Paula Guran - The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

“You look just like your father,” Zacarias said in a rasping, strained voice. “So handsome. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three. Such an age. Sit down.”

Eduardo sat by the bed.

“I will go away this summer.”

“Uncle, has a doctor come to see you?”

“A doctor. It is the change, my boy. Soon I’ll go to our cenote.”

Yes, the old ways of the family. When the “change” came the Marins threw themselves into the waters of a sacred cenote. Ritual suicide. Eduardo had never been witness to any of these “partings” — children could not witness the rituals — but he’d known of them. They were all instructed in the mysticism of such an experience. When he was small Eduardo had truly believed that the physical changes in some of his family members marked a supernatural change. Now he thought better of it. Disease could cause dramatic changes. A degenerative condition could be the culprit. One need only look at a patient afflicted with syphilis to see the truth of this.

“We should take you to a hospital. The middle of the jungle is no place for you.”

“I am going nowhere. Imelda tells me she has spoken to you about the household.”

“She did. I am needed back in Mexico City.”

“With that woman?”

“My fiancé, Natalia, yes, for one. There’s also my job. I’m an architect, uncle, not a family patriarch.”

“She’s an outsider. Your father married an outsider. You know what happened.”

He did. His mother had abandoned him and his father. He’d looked her up after he moved to Mexico City. They spoke over the phone. She had a new family, she told him. Other children. She would not see him. She hung up. He wondered what Natalia would say if he told her they must move to Yucatán. He tried to imagine her in the stifling heat, baking inside the white hacienda. He could not.

“I love her.”

“You don’t know love,” his uncle muttered. “You don’t know anything. It was a bad idea to send you to the capital, but your father insisted. He said it would do you good. What has the city taught you? Scorn for your own.”

He wanted to protest that he certainly knew love, that he loved Natalia. That he’d learnt how to live a life free of legends and whispers. He held back, knowing what his uncle would think.

“I care about the family.”

“Listen to me,” his uncle rasped, extending his hand and placing it on Eduardo’s knee. It looked more like a claw than a hand. “You will know no happiness outside of La Ceiba. You belong here. The water and the land call for you.”

“Uncle . . .”

“I will depart soon. Remain in Yucatán until then. Give me that.”

“Very well, Uncle.”

“Good,” the old man said, closing his eyes.

His father’s photographs of Mayan murals depicting Chaac, the rain god — shown with a human body and amphibian scales — spanned from the bottom to the top of the staircase and he paused to examine each one of them. Near the bottom there was one photograph different from the rest, showing his father with a camera around his neck. Eduardo smiled, pressing a hand against the frame.

He was startled by the sound of laughter and saw six children ready to bound down the stairs. Girls and boys in ages ranging from four to about ten. He recognized the girl in the pink dress. These were his little cousins, then. As soon as they caught sight of him they ran off. They seemed afraid. He supposed he would look a bit frightful the way he was dressed. They were still clad in clothes from the Porfiriato, creatures from sepia-toned photographs, while he sported a flamboyant nylon shirt. It was as if time had stopped at La Ceiba. It was a minor miracle they had electricity.

Eduardo wondered what his father would have thought of him if he’d been able to see him now. He’d been different from the rest of the Marins, more outgoing and daring, and he’d had no fear of modernity with his cars and his trips to Mexico City. But he’d loved La Ceiba. Eduardo could not comprehend that love.

He went outside, to the back of the house, and stared at the vegetation bordering the perimeter of the property. Tall, lush trees, the jungle awaiting him at just a few paces. He could hear birds singing, the insects making their music, monkeys rustling in the trees. It was so different from the sounds of Mexico City, so alien.

“I am going to the cenote, are you coming?”

He turned around to see Imelda behind him. She wore another old-fashioned white dress that reached her ankles, her hair was pinned behind in a bun. In the city the girls wore mini-skirts and their hair was cut short.

“I was hoping to find Mario,” he said. “I want him to send a telegram.”

“It’s market day,” Imelda said. “Mario left for He’la’ already. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

He cursed his luck. Imelda looked at him and smiled.

“You should come with me to the cenote, it will do you good.”

He’d loved the cenote. They’d played pirates one whole summer after he read a book about them. He was Francis Drake and she was John Hawkins, and they both attacked San Juan de Ulúa, like the book said. He’d even stolen the sword in father’s room — the one that had belonged to an uncle of theirs, the one who had been an officer when Mexico was still called New Spain — and taken it with them for their game.

“I have no swimsuit.”

She chuckled. “You can swim in your underwear, which is what I intend to do. I thought you were a modern man,” she said mocking him.

It was dreadfully hot. He’d forgotten just how oppressive the weather could be. He’d been looking for a fan the previous night, to no avail. Even the water that flowed from the ancient taps seemed warm.

“Very well,” he said.

The trail that snaked behind the house quickly led them to the cenote. The Mayans thought the god Chaac lived in these pools of water. But as a child the cenote behind the house had simply been a place for merriment.

They approached its edge and he peered into its perfect blue waters. Imelda unbuttoned her dress and leapt into the water in her slip. He was a bit more cautious, descending the ancient limestone steps, dipping a foot in the water, then finally jumping in.

“Have you forgotten how to swim?” Imelda asked.

“It’s been a while.”

She disappeared under the water, re-emerging far from him.

There was a stone carving of a two-tailed mermaid in the old machine house, her face serene and perfect. Imelda looked a bit like the mermaid, enchanting in her loveliness. It was easy to believe, watching Imelda swim, why people might have told those strange stories about the Marins. Her dark eyes pierced him, her laughter was all silver.

He recalled that they used to compete with each other, seeing who could hold their breath the longest under the water, then jumped up, gasping for air and breaking into laughter. And he felt like that in that instant, as though he were gasping for air.

He stretched out a hand to touch her face.

He realized he had been moving closer to her as she swam and they were now facing each other. His hand stilled in the space between their bodies, he pulled it back, pulled himself away.

“I think I’ve had enough swimming for a day,” he said.

He went up the steps and sat next to the edge of the cenote to dry himself. Imelda emerged and sat by his side. Her slip clung to her body. She ran her hands through her hair. He was careful not to look at her, instead focusing on the vegetation.

“I need to see if Mario is back,” he muttered and walked toward the house.

Eduardo sent two telegrams. One to the office and another to his fiancée. He hoped he did not have to remain long. But two days turned into four, and four became six. On the seventh day he seriously considered leaving despite his promise to his uncle. The seventh night found him pacing around his room. He could not sleep, the heat allowed him no respite day after day. When he could lie down and close his eyes he had strange dreams he could not fully recall but that followed him like a fog.