The Mayan Codex

3

Yola Dufontaine had spent most of the previous day fighting off a relentless migraine. She had no idea what had triggered it, but it had been accompanied by repeated images of her honorary blood brother, Damo Sabir, wedged inside the cesspit at the Maset de la Marais, just as she had found him, five months before, when she and Sergeant Spola had broken in to rescue him.

In her waking dream, Sabir had once again been dying from the distilled snake venom he had secreted in his mouth to kill Achor Bale with. But this time around, Yola was unable to force him to vomit by drenching him with mustard powder and salt water, just as she had done in real life. Instead, she knew for a certainty that he was going to die. But the curious thing was that in this new, fanciful version of events, it wasn’t Sabir who was taking his leave of her, but rather she of him.

When she told her husband, Alexi, about the migraine and the waking nightmare he had said, quite simply, ‘You are three months pregnant, luludji. The morning sickness has stopped. Maybe hallucinations is the next thing you women get? Nothing can possibly surprise me about pregnancy any more.’

Yola hadn’t known exactly what she had wanted Alexi to say, but it hadn’t been that. Now she wished that she could get back in touch with Sabir and reassure herself that all was well with him. He and the curandero were the only two people on earth who knew her secret – not even Alexi was privy to it, for reasons that still eluded her, but which were probably related to her fears about his occasional proclivity for binge drinking, and the tearaway tongue that ensued. If Alexi even once blabbed in the camp about her being the mother of the Second Coming, the cat would really hit the skylight, showering them all with broken glass. Best not.

The curandero was, as always, on the road to somewhere, and therefore impossible to contact – he would either turn up or he wouldn’t. Sabir, on the other hand, lived a more static life.

Now, still unable to sleep, Yola rummaged around inside her and Alexi’s caravan until she found where she’d hidden the piece of paper Sabir had scribbled his telephone number on. Then, well before dawn, she started down through the woods for Samois and the nearest public telephone booth. Sabir had explained to her that New England was many hours behind France in terms of time, and she wanted to try to catch him before he went to bed.