Behind The Waterfall

The feeling of being watched, which had started as a faint prickle, was now a certainty. It was not the hostile observation of an enemy, but something else. A heavy, ancient, and deeply curious presence. It permeated the cenote, an energy that had been there all along, which he had been too consumed by his own drama to notice. His instincts, honed in border skirmishes and training bouts, screamed at him. An unknown element in a new territory must be confronted. It was a rule of survival.

Vulnerability was a foreign territory to him, but he felt it now. He was naked, weaponless, and bruised. And yet, the urge to face the mystery was stronger than the urge to hide. With a slow, deliberate exhale, he made his decision. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet, floral air, and began to swim. His strokes were slow, powerful, and nearly silent, propelling him through the turquoise water toward the ledge and the shimmering curtain of the waterfall. He would not be a passive victim of this place. He would meet its secret head-on. As he drew closer, the gentle splashing of the waterfall grew into a soft roar, and a cool, fine mist kissed his face.

He was only a few feet from the ledge, his hand raised to push through the curtain of water, when a figure moved behind the veil. A slender hand, its fingers long and elegant, with nails that looked like polished river pebbles, emerged from behind the waterfall. The hand reached out and, with a delicate grace, plucked the flower crown from the ledge.

Etalcaxi froze mid-stroke, his muscles locking, his heart giving a single, hard thump against his ribs. He was not alone.

The figure stepped through the waterfall. She did not burst through or push it aside. She parted the curtain of water as if it were a veil of glass beads, the streams separating around her form and rejoining behind her without a splash. The water slicked off her skin, refusing to cling, leaving her gleaming but not wet.

She was a creature of breathtaking, inhuman beauty. Her skin was not the bronze of his people; it had a faint, healthy green luminescence, like young moss after a fresh rain. Her long, dark hair, the color of wet earth at midnight, was a wild, untamed tangle that fell past her waist, woven through with more of the small, glowing orchids that pulsed with a soft, internal light. But it was her eyes that seized him, that held him paralyzed in the water. They were large, almond-shaped, and the color of new spring leaves, a vivid, startling green that seemed to hold the ancient, accumulated wisdom of the entire forest. They were not the eyes of a girl; they were the eyes of something that had watched mountains rise and crumble. She was beautiful, but in the way a gathering storm or a silent panther is beautiful—a sublime portrait of power and danger.

She calmly, with a practiced grace, placed the flower crown upon her head. The moment it settled into her dark hair, the blossoms seemed to sigh in contentment, their soft light brightening, casting a gentle, verdant glow across her face. Her unnerving green eyes locked with Etalcaxi's. There was no surprise on her face, no shock at finding a strange, naked man in her private cenote. There was only a deep, predatory amusement, the look of a hunter who has been waiting patiently for the prey to finally stumble into the snare.

In that instant, Etalcaxi, the great warrior, the charmer of maidens, the peacock of the Itzotec army, felt a new kind of terror. It was not the fear of death or battle, but the gut-wrenching paralysis of being completely and utterly outclassed. He trod water, suddenly, painfully aware of his own nakedness, of the ugly red scratches covering his body, of the pathetic bruises darkening on his skin. He was a flawed, exposed, and vulnerable under the gaze of this woman.

Her lips, which were the soft, dusky pink of a wild orchid, curved into a slow, knowing smile. It was a smile that held ages of secrets and a very immediate, very personal amusement. When she spoke, her voice was a low, musical murmur, a sound like rustling leaves and dripping honey.

"Lost, little warrior?" she said. The diminutive, 'little', was a perfectly aimed dart that struck deep into the heart of his pride. "You seem to have misplaced your pointy stick. And your clothes."

Etalcaxi's mouth opened. His mind, a finely tuned for witty retorts, charming boasts, and authoritative demands, ground to a halt. A dozen responses died on his tongue. I am Etalcaxi of the Itzotec nation, not a 'little warrior.' Who are you, woman? This is my discovery, not yours. All of it, all the usual armor of his ego, dissolved into nothing. Nothing came out. He was, for the first time since puberty, completely, utterly, and humiliatingly speechless.

Her smile widened at his silent, fish-like astonishment. She was enjoying this. She had expected it. With a fluid motion that was less a dive and more a surrender to the water, she slid from the ledge into the pool. She entered the water with an almost imperceptible ripple, her form slipping into the turquoise depths as if she were returning home. She did not swim with the familiar, thrashing strokes. She moved beneath the surface with the sinuous, powerful grace of a river serpent, her body undulating, her long hair flowing behind her like a dark banner. It was mesmerizing, a dance of primal elegance that held him captivated.

She surfaced a few feet away and began to circle him. Slowly. Methodically. It was not a curious swim; it was an inspection. A jaguar circling a potential meal. Her analytical gaze traveled down his body, lingering here and there. She took in his wide, powerful shoulders, the muscles of his chest and arms. Her eyes traced the faint, white lines of old battle scars on his ribs, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze fell on the fresh, angry red scratches and the dark, ugly bruises he had earned in his chase through the jungle. Her appraisal was so open, so direct, so completely devoid of modesty that it made his skin tingle, a thousand invisible fingers tracing his form. He felt like a prize animal being judged at a market.

He finally found his voice, though it came out as a weak, pathetic croak that shamed him. "I am not lost," he managed, trying to inject a measure of his old authority into the sound. "I am... scouting." The lie was so feeble it was almost comical. "Who are you? From what tribe do you hail?"

She let out a soft, throaty laugh, a sound that seemed to bubble up from the depths of the cenote itself. It was a rich, warm sound, and it echoed off the limestone walls, surrounding him. "'Tribe'?" she purred, the sound a mix of genuine amusement and condescension. "A cute little word." She stopped circling and floated before him, her green eyes boring into his. "This stone does not know your name, warrior. This water does not know your tribe. This grove belongs only to itself." She paused, letting her words sink in, a slow smile playing on her lips. "And anything that falls into the grove... belongs to the grove, too. For a time."

Her words were playful, but the possessive, territorial undercurrent was unmistakable. She had just laid claim to him. She stopped circling and floated directly in front of him, so close that her breasts, full and bare beneath the water, almost brushed against his chest. Her face was inches from his. He could see the flecks of gold in her green irises. He could smell the scent of her skin, a clean, wild fragrance of night-blooming jasmine and wet earth. He was trapped in her proximity, in the intensity of her gaze.

She reached out a slender finger, cool and smooth, and gently, deliberately, traced the line of a fresh, red scratch on his shoulder. Her touch was like moss against his skin, but it sent a jolt of pure fire through his entire body. It was a shock so intense it made him suck in a sharp breath. Every nerve ending in his body came alive, screaming in response to that single, simple touch.

"You are hurt," she murmured, her eyes holding his, her finger still resting on his skin. "And you have lost your favorite toy." A flicker of mischief danced in her eyes. "The little mischief-makers were very proud of their prize."

The pieces in his mind, scattered by shock and awe, began to click into place. "Mischief-makers?" he asked, his voice strained and confused.

"The monkeys," she said with a dismissive little wave of her hand. "They listen to me. Sometimes."

The casual admission hit him like a slap to the face. The chase. The mockery. The theft of his spear. The fall. It was all her. This beautiful, alluring creature had orchestrated his entire humiliation from afar. He had not been fighting the random malice of the jungle; she had been pulling the strings of a web.

Her eyes, which had been full of amusement, now began to glow with a different kind of light. A deeper, warmer, and much more dangerous light. An unmistakable heat. She leaned closer still, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Her voice dropped to an intimate, conspiratorial whisper, a sound meant for him alone, a secret shared in the heart of the cenote.

"But I am feeling generous," she whispered, her lips almost brushing his ear. "I know where the monkeys put your pointy stick. I could be persuaded to help you retrieve it." She pulled back just enough to look him directly in the eyes again, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "But... such a great favor requires a worthy price."

"What price?" The words were torn from his throat, a raw, strained sound.

She did not answer with words. Her smile widened, and her gaze dropped, slowly, deliberately, from his eyes to his lips. The look held for a long, charged moment before lifting back to his eyes. The implication was as potent, as undeniable, and as electrifying as her touch. It was a silent, sensual contract laid bare in the turquoise water.

Etalcaxi was trapped. Caught in the vibrant green of her gaze, mesmerized by her power, and completely, utterly out of his depth. The proud warrior, the conqueror of men and seducer of women, was now a supplicant. And the mysterious, beautiful creature in the water held all the power.