture at one moment and untold horrors the next. The jungle, her only witness, had remained completely and strangely silent, and her screams were soon lost as she passed into unconsciousness. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the cold dampness moved slowly away from the bower and a cool mild breeze passed under the tree scattering a few dead leaves and a Green Scapular among the litter.18 The storm moved away.

  A few minutes later, Gus was speeding back towards the cedar tree, singing as he biked along, trying to avoid the sharper stones that could puncture the rubber tires. Molly’s bike lay on the ground beside the tree. The dray of squirrels was again eating fruits or nuts, but they were strangely quiet. The piam-piam looked directly at Gus. It moved its head and body up and down and sideways, but there was no atrocious noise. Flitting butterflies and crickets remained almost hidden and the crickets did not chirp. There was no owl. There was no mountain-lion. And Molly? There was no Molly. Molly was not there. But there was a trace of Molly left. At the base of the tree was a bloody Green Scapular held by two bleeding torn thumbs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CELTIC CROSS

  Holy Week - Awas Q’ij

  Wednesday, March 29, 1972

  It was just after midday in the village of Santa Cruz. The smell of kuas19 still hung heavily in the air after the midday meal had been served and eaten, or as in the case of one house, half-eaten or uneaten. Rosalia Cucul, Gus’ sister, sat at a small wooden table in the thatched kitchen that stood behind their house. She had cooked red beans, stewed givnat,20 and baked kuas. She had served herself, but her plate of food remained untouched. Three other plates had been set, one for Gus, one for her mother, and one for her father. Occasionally, she had taken a cloth and brushed away a housefly that had settled on one of the plates, but, after a while, she had stopped doing it. Many of the villagers, those who had not gone to the kools, the milpas,21 or had returned to the village to escape the hot sun, were stretched out in their hammocks or on a bed, whatever their preference dictated. They would be asleep, taking the afternoon siesta.

  The village of Santa Cruz, nested in a small valley surrounded by rolling and heavily jungled hills, housed only a few hundred people. Because of its size, its traditions, and its remoteness, the tragedy that had befallen Gus Cucul and his family had befallen the entire village. There had never been a murder in the village of Santa Cruz. There had never been a murderer from the village of Santa Cruz. The villagers responded with anger and disbelief at the news that Gus Cucul, the son of their own Alcalde22, was being questioned for the murder of Molly Cervantez, the girl who was coming to spend Easter with the Cucul family and, therefore, with the entire village.

  It was not often that the village of Santa Cruz had visitors for Awas Q’ij,23 that is, Holy Week. Generally, visitors were uncommon except for political parties’ officials, at the time of elections, and those curious people who wanted to see how the villagers lived. There was also the Public Health Nurse and sometimes a doctor, who visited once or twice a month, weather permitting. The fact that Molly Cervantez was coming to spend a whole week was a social event and everyone in the village had in some way prepared for her visit. Gus’ father, as Alcalde, had ensured that the village was even cleaner than it usually was. Bushy areas had been chopped, some houses white washed, and thatched roofs repaired. Everyone said their preparations were for the Easter festivities that would follow Holy Week and Good Friday, but everyone knew that the special preparations were really being made for the visit of Molly Cervantez. So, as the village prepared for the sadness associated with the religious procession of Good Friday marking the death of Jesus Christ, their sadness was further increased by the disappearance and presumed death of Molly Cervantez. The fact that one of their own was being questioned about the happenings surrounding the incident compelled many of the villagers to remain in their homes with their doors closed, for murder was an oppressive mist that never visited the remote village, and there was the diabolic mystery of the bleeding thumbs.

  Since Gus returned to the village the day before, late in the evening without Molly, sweating and out-of-breath, screaming and shouting almost incoherently, nothing had been the same. Gus’ mother and father and men from the village had immediately set out with Gus to the place where he told them Molly had waited for him. The villagers searched the surrounding jungle with the expertise of jungle trackers but found very little to indicate that anyone other than Gus and Molly had been there. The trees, the brush and its branches, the fallen leaves, the jungle litter, the jungle floor, all were examined by their experienced eyes. They touched. They smelled. All that remained of Molly Cervantez was her backpack, handbag, and the bloody Green Scapular with her two bleeding thumbs beside it. The bicycle lay to one side.

  The continued bleeding of the severed thumbs provoked deep fear among the searchers. Even though they were Christians, the fact that they were brought face to face with two severed thumbs revitalized the legends of the jungle they grew up with, the legends that still influenced their everyday lives, thoughts, and stories. They all returned to the village before nightfall and carefully locked themselves in their homes. Gus, his mother and his father had continued on to San Antonio where they reported the matter to the sole police officer there. Immediately, the constable called the only taxi in the village and they proceeded to Punta Gorda Town, fifteen miles away.

  The questioning was relentless and continued late into the night. Murder was very rare in Punta Gorda and the country as a whole. The Superintendent of Police, Richard Robertson, a middle aged colonial career policeman, was slow and methodical. He knew that would probably be his last case, a most important case, before he and his family returned to England, his tour of duty in the colony coming to an end in another year. He would get everything right. The case was not the result of some land boundary dispute, inducing a fight resulting in death. It was most likely murder, premeditated or not he could not say, and the case had an element of mystery enshrouding it. It was a case deeply embedded in village folklore, but not just any exotic case; there was the possibility of murder and the victim was not an unknown. Molly Cervantez was from one of the most prominent families in the colony. She was also well known by her own right, a recognized teacher at the most prestigious Sixth Form in Belize City. Robertson had immediately informed his superiors in Belize City, by telephone, and they had informed the Governor and the girl’s parents. Her parents were flying down, early in the morning, in one of the small fleet of one engine Cessnas that flew daily over certain parts of the colony. Punta Gorda would, for once, be in the spotlight; but what an unholy spotlight … and during Holy Week. He reflected further and shook his head. It was good to get some publicity for the deprived and so called ‘forgotten district’, but what a horrible way to get it.

  After the statements were taken, Superintendent Robertson placed Gus in a small jail at the back of the Police Station. Because Gus’ father was the Alcalde of his village, Robertson put the family up for the remainder of the night at the Government’s Rest House. It was af
ter midnight when he sat alone behind his desk and looked through the torn mosquito screen towards the Caribbean Sea. He was rocking back on his chair, his feet on the desk, the old plantation fan turning and creaking above him. The moon had already set in the west and the stars were so brilliant that the brighter ones were reflected on the surface of the sea. There was little wind, but he could hear small waves lapping the shore not far away. He thought about the case. Poor Molly Cervantez was probably dead and it was most probably the son of the Alcalde who did it. Wretched man … boy!

  Having spoken to Gus, Robertson surmised that Gus was probably in love with Molly. It wasn’t unusual for a student to develop a crush on a teacher. Gus was surely stepping out of his league, however, the girl being from an elite family in Belize City and he being an Indian from down South in Punta Gorda. If the boy did have a crush, was the girl aware? Was she a willing participant? Robertson doubted it. The boy probably mistook kindness for something else. Robertson had long ago concluded that love affairs that crossed social boundaries almost always brought trouble. Yet, he had seen it happening more and more. Also, the powers of Her Majesty’s Government were slowly being eroded by local political upstarts. It was, indeed, time for him to go back home as he believed that only disintegration of the current social structure would occur in the colony. It was not that he didn’t do all he could for the local residents. As a matter of fact, he was regarded by his colleagues as somewhat less colonial minded than his position required.

  Superintendent Robertson sighed. He reasoned that there seemed to be no cause for Gus to murder the girl. He was told that no weapon was found, just the Green Scapular and Molly’s bleeding thumbs … putting the interesting folklore twist to the case. Of course, he did not believe that the thumbs were still bleeding. It had also been confirmed that Gus did return to San Antonio for the medicines. He sighed again. He would go out to the site in the morning, probably find nothing, especially after the villagers had trampled over the area searching for the girl. He lifted his feet and dropped them down making a loud noise in the quiet of the night. He chuckled. That would awaken the constable on duty. The superintendent sighed for the third time. He had nothing on the boy. The only possibility of credible evidence would come from finding out what happened to Gustavio Cucul during the period after returning with the medical supplies from San Antonio and his arrival at Santa Cruz in the late evening. Several hours had passed, more than enough time for him to rape, even murder the girl, then hide her body. Yet, it didn’t seem probable. Of course, someone else also had the time to do it and that would be the significant loophole in the prosecutor’s case; but it was as yet very early in the investigation. A court date, if there were ever one, would most likely not be set for some time and the probe was just about to begin. He was speculating as there was no hard evidence and he grimaced, knowing that conjecture was a dangerous road to follow in his profession. He decided to put away his thoughts, not only because it was late, but he had already learned that the case was not going to be his responsibility. Headquarters was sending down someone to help with organizing the inquest. That meant another officer would be in charge.

  Robertson lifted his feet and allowed them to drop once again. He had nothing. There was the bruise on Gus’ head … Did the girl fight the boy . . . man? He passed his hand through his hair. There was no reason to hold Gustavio Cucul in jail, at that point, so he would release the boy in the morning to the custody of his father, the Alcalde, and Gus would be told not to leave the district. Robertson stood, yawned, picked up his peaked cap off his desk and returned home to sleep.

  In Santa Cruz, Rosalia still did not know what was happening to Gus. It was already the following day and she kept looking through the kitchen window and down the path that led to their house, hoping to see her mother, father, and brother coming home. She had already combed her long black hair several times and had adjusted her dress about her maturing hips and body over and over again. She kept shuffling a deck of cards, laying them out on the table and then packing them again. At times, she was frightened, fearing for her brother, her worry increasing as time passed. It was an hour later in the afternoon that she saw her mother, father, and Gus coming towards the kitchen. She rose from her stool, quickly, and went to the kitchen door where she waited. She wanted to run out to them, but, instead, she simply waited in the doorway. Gus saw her and came towards her, but her mother and father turned away and went directly into the house.

  “Food’s ready,” she shouted, but here was no reply from her parents.

  She moved aside to allow Gus to enter the kitchen. He was hot, sweaty and distraught. “They ate in San Antonio, but I couldn’t eat. The news is everywhere. The way people looked at me was as if I killed Molly.” He threw himself upon a chair, leaned across the table and started to cry. “They won’t want me back at school, Rosalia.” He looked at her, his black eyes had lost their usual luster, replaced by a pleading emptiness. She came and put her arms around him, not saying anything. “I won’t be able to finish Sixth Form. I won’t be able to teach High School.”

  “Teach?” she questioned, shaking her head. “Worrying about school and teaching is useless right now, my brother.” Gus closed his eyes momentarily. “We have to keep you out of jail.”

  “The Superintendent wants me to try to remember exactly what happened after I returned with the medicines. I told him what occurred, but I could see that he didn’t believe me. He advised that the story was farfetched and asked me if I were trying to revamp the old legends.” Gus pulled at his hair, angrily. “What would he know about our legends? Damn colonialist! Think they know everything.” Gus’ face tightened with emotions. “I told him about Bas and that Stephen Chiac because Molly said they frightened her on the bus. He promised he would look into it.”

  “Bas? Not Bas!” objected Rosalia, emphatically. “Maybe, Stephen. He was always a troublemaker. But murder? I don’t know. No one from this village has committed murder. One or two may have killed … but it was not murder.” She shook her head again.

  “I am sorry I had to bring up Bas’ name.” Gus stared at his sister. “I know you like Bas.” Rosalia did not answer, her face remaining expressionless. “Well? Don’t you?”

  Rosalia swung her head towards him. “This is not about me. This is about you and the mess you have gotten into … gotten this family into.” She turned from him, staring angrily through the doorway. “This is driving me crazy. I’m thinking all kinds of things. Anyway, Gus, why don’t you tell me what happened? I still don’t know what really happened,” snapped Rosalia. “You weren’t talking straight when you came in and Na’24 and Taat25 wouldn’t allow me to go along with you. All I know is that Molly is missing … and, last night, I was told about the bleeding thumbs. Every house in the village was barred down last night. No one moved about. Everyone is scared, Gus … thanks to your story … and those thumbs.” Rosalia moved her arms and sat once more at the head of the table. “Tell me what happened after you returned from San Antonio with the medicines.”

  Gus raised his head slowly. Tears still marked his face and he tried to wipe them off, but more returned. “When I arrived at the place where I had left Molly, I was surprised. She was not there. The bicycle was on the ground, her backpack and handbag beside it. I got off my bike and called to her. There was no answer. I shouted her name over and over, but there was no response. Then I saw her bleeding thumbs and the Green Scapular. I became frightened. I remember screaming out. I jumped on my bike, riding like crazy, coming home to get help. As I turned one of the corners just down the tract, standing in the middle of the road was a large mountain lion with an owl on its back.”

  “What? Gus!” sputtered Rosalia, staring at Gus’ wide-eyed and terrified face.

  “Yes! It’s true. I saw a large mountain lion with an owl on its back. Farfetched? Unbelievable? Fantasy? A product of my imagination? A fabrication? Yes, it’s farfetched. It’s unbelievable. Those are the very words Superintendent Robertson use
d. That’s why no one will believe me … but it’s true. It’s not fantasy. It’s not a product of my imagination. Not a fabrication!” Gus stood up. He was shouting and sobbing. “I was frightened like hell. I tried to turn away, but my wheel hit a stone and I was flung forward. I saw the mountain lion leaping from the ground towards me. I think I screamed again. I fell, hitting my head. I was dazed, but I could feel its breath against my face. Hot then cold then hot again. I blacked out and remember nothing else until I woke up. My forehead was swollen, bruised and painful.” He raised his hand and touched his forehead. “It still is. I don’t know how long I was passed out, but when I regained consciousness, I could see by the sun that it was already late afternoon. The wheels of the bicycle were bent … bent … as if someone had taken a maul to them. I threw the bike to the side of the tract and ran all the way to our village.”

  “Molly’s bicycle was okay. You could have used it.”

  Gus glared at Rosalia. “I would have had to turn back,” he roared. “I was panicking. Concussed. I didn’t know where the mountain lion was.”

  “The mountain lion with an owl on its back,” murmured Rosalia.

  Gus’s face tightened in fury. “Fok you!”

  Rosalia held up her hand. “Tell me what happened in Punta Gorda.”

  Gus closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged. “I’m too tired and I really don’t want to go over it again. Perhaps, Na’ and Taat can tell you later.”

  Rosalia looked out the window. She shuffled the cards saying, “The cards are not reading well for you, Gus.”