Rapidly, the scarred captain snapped an order, and a soldier stepped forward and pulled the toplike affair from his belt. Holding the string in his fingers and the weapon tight against the palm of his hand, his fist suddenly lashed outward in a swift, open-palmed motion. The top whipped out, seemingly reluctant to leave the Maya’s hand. And then it sped across the clearing on the edge of the forest, the air whistling behind it.
Olaf had just reached the protection of a huge boulder and was ready to scramble behind it when the top collided with the base of his skull. There was a dull thud as wood met bone. Olaf collapsed to the ground like a fallen tree. Efficiently, the Maya pulled in the string, and the top trailed across the leaves, rasping gently as it moved. He wound the string around it and once again stuck it into his belt.
Two soldiers hastily crossed the clearing and seized Olaf by the arms. They lifted him until he hung limply between them, and then hauled him back to the captain, his legs dragging through the leaves.
The captain gave a sharp order, and the two men carrying Olaf headed toward the city. A soldier stepped behind Erik and prodded him with his spear. At the same time, Neil felt the sharp point of a spear in his back. The captain spoke softly to six of his men. They nodded and headed into the forest.
“They’re probably going after the rest of our party,” Neil whispered to Erik.
Erik nodded, and two sharp spear thrusts put an end to further conversation.
A Maya walked beside the two soldiers carrying Olaf. The scarred leader of the band stayed behind Neil and Erik, and slowly the procession moved toward the city. They broke out of the forest, and the sun bore down on them with all its brilliance. Heavy clouds of dust swirled around them as their feet stamped into the ground. Behind Olaf, extending from his trailing feet, were two narrow ridges in the ground-almost like the tracks a very tiny automobile would leave, Neil mused.
Surrounding the city, in contrast to the architectural beauty of the huge stone buildings and intricately carved facades, were thatched huts, squat and ugly. A few children sat in the sun, blinking up at the visitors.
Here and there an old woman sat before a hut, gently nodding as the procession passed.
Far in the distance, Neil could see rising clouds of dust. Through the dust, he saw figures wending their way home to the city. It was the end of the working day, he figured, and the young people were returning from the fields.
The procession marched through the city, almost deserted now except for the very young and very old. Neil was amazed by the orderliness, by the planning of buildings that was evident all around him.
There seemed to be two preferred types of architecture. One consisted of a rectangular-shaped building set on a rather high pyramid, which seemed to be nothing more or less than earth and rubble, into which had been set cement or perhaps cut stone. The front of the pyramid was cut into terrace-like steps. This type of building, Neil judged, seemed to be in the majority. The other seemed to consist of a cluster of rooms built on low, irregularly shaped platforms.
Each was highly ornamented, bold carvings covering the faces-carvings that were faintly reminiscent of the Oriental, but in a much stronger, rougher-hewn way.
A band of soldiers appeared on the street, marching in formation, their heels raising dust as they moved closer to the captives.
The scarred captain stepped forward and spoke to the leader of the new band. He nodded as the Maya with the scar pointed to the forest. Then he gave an order and the men began marching toward the woods.
“They go for our friends,” Erik said, his eyes squinting after the retreating soldiers.
“I hope,” Neil faltered, “I hope there’s no trouble.”
Ahead of them, Olaf shook his head and staggered to his feet. Instantly, a spear pressed against his ribs on either side of his body. He looked around in wonder, surprised at finding himself within the city.
The captain returned and gave another order, and the procession moved forward again. In the distance, the returning farmers seemed to be larger and closer to the city now.
The procession passed by one of the pyramid-type buildings and the captain raised his hand. The group stopped and waited on the sun-baked street while the captain climbed the long, low steps leading to the building. He walked through one of three doorways cut into the face of the building, and disappeared into the dark recesses behind the stone.
Neil shifted uncomfortably, the dust rising to smart his eyes. He could feel the prick of the spear behind him, where it rested between his shoulder blades.
The captain was gone for at least ten minutes, and then a figure appeared in the doorway of the building. This man was a little taller than the soldiers, and his head was crowned with a brilliant shock of white hair that rose in splendid contrast to the brownness of his skin. He wore a long, white, cotton garment that reached to his ankles.
The captain stepped out behind him and pointed at Neil. The man in white nodded and started down the steps.
Neil glanced at Erik in time to see the Norseman take a deep breath.
The man in white paused on the bottom step of the pyramid, his deep brown eyes studying Erik, and then Neil, and then Olaf, who stood sullenly between his captors.
He walked down to the trio and stopped before Neil. In gentle tones he said something to him.
Neil shook his head at the old man. “I do not understand,” he said.
Little creases of puzzlement formed alongside the old man’s eyes. He cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening for a sound, and then repeated what he’d said before.
Neil shrugged helplessly and said, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
The old man ran his thin fingers through the white, flowing hair on top of his head. He turned and said something to the captain. The captain answered rapidly, and the old man turned to Neil again.
He held both his hands out from his body in a puzzled gesture, and raised his eyebrows questioningly
“I think he wants to know about us,” Neil said to Erik.
“But how can we tell him?”
Neil stepped forward and held out his hand, palm downward. Then he moved his hand slowly across his body in an undulating motion, tracing invisible peaks and valleys in the air.
“Water,” he said, repeating the motion. He pointed back toward the forest and repeated, “Water.”
The old man smiled in sudden recognition and moved his hand as Neil had done. He muttered a single word, and Neil hoped that this meant he had grasped the concept of water.
Neil covered his eyes with one hand and groped in front of him with the other. “Lost,” he said. “Lost.” The old man studied Neil’s pantomime carefully. Neil went through the motions again, this time uncovering his eyes and looking all around him worriedly. The white-haired Maya seemed to understand. He nodded vigorously, and Neil went on.
He pointed to the spear the captain held, and shook his head. The old man expressed confusion.
Neil pointed to the spear, shook his head, and then pointed to the Norse axes that hung from the belt of the Maya with the scar. He opened his palms wide, indicating that he held nothing, and grinned widely.
The old man stroked his chin thoughtfully. He lifted one of the axes from the soldier’s belt and offered it to Neil. Neil shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We are friends.”
The old man glanced down at the ax, and a smile crossed his wrinkled features. He threw the ax to the ground and stamped on it. He then took the spear from the hands of the soldier and dropped it to the ground before Neil’s feet.