The Serpent and the Crown Read online

  With a grave expression he passed Jankaro the handle of the sword. “Take this,” he said. “Attack me.” He waved the sword and danced around Jankaro. “Try to defeat me.”

  Jankaro suspected the prince was luring him, much like Chesta would, into a humiliating situation. His old playfulness stirred up and he raised the sword a little, wary of the trouble he could get himself into. “I don’t know how to fight.”

  “Neither did Altamont the last time he delivered me a sword. Since then I’ve heard he has slain a few Cruxai.” Jankaro didn’t understand what the prince was referring to, and his face crinkled as he prepared to inquire.

  “Damnit boy!” the prince barked. “Take a swing at me!”

  Jankaro held his sword forward in front of him with both hands like he had seen the soldiers training in the courtyard.

  “That’s it boy.”

  Rafael assumed his fighting stance. Jankaro took a swing and Rafael deftly slapped his sword aside and then swung back. When Jankaro raised his sword to block, it went flying from his hands with the impact of the blow and clamored across the floor. His hands stung as he looked up to see Rafael smiling.

  “What is your name?” said Rafael as he lowered the sword to his side.

  “Jankaro.”

  “Strange name. Are you from the jungle?”

  “Yes, I come from Olaya.”

  “Hmm. Never heard of it. Is it beautiful?” Before Jankaro could reply, the prince turned away.

  “Rafael, it is time for the war council,” someone said from the other side of a smaller wooden door.

  “Sorry, but I must go.” He took two steps and turned back around. “That sword belongs to this kingdom and serves the crown. Take it with you. Build your strength and learn to fight. Tell Altamont to train you. Commander’s orders.” He turned away again and disappeared down one of the hallways. Jankaro sensed he was getting close to the crown and wanted to follow, but knew that was not permitted. He decided to bide his time and head back to Altamont. He had a question for him.

  “What are you doing with that sword?” said Altamont as Jankaro returned to the shop.

  “It was a gift from Prince Rafael. He ordered you to train me.”

  “Me?!”

  “He said you have slain many Cruxai. Who are the Cruxai?”

  “The Cruxai.” Altamont frowned as he sat back in his dusty old cushioned chair and sipped his tea. “The poisoned spear in the side of Galdea. If I had one wish it would be to never see or hear of them again. They are vile, ruthless murderers who come from the north. Common Cruxai are short like you. They have scaled skin like snakes but their bodies are more human. Their faces are a combination of human and reptile. As far as we know they have conquered most of the northern territories. We don’t know if there is resistance from any other distant human tribes. Over the past twenty years they have waged war on us, claiming our towns and cities one by one. Most of the empire has been taken, and we have three cities left: Calixo, Dorfin and Caladon.

  “Our backs are to the wall, but Rafael has faith; he believes we will defeat them. His younger brother Titus does not share this view, but he vows to fight until the bitter end to defend the crown. King Oranos is getting old now and leaves the fighting to his sons. In the early years of this war he fought fiercely to keep the Cruxai away.”

  “What is the crown?”

  “The king wears the crown on his head. It is a symbol of his position as war chief and protector of the people.”

  A twinge of adrenaline surged in Jankaro as he imagined being in the heat of a battle. “I will use this sword to fight the Cruxai for the crown!” He imitated the inflection of the soldiers as he stood and waved the sword around.

  Altamont’s face crinkled in a pensive frown.

  “Look at yourself, ruled by the illusions of youth. You don’t know what you are getting yourself into. At your age they won’t train you in the soldier’s guild until you survive your first battle and prove your valor. Peasants and tradesmen are commissioned to fight and most of them lose their lives on the battlefield; many are young men around your age, full of fire. They rush into the fray for the thrill and the glory only to meet the cold death executed by the Cruxai forces.

  “I will teach you what I can. I’m not a soldier, but I have fought in a few battles, killed a few Cruxai and survived. They invited me to become a soldier, but I declined because I am the best blacksmith in this city and they need me to arm the elite forces. I will teach you to fight because someday you will not have a choice. They know that you have that sword, and when they need men they will draft you into their civilian division to fight on the front lines.

  “Rafael is a noble leader. He will build you up and inspire confidence. He will tell all about how the crown protects the empire, feeds the people and gives hope to the forlorn. He is the inspiration. His younger brother Titus is not so kind. He will work you into the ground, and if you say you are tired he will position you at the head of the front line. He will direct a hundred men to fling themselves up a hill and die just to get his unit into position to fight. That is the way of this kingdom. The soldiers are the elite force and they are masters of war. The civilian army is used to buffer them and minimize their casualties. That is why, if you fight valiantly and survive a battle, you have proven that you have potential to become a soldier.”

  Every evening, after a hard day’s work at the forge, Altamont would spar with Jankaro for an hour, teaching him what he knew about fighting the Cruxai. “See these scars on my arms?” He pulled up his shirtsleeves to reveal matching sets of three slash marks on each of his deltoids. ¨This is where a Cruxai grabbed me. If you knock the sword out of his hand, don’t think for a minute that you have him. That’s when many civilian fighters let their guard down, and that’s when they get maimed or killed. Don’t let up, not even for a moment. Fighting the Cruxai is not like fighting men. Keep hacking and stabbing until they are deader than dead.”

  Jankaro’s arms grew stronger every day, along with his confidence in his fighting skills. But more than anything he developed that old curiosity that he carried with him daily in the jungle. He longed to behold these creatures and see them face to face.

  “You must not look them in the eyes for any longer than a brief moment. It is better not to look into their eyes at all. If you look at them for too long, you will be hypnotized and, before you can regain your senses, you will be dead. Look at their chest and use your peripheral vision to guard against their attacks.

  “Stay away from the Jurugas. They are twice the size of men. Their skin is thick, their shoulders are broad and their arms are long. Thick, fleshy tubes hang from the back of their skulls like hair. Their long, hardened snouts spit acid that burns through armor and flesh. If you do get close to them, fight them with your allies, it takes a numbers advantage to defeat them. They are faster than they look. Time it so you all attack them simultaneously, and perhaps only one of you will fall. But it’s best to stay away. Just fight the Cruxai footsoldiers and get out alive. The key to the first battle is survival.”

  Over time, Altamont sensed that Jankaro had no intention of seeking passage back to the jungle. He saw lust for battle developing in the young man’s eyes. Little by little, he cut back on his duties at the shop and taught him exercises that would strengthen his muscles. He taught him stretches, juggling, anything to bolster his strength, agility, coordination, endurance, and focus. He fashioned a balance beam of old sword blades and made him walk across it many times each day.

  Altamont knew it was only a matter of time before Jankaro would be called to battle. The Cruxai were persistent, and they always came back stronger. On some evenings while Jankaro practiced, Altamont began to fashion him a set of armor. He knew that the boy was not yet strong enough to wear what the soldiers wore, so he made him a lightweight set to protect his vitals. Once it was complete, he would have Jankaro pract
ice with his armor on when they would spar at night, so he could get used to the burden of it.

  He made him fight with simulated injuries: one hand tied behind his back, one eye closed, ears plugged, down on one knee. He made him practice fighting going uphill, then downhill. He was beginning to relish the role of teacher, when one day a soldier rode up to the shop on horseback and delivered a message from the barracks.

  “The youth has been summoned for battle duty,” the messenger told them. “Report to the barracks immediately. Altamont, you are ordered to stay here and continue with weapons production.”

  Upon hearing the news, Altamont cursed and cast his sword against the stone wall of the shop.

  “The Cruxai are advancing upon us,” he said as composed himself and turned to Jankaro. “I’ve trained you the best I could. Part of me wishes I could be there to fight with you. Are you ready?”

  Jankaro just looked at him, his eyes gleaming with focused intent.

  3

  Ishikaya’s Hut

  Jorobai hiked back to the village, immersed in sorrow. Word had spread through the village. His friends wanted to comfort him but they did not know how.

  He would not give up the search for his son. He was not ready to hang his head in grief.

  “I will find someone to tend your farm and I will continue to search the forest far and wide for you, brother. Now you must go to Ishikaya for help,” said Rongo.

  Ishikaya, the village shaman, was a strange and mysterious old man who lived his life in solitude. By most accounts, it seemed that he never descended from his hut, high up in the canopy of jungle trees.

  Jorobai was so familiar with the medicine of the jungle that he had never had the need to visit the old man for help. But over the years he heard stories of this man delivering cures to rare illnesses and solutions to impossible problems. Years ago, when Jankaro was a baby, there was a great tragedy that took the lives of all the women of the village and all but two of the children. As the months and years of grief and mourning passed, one by one many of the men went to Ishikaya to help them find a new wife.

  Many of them were given directions to distant villages, where they found their women, some of whom were widows with children of their own. In this way, Ishikaya played a major role in rebuilding the life energy of the village, a process that was still under way. The other tribesmen encouraged Jorobai to go and see the old man for help to find a new woman, but he could not. Now Jorobai was desperate and he needed the vision of the shaman who was even known to use his powers to help find missing children.

  Jorobai followed Rongo’s directions and hiked through the morning hours to the hut where Ishikaya lived, all the while clutching his son’s knife and holding the vision of finding him. Clinging to the image of finding Jankaro was all he could do to keep despair from defeating him. When he saw the mango tree with the jaguar claw lodged in its trunk just out of reach, he knew he was getting close.

  “Jorobai of Olaya, son of Shobo,” a man called out as he came around a tree and revealed himself. He was a middle-aged man with long, black hair pulled back from his face and tied off in back. His clothes matched the colors of the jungle to make him blend into his surroundings, but the straight cuts and stitchings indicated they came from a distant land.

  “Kayo!” Jorobai finally recognized Ishikaya’s son and apprentice. “I haven’t seen you since my son was born! I didn’t recognize you in those foreign clothes.”

  “It is good to see you again, my old friend,” he lowered his heavy pack to the ground and he and Jorobai clasped one another’s wrists in the traditional greeting of Olaya. “I haven’t seen you since we took that canoe over the falls at Curukat. Remember?”

  Jorobai chuckled as the memory came back to him. “We lost that huge samata!” he said with his arms outstretched.

  “I thought you were lost too, until you finally popped your head up, cursed Sagaya and grabbed the branch that I held out for you.”

  “Something else was lost, Kayo.” The crease returned to the bridge of Jorobai’s nose. “My son, Jankaro. I am here to call upon your father for help to find him.”

  “I have seen your young one from time to time, running around the jungle, playing games with the monkeys. What happened?”

  “Last night he ventured far off into the jungle and did not come home. Rongo and I tracked his every step. He had an encounter with what we suspect was an Ashtari, which chased him until he fell into a pit. We tracked him far into a network of caves until the trail went completely cold. There we found this, his knife, lodged into the wall of the cave.”

  “That is the Galdean knife that my father gave your father. I will tell Ishikaya that you have come.” At the base of a towering yanigo tree, Kayo reached into his pack and pulled out a flute. He put the flute to his lips, cast his attention towards the hut far above, and played a short melody. From above, in reply, came another short melody from a flute. “He beckons you to enter. Climb up to him.”

  Jorobai approached the tree and noticed a thick vine hanging down. He tucked Jankaro’s knife into his belt, clutched the vine with both hands, lifted his feet onto the tree, and ascended.

  He entered the hut to find Ishikaya seated on the floor, wearing nothing but an old loincloth. His back hunched over and his stringy white hair hung down around his face as he puffed on his pipe. “Sit down in front of me, Jorobayo,” beckoned the old man in a soft, gravelly voice. Hearing his childhood nickname calmed Jorobai as he stepped forward and sat down cross-legged in front of the old man. “Tell me how I can serve you.”

  Jorobai looked up to see lizards of various colors and sizes crawling along the interlaced sticks that comprised the walls and ceiling.

  “My son went off into the forest to explore, to see if he could find the Ashtari he thought he had seen the night before last. We tracked him and found that he had an encounter with a beast of that size. He fell into an underground cave, where we found his knife hanging from a wall. From there, all signs of him disappeared. The trail is cold. Can you help me find him?”

  Ishikaya reached up and pulled a three foot long lizard off of the wall and laid it down on its back in front of him. “Pass me the knife,” he said, extending his hand. Jorobai obliged. Ishikaya took the knife and dragged it down the abdomen of the lizard and watched him writhe back and forth as his entrails and blood spilled out. “I am sorry my brother. I honor you for your sacrifice on behalf of this man and his son.” As Ishikaya watched the lizard die, he studied it intently with all of his attention. When it was over he looked up at Jorobai and peered into him. “Surely something can be done. We must enter the dreamtime with Amoza. There you may be able to discern your son’s presence, even from a great distance. We must hold a night ceremony, drink the sacred medicine, and enter into the dreamtime.” Ishikaya picked up a small bone flute at his side and played a simple melody. “Go with Kayo to collect the medicine.”

  Jorobai burned his hands as he slid down the vine to the bottom of the tree. Kayo handed him a pack filled with supplies and he followed him down a trail that led further away from the village. After half a day’s march, they arrived at a river. Then they got into a canoe and paddled many hours.

  Around dusk, they went fishing and caught two fish. They cooked the fish over their campfire that night. “Where are we going?” asked Jorobai.

  “To the Amoza tree. It gives light to the visions in our minds and helps our spirits to fly. There are greater forces at work in this world than what we can see with our eyes. When we eat the fruit and enter the dreamtime, we can see what cannot be seen. Now we are going to collect the fruit. Three days to get there and three days to get back.”

  “That’s too long!” Jorobai jumped up and threw a handful of fishbones into the fire, sending sparks flying at Kayo’s chest. “We need to find him now! Why should I trust that old, crazy shaman?!”

  Kayo was no stran
ger to dealing with desperate people. He calmly flicked a burning ember from his shirt as he stood to meet Jorobai’s eyes. “One thing my father taught me is that this work requires time and preparation. People come to him expecting instant results. But it takes time and hard work to do what we do. You came to us with nothing but a knife. My father cared for that lizard for five years, filling its belly with the juices of powerful, magical plants that come from far and wide. I dedicated months of my life to collect and prepare the medicines for that lizard that was sacrificed for you.” Kayo pointed at Jorobai, then at his pack. “Look at my medicine bundle. I have been away for months, gathering medicines to bring back to my father. I was not given one day to rest or see his face before I was sent back out again. Do not think we do nothing for you.”

  Jorobai was humbled by the truth in Kayo’s words as he dropped to his knees by the fire and squeezed fistfuls of warm earth in his hands. “Sagaya, help me,” he croaked the words as he looked up at Kayo with a pain in his eyes. “Do you have any masato?”

  “Of course not,” said Kayo as he sat down across from Jorobai and lit his pipe. “I need to keep my senses sharp at all times, and so should you. My father and I have sacrificed so that you may find your son. I suggest that you prepare yourself for a long journey, one that may involve a great sacrifice. People think our work is easy, or we are simply guided by powerful spirits. That is far from the truth. My father has called for Amoza. If you want to find your son, you will discover how difficult this work can be.”

  For three days, Jorobai sank deeper into the jungle than ever before. He never had much fear of the crocodiles on the river, but now they were starting to get much bigger. Some were bigger than the boat. Once an anaconda came swimming up from the side and bumped its head into the boat, nearly capsizing it. Insects tortured his flesh. But he savored the fish that he ate at night, and held to the vision of finding his son.

  On the third day they trekked into the jungle, crossing streams and cutting through the vines and thick brush, as they kept their eyes peeled for venomous vipers. Kayo stopped at a big tree and looked up. “Here we are.”