In The Jungle

The path stretched before them, an easy road into the heart of Coatl-Cuahuitl. It was wide, clear, and carpeted with a soft, springy moss that muffled their footsteps. The oppressive, chaotic noise of the outer jungle remained sealed away behind them, replaced by the low, musical humming. Strange flowers, far larger than any they had ever seen, lined the path. Their petals were the color of a deep twilight sky, and from the center of each, a cluster of glowing pistils pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence, their rhythm a perfect match for the humming.

To Etalcaxi, it was the calm of a conquered territory.

He walked with a renewed swagger, his initial shock at the wood's strange entrance now fully metabolized into fuel for his ego. He was a force of nature, and this forest had recognized him as an equal, or perhaps even a superior. It had quieted its noisy rabble in his presence. It had laid out a clear, soft path for his feet. It had lit his way with these glowing blossoms, a tribute to his greatness. He felt a surge of magnanimous power. He had been right all along. The fears of lesser men were an obstacle. He was a mighty warrior, moving swiftly now that the obstacle had been proven useless.

He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, the others were not so serene. Coyotl, the nervous porter, had his eyes squeezed half-shut, his lips moving in a constant, silent stream of prayers. His hands were clasped so tightly around a small stone amulet that his knuckles were white. He jumped every time a glowing flower pulsed a little brighter. Ixa and Zolin, trudged side-by-side, their usual bickering replaced by a wide-eyed, shared dread that made them stick closer together than they had in weeks. Citli, ever the warrior-in-training, was trying to emulate Etalcaxi's confidence, but his grip on his macana was unnaturally tight, and his head swiveled constantly, trying to pierce the impenetrable gloom on either side of the path.

Xochi, as always, was different. Her calm was not the blissful ignorance of Etalcaxi, but the watchful stillness of a predator. Her hand rested on the obsidian knife tucked into her belt, her thumb stroking the smooth handle. She was not looking at the easy path before her. Her gaze was fixed upward, scanning the dense, interwoven canopy, a dark ceiling from which anything could drop.

And then there was Tlico. The old merchant walked with his usual, weary gait, his hand resting on the back of his llama. He was not looking at the path, or the trees, or the sky. He was watching Etalcaxi's back with an expression of such deep skepticism that it could have curdled water. He saw the arrogant swing of the warrior's shoulders, the confident set of his head, and his own leathery face tightened. He had seen this kind of pride before. It was always the prelude to a disaster. This path was too easy. This was the stillness of a jaguar's den, the polite quiet of a spider's web.

Etalcaxi, basking in the warm glow of his own vindication, decided it was time to strengthen his victory. He stopped, planting the butt of his spear on the mossy ground with a soft thud. The entire caravan, grateful for any excuse to halt, stopped behind him. He turned, a supremely smug grin spreading across his handsome face. It was the grin of a man who was not just right, but gloriously, epically right.

He gestured expansively with one arm, a sweeping motion that encompassed the eerily clear path stretching before and behind them. "Behold, Tlico!" his voice boomed, shattering the tranquil hum. "Coatl-Cuahuitl lays itself bare for us! The path is clear, the way is open. Perhaps your grandfather's superstitions were meant for lesser men. Perhaps the trees can recognize a true warrior and know better than to offer a challenge." He looked directly at the old merchant, his eyes glittering with triumph. "Perhaps the 'spirit of the wood' has decided to be a gracious host, now that it has a guest of quality."

Tlico, who had been methodically adjusting a strap on his llama's pack, did not immediately look up. He gave the strap one final, firm tug before turning his flat, unimpressed gaze on the posturing warrior. "A clear path can become a cage, warrior," he said, his voice level and dry. "A predator sometimes shows its prey an easy road to the trap. It saves the predator the trouble of a long chase."

Etalcaxi let out another one of his loud, dismissive laughs. "Such cynicism! It will rob you of joy in your old age, merchant." He puffed out his chest. "I make my own roads. The forest's superstitions are for lesser men to fear. This journey, under my command, is already proving to be the most efficient one you have ever taken. You see? You simply needed a leader with the courage to carve his own destiny, to bend the world to his will. This journey is already—"

He turned back to the path, his mouth still open to finish his grand pronouncement, his body already coiled to resume his confident march.

He stopped dead. The boast died in his throat, choked off by a sudden, violent intake of breath.

Where a wide, clear, moss-carpeted path had been a mere second ago, there was now a wall.

It was not a wall of stone or wood. It was a solid, impenetrable, and living wall of writhing, thorny vegetation. It stretched from one side of the narrow corridor to the other, a solid mass of green and red that reached high into the dark canopy above, completely blocking the way forward.

The wall was like a tapestry woven by a malevolent god of nature. Thick, dark green vines, glistening as if coated in venom and covered in thorns like jagged shards of green glass, twisted and coiled around each other like a nest of gargantuan serpents. Massive, gnarled roots, the color of old blood and bone, had burst from the ground, weaving themselves into the structure with the strength of stone. And amidst the thorns, great, fleshy flowers bloomed. Their petals were a deep, visceral red, and they slowly, rhythmically, opened and closed like lungs taking a breath. From deep within the tangled thicket, a faint green light pulsed, a malevolent heartbeat that was perfectly, mockingly in time with the musical humming.

Etalcaxi's jaw hung open. He blinked once. Twice. The wall was still there. It had not grown. It had simply... appeared. As if it had been there all along and the forest had decided to stop pretending it wasn't.

He took a hesitant, stumbling step forward. The land felt thin, unreal. He lifted his obsidian-tipped spear, his movements stiff, and poked at the barricade. The spearhead, sharp enough to pierce the hide of a wild boar, met a thick vine. It did not sink in. It met the vine with a dull, solid thud, as if he had poked a block of jade.

Behind him, the fragile composure of the caravan shattered. Citli let out a loud gasp, his young face a perfect picture of religious awe and abject terror. He looked from his hero to the living wall, his belief system crumbling and rebuilding itself in real time. Ixa and Zolin, their faces pale as mushrooms, were speechless, their hands finding each other in a shared, desperate grip. They were united in a single, unambiguous emotion: pure, bowel-loosening fear.

Coyotl let out a strangled whimper, a sound like a stepped-on puppy. His legs gave out, and he sank to his knees in the soft moss. His trembling hands fumbled with the small stone amulet around his neck, his fingers unable to find purchase. "The jungle is alive!" he sobbed, his voice cracking with hysteria. " Coatl-Cuahuitl has claimed the path! It has us! We are doomed! We are all doomed!"

All eyes, even Coyotl's tear-filled ones, eventually turned to the one person who was not panicking. They turned to Tlico. The old merchant had not moved. He stood beside his llama, his expression unchanged. He showed no surprise, no fear, no vindication. He looked at the wall of thorns as if it were a common, albeit inconvenient, landslide. He calmly reached out and plucked a stray leaf that had fallen onto the llama's supply pack. He examined the leaf for a moment, turning it over in his fingers as if checking its quality. Then, he looked up, his gaze settling on the utterly dumbfounded, slack-jawed Etalcaxi.

His voice, when it came, was perfectly level, perfectly dry.

"The warrior's will, you said?"

Etalcaxi flinched, his whole body recoiling as if Tlico's quiet words had struck him with a club. The blood drained from his face, only to be replaced by a deep, burning flush of humiliation that started at his neck and spread upwards, setting his entire head on fire. To be so confident, so loud, so utterly dismissive. And to be proven so wrong, so instantly, so spectacularly, in front of everyone... it was unbearable. The memory of his own booming words, his arrogant laughter, echoed in his skull, each syllable a fresh lash of shame.

"It is a trick!" he snarled, his voice tight and hoarse with fury. He spun to face the wall, his embarrassment transmuting into rage. "A simple illusion! The work of cowardly spirits!"

He lunged at the wall, hacking at it furiously with his spear. He was no longer a graceful warrior, but a wild man, swinging with frantic, uncontrolled energy. He put all his strength into the blows. Thwack! Thud! The sounds were pathetic, absorbed by the living mass. The vines were unnaturally tough, resisting the razor-sharp obsidian. With a grunt of pure effort, he managed to sever one of the thicker, thorny creepers. It fell away, oozing a thick, milky sap.

But his victory was fleeting. Before the severed vine had even hit the ground, two more, slender and whip-like, snaked out from the mass to take its place. They moved with an eerie, deliberate speed, weaving themselves into the wall as if repairing a tear in a piece of cloth. The green light within the barricade pulsed brighter, and the musical humming seemed to grow louder, its beautiful tone now laced with something that felt distinctly like mockery.

He hacked again and again, his breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat stinging his eyes. For every thorny branch he broke, for every root he managed to chip, the wall regenerated, becoming even thicker, even more densely woven. It was a useless, humiliating assault.

Defeated, breathing heavily, his arms aching and his pride in tatters, he stopped. He stood before the living wall, his chest heaving, the humming ringing in his ears. He was a fool. A loud, arrogant fool, and every single person in the caravan now knew it. Tlico's dry words echoed in his mind: A clear path can become a cage. He was in the cage.

He could not admit it. His pride, though wounded, was the only thing he had left. To admit defeat now, to turn to Tlico and concede that the old man was right, was a fate worse than being eaten by the trees. He had to reclaim his authority. He had to regain control.

He turned to face the caravan, deliberately refusing to meet Tlico's steady, knowing gaze. He forced himself to stand straight, to wipe the desperation from his face, to arrange his features into a mask of thoughtful command.

"This is not a wall," he announced, his voice still tight, but now layered with a forced, intellectual confidence. "This is a riddle. The spirit of this wood is testing our resolve. It does not respond to brute force." He looked at his spear as if it were a crude, clumsy tool. "It requires a warrior's cunning, not a porter's fear."

He pointed his spear into the dark, untracked woods to their right, parallel to the thorny barricade. "A direct approach is what it expects. We will not give it what it expects. I will find a way around this... obstacle." He straightened his shoulders.

"The caravan will wait here. Rest. Conserve your energy. I will scout ahead. Alone." He added the last word with a sharp emphasis. "I move faster without needing to worry about the safety of others."

The excuse was so thin it was transparent, and he knew it. He wasn't going alone for speed; he was going alone because he could not bear the thought of them watching him fail again. He needed to escape their eyes, their silent judgment.

"Let me come!" Citli burst out, taking a step forward, his face alight with earnest loyalty. "My lord, a warrior should not scout alone in a place like this! Two warriors are better than one! I can watch your back!"

"No!" Etalcaxi's reply was a sharp, cutting gesture with his hand, a dismissal so abrupt it made Citli flinch back. "You will stay. You will guard Tlico and the goods. You will be my rear guard." He forced a commander's tone into his voice. "That is an order."

The words hung in the air, a desperate attempt to sound like a leader again. Stung, humiliated, and burning with a ferocious need to prove himself—to the caravan, and most of all, to himself—Etalcaxi turned his back on them. He did not look back. He squared his shoulders, held his spear in a ready grip, and stalked off into the dense, pathless jungle, disappearing into the oppressive green gloom.

The caravan was left huddled together on the deceptively soft, mossy path. They watched the spot where he had vanished, the silence of the woods broken only by Coyotl's quiet sobbing and the welcoming humming from somewhere within Coatl-Cuahuitl.