CHAPTER SEVEN: ROCK ART

“G-day, mates!” Dr. Hornsby pierced the morning air with an eager shout.

He was habitually right on schedule. Montero trailed close behind as they entered the settlement. Hornsby was robust. Montero was sweating profusely, obviously exhausted in trying to keep up. Behind Montero were two pack mules, a new addition to our expedition.

Cassarina was the first to meet them. Behind her, Lacandon children ran to hug Hornsby about his legs, while some of the adults mingled to cordially greet his arrival. Hornsby met them with exuberant warmth, but was quick to move on.

“Where the hell is, Jules?” Hornsby asked Cassarina.

“He’s at his lean two . . . packing,” Cassarina answered.

I was rummaging up my things, preparing to leave. Hearing Hornsby call out for me caused my blood to boil. How could he be so excited about making haste with my departure? The man gallantly tromped through the caribal, to my lean-to, a stone’s throw from the encampment but in line of sight of the whole cluster of Lacandon huts.

“There you are,” Hornsby said slapping me on the back like a jolly good fellow.

“I’ll be packed soon,” I replied while getting a bit fed up with British eccentricity.

“Good.” Hornsby looked me straight in the eye with a broad smile.

“Good? You seem pretty eager for me to leave, Dr. Hornsby.”

“By Jove, old man, you’re a genius,” he said, patting me on the back again.
Cassarina, standing akimbo, flanked Hornsby.

“Dr. Hornsby, I must tell you . . .”

“Later. I’ve got something to show the both of you.”

Grabbing me by the arm Hornsby headed to our research tent, vigorously undoing his backpack along the way. Cassarina caught up with us.

“Jules took off. He disappeared for three days putting this expedition in jeopardy.” She insisted he listen to her. He ignored her.

The expedition leader was preoccupied with a large envelope that he pulled out of his pack. Opening up the contents encased in a protective plastic bag, a bundle of 8 x 10 black and white photographic prints fell out on the table.

“There was a jaguar roaming about the settlement. Jorge sang the song of the Jaguar to protect us.” Cassarina continued raising her voice.

“Did you record it?” Hornsby said, sorting through the photographic prints spread out on the table.

“Ah, no. I didn’t think . . .” Cassarina was caught off guard.

“That was a mistake Ms Deakin.”

“But Jules usually handles the recordings. Besides I didn’t know where the recorder was.”

“You mean you didn’t think of it,” Hornsby countered. Cassarina looked flustered from his reprimand. He was right. The tape recorder was stationed on our research table available at a moments notice for any spontaneous Lacandones audio events we might find significant evidence.

“Never mind that now, go get Jorge.” Hornsby spoke in an abrupt tone. Cassarina’s cheeks quivered slightly. She tossed me a sully glance as she exited the tent.

“Took off, eh?” Hornsby had a sly grin on his face. “I don’t suppose you were off checking out the rock art you found on your way to Baltazar?”

“But, Dr. Hornsby I thought you wanted me . . .” I cut myself short, not wanting to divulge or even hint at the prospect of my mystical experience.

“Look here, Jules.” Hornsby had laid out an array of photographs of the pictographs I had taken. A small crowd of Lacandones had gathered outside the research tent. Curious as to what Hornsby was so excited about, they leaned awkwardly, peering through the tent flap.