The weeks had been a relentless grind, a slow-motion transformation of the world. The dry, majestic highlands of Tlacaxinachyotl landscape changed. Now, there was only green. A suffocating, all-consuming green. The air was a thick and wet. It clung to the skin, seeped into their clothes, and filled their lungs with the cloying perfume of rot and life. Towering trees, strangled by thick, python-like vines, formed a solid, impenetrable wall on either side of the narrow track. Their canopy was so dense that the sun was a rumor, a diffuse, sickly yellow light that filtered down in shifting patches.
The noise was almost a physical presence. A deafening, multi-layered chorus of a billion unseen things. The high, metallic rasp of cicadas vibrated the air. The fat, lazy buzz of flies orbiting their sweat-drenched bodies was a constant companion. Squawks, shrieks, and whistles erupted from the canopy, the calls of birds too vibrantly colored to seem real. And beneath it all, a sound that shook the very ground, was the distant, guttural roar of howler monkeys, a sound like the jaguar god clearing his throat.
The caravan was miserable. Ixa and Zolin, the bickering porters from the capital, had fallen silent weeks ago, their animosity baked out of them by the relentless sun and now drowned by the oppressive humidity. They moved like automatons, their faces blank masks of weary endurance. There were two new porters, hired at the last Itzotec outpost. One, a wiry man at around thirty turns of the calander wheel named Coyotl, was a walking bundle of frayed nerves. He flinched at every bird-squawk, slapped at his own neck every few seconds to murder imaginary insects, and his eyes were wide, dark pools of perpetual anxiety. The other, a young woman of nineteen turns of the calendar wheel named Xochi, was his opposite. Sturdy and square-shouldered, she walked with a steady, determined pace, her gaze fixed forward, her face a stoic, unreadable mask. She conserved her energy, her words, her very presence silent and solid within the communal despair.
Only Etalcaxi seemed to thrive. He walked at the head of the group, stripped to his loincloth, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat that he saw not as filth, but as a warrior's glaze. To him, the oppressive heat was an adversary to be conquered with every step. The humidity was a challenge to his stamina. The cacophony of the jungle was the roaring applause of a primal world that recognized its master. He felt powerful, elemental. This was a setting worthy of his legend.
The path dwindled, and the caravan trudged to a halt, the sudden lack of forward motion a small shock to their exhausted bodies. Before them, the track split.
One path was a wide, ugly gash of churned mud and stagnant, brown puddles. It was clearly the main route, a well-trodden path that curved sharply to the west, skirting the edge of a particularly dark and ancient-looking section of the jungle. It smelled of animal dung and struggle.
The second path was not so much a path, it was a narrow, tunnel-like opening that plunged directly into that same foreboding wood. The branches of the trees on either side grew towards each other, their leaves interlocking to form a shadowy roof. Thick curtains of moss hung from the limbs like long strands of green-gray hair. Behind the hair it was like a great, leafy maw waiting to swallow them whole. The air that drifted out of it felt cooler, carrying a scent of deep, damp earth.
Tlico, his face grim, moved to the front. He unslung a tube made of wood from his shoulder, uncapped it, and carefully extracted a rolled map. He walked to a large, flat rock, its surface warmed by a stray patch of sunlight, and unrolled the document with the care of a priest handling a sacred text. The map was made of treated maguey fiber, the paper softened by years of use, its lines faded and blurred in places by moisture and time.
"Here," Tlico announced, his voice a low rumble. "This is the place."
The others gathered around the rock, grateful for the chance to rest their aching legs and shoulders. They peered down at the old map, its surface a cryptic network of lines and glyphs. Tlico's finger, wrinkled and stained with the dirt of a dozen journeys, landed on the image of the fork. He slowly, deliberately, traced the wide, muddy path.
"This is the Long Road," he said, his voice flat and factual. "The merchants' path. The safe path. It honors the wood by keeping its distance. It follows the ridgeline for ten leagues before cutting back east." He tapped the map. "The journey is three days longer. But it is the known way. We would have to camp two more nights in this mire, but we would arrive."
His finger then moved, hovering for a moment before tapping the drawing of the dark, dense jungle they now faced. Next to the drawing, etched in a faded black ink, were three small, ominous glyphs. The first was a stylized tree with grasping, root-like branches. The second was a simple, stark skull. The third was a dizzying spiral, the Itzotec symbol for madness, for confusion, for a mind that has lost its path.
"And this..." Tlico's voice was even lower now. "This is the shortcut. The map calls this place 'Coatl-Cuahuitl'. The Serpent Wood." He looked up from the map, his gaze sweeping over the anxious faces around him. "Wise men just call it the jungle, and wise men do not enter."
Coyotl, who had been staring at the glyphs as if they were living scorpions, shuffled his feet. His eyes were as wide as the clay pots on his back. He stared at the dark, tunnel-like opening of the shortcut, and a shudder ran through his thin frame.
"I have heard stories," he whispered, his voice cracking. "My uncle... he traveled with a feather merchant who took this path. To save a day's travel." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "They say the paths in there twist back on themselves. They say sounds come from nowhere and lead you into swamps. My uncle said the merchant walked into that wood a young man. They found him a week later, wandering on the Long Road, his hair white as cotton, his mind empty. He couldn't even remember his own name." Coyotl's gaze darted around nervously. "Or there are the stories of the men who do not come out at all. They say the trees... they say the trees eat them."
A heavy, fearful silence fell over the group. Even Ixa looked unnerved. Then, a sound shattered the tension.
A loud, booming laugh.
Etalcaxi threw his head back and laughed, a sound of pure, dismissive arrogance. It was a noise so out of place in the humid, anxious air that it made everyone flinch. He strode forward, clapping Coyotl on the shoulder with a force that nearly sent the smaller man to his knees.
"Superstitions!" Etalcaxi declared, his voice full of condescending mirth. "The excuses of weak men and failed merchants who get lost because they cannot read a path! Ghost stories told by old women to frighten children! Three days?" He scoffed, turning to Tlico. "The Itzotec nation does not waste three days cowering from shadows! The goods you carry are for a noble wedding. They are expected. We have a duty to arrive swiftly."
Tlico slowly looked up from the map, his eyes flat and hard as river stones. "My map was drawn by my own grandfather," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "The glyphs were his. My grandfather walked these roads for fifty turns of the calendar wheel. He was not a weak man, and he was not a failed merchant. His wisdom kept him alive long enough to die in his own bed, surrounded by his family." He tapped the skull glyph with his fingernail. "His wisdom says to grant the forest its space."
Etalcaxi smirked, his handsome face a mask of patronizing disbelief. "That is not wisdom, old man, that is fear! A path is a path. It is dirt and rock and roots. It does not think. It does not whisper. It does not require 'space' like a nervous maiden." He gestured toward the dark opening with his spear. "It is a line from one place to another. The shortest line is always the best line. That is the wisdom of a warrior."
"The porters who came out of that wood said this one does," Tlico countered, his gaze unwavering. "This one whispers, and this one plays tricks."
It was Xochi who spoke next. Her voice, though low, was startlingly clear, cutting through the thick air and the rising tension. "What kind of tricks?"
All eyes turned to her. It was the first time she had spoken more than two words all day. Her question was not laced with fear like Coyotl's, but with a cool, practical curiosity. She did not question the truth of the danger, only its nature.
Tlico turned to her, a flicker of respect in his old eyes. "Paths that were clear moments before become overgrown with thorns, forcing you to turn back, or to choose another, wronger path. Streams that should be crossed appear where they are not on the map, leading you astray. They say you can hear the voices of your loved ones calling to you from deep in the woods, luring you away from your companions until you are hopelessly lost."
A palpable chill ran through the small group. Ixa and Zolin exchanged a look of pure terror. Coyotl began to softly mumble a prayer to the god of travelers. Even Citli, Etalcaxi's ever-loyal shadow, looked momentarily concerned, his hand tightening on the hilt of his weapon.
Etalcaxi, however, was completely unmoved. In fact, their fear seemed to fuel his resolve. He saw it as a confirmation of his own unique courage.
"Then the wood has never met a Itzotec warrior," he announced, his voice ringing with unshakeable confidence. "Its tricks are for lesser men, for frightened merchants and clumsy porters." He swept his gaze over the group, his eyes daring any of them to challenge him. "Paths bend to a warrior's will, not the other way around. Superstitions are a cage built by the fearful. I will not be caged." He looked at Tlico, a final, triumphant glint in his eye. "I have decided. We take the shortcut."
Tlico held Etalcaxi's gaze for a long, silent moment. He was not pleading. His face was a stony mask of grim procedure. He straightened up, his back stiff. "You are the military commander of this caravan, appointed by Lord Yotolin. That gives you authority over the route. I am the master of the goods. The pots and the llama are my property. The lives of these porters," he said, gesturing to the four terrified walkers, "are in my charge until they are paid. The goods are valuable. Their lives are valuable." He took a slow breath. "I, Tlico, son of Ocotl, formally advise against this course of action. The risk to my property and to the lives I am responsible for is too great."
It was a formal protest, a statement for the record should they all end up as bones in Coatl-Cuahuitl.
Etalcaxi's smile was wide, predatory, and filled with the pleasure of his own power. "Your advice is noted, merchant," he said, savoring the moment of dominance. "And your advice is overruled." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The greatest risk, Tlico, is showing all the nations under the sun that the Itzotec people are afraid of a few spooky trees."
He turned away from the old merchant, his decision made absolute. He raised his spear and pointed it decisively down the narrow, dark path, like a commander ordering a charge.
"We make camp on the other side before dusk!" he commanded, his voice booming with renewed vigor. "Follow me!"
Without waiting for a response, without a backward glance, Etalcaxi strode forward. He ducked under the first low-hanging, moss-draped branch and was immediately swallowed by the gloom of Coatl-Cuahuitl.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then, Citli, his brief flicker of doubt incinerated by the white-hot flame of his hero's confidence, squared his shoulders. "For the glory of the nation!" he whispered to himself, and eagerly followed his commander into the shadows.
Xochi watched them go, her impassive face giving nothing away. She calmly adjusted the wooden frame on her back, settling its weight, and then, with that same steady, determined pace, she too walked into the maw of the forest. Ixa and Zolin exchanged a final, long look of shared and utter misery, a silent communication that spoke of doom, blisters, and the certainty that they would die in this horrible, green place. With a collective sigh of resignation, they shuffled after her.
Coyotl was whimpering softly now. His hands trembled as he made a protective sign over his chest, a quick gesture to ward off evil spirits. He looked at the wide, safe, muddy path, then at the dark hole that had swallowed his companions. With a little squeak of terror, he scurried in last, preferring the company of a madman to being left alone.
Tlico was the final one. He stood at the edge, at the split between the two paths. He carefully rolled up his grandfather's map and placed it back in its protective wooden tube. He took one last look at the bright, loud, noisy, normal jungle around him. He breathed in its familiar, muggy air. He listened to its symphony of life. Then he sighed, a heavy, rattling sound of defeat. He gave the stubborn llama's lead a firm tug.
"Come on, stupid," he muttered. "Let us go and die with the fools."
He stepped over an invisible line, pulling the reluctant llama with him, and the shadows of Coatl-Cuahuitl closed around them.
The moment Tlico and the llama crossed the line, things changed.
It was not a gradual change. It was a severing. The deafening cacophony of the jungle—the cicadas, the bird calls, the distant monkey roars, the buzz of a million insects—did not fade. It cut out. One moment it was there, a solid wall of sound, and the next, it was gone. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was absolute, heavy, pressing; that was more shocking and more terrifying than the noise had ever been.
Every member of the caravan froze in their tracks. Ixa let out a small gasp. Zolin's eyes were wide with panic. Coyotl looked as if his heart had stopped. They all turned their heads, looking back toward the entrance, but the sound did not return.
The air changed, too. The oppressive, soupy humidity was gone, replaced by a sudden, refreshing coolness. It smelled of damp, rich earth, like the bottom of a well. It smelled of night-blooming flowers, a scent that had no place in the middle of the day. And it smelled of something else, something sweet and strange and electrifying... like honey and lightning.
Ten paces ahead, Etalcaxi had stopped dead. He stood rigid, his spear held loosely in his hand. For the first time on the entire, miserable journey, a flicker of something other than arrogance crossed his face. It was a shadow of genuine uncertainty, a hint of dawning fear. His warrior's instincts were screaming at him that something was fundamentally wrong. The land was not behaving as it should.
Into the unsettling silence, a new sound emerged.
It began so faintly it was more a feeling than a noise, a low vibration that seemed to resonate in their bones. It grew slowly, steadily, a single, sustained, musical note. It was humming.
It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It emanated from the thick, velvety moss that coated the ancient tree trunks. It rose from the damp, leafy ground. It seemed to be woven into the very air they were breathing. The sound was achingly beautiful, a pure, feminine tone that was melancholic and joyful at the same time. And yet, it was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Etalcaxi's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the dense, silent woods around them. His brief moment of uncertainty was brutally suppressed. He forced his features back into a mask of command, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared. But the mask was a little too stiff, his posture a little too rigid. He was a man pretending not to be startled, and the effort was visible.
The humming continued, seeming to grow a little in volume, a little closer. It was not threatening. It was soft. It was welcoming.
Coatl-Cuahuitl had its visitors. And it was pleased.