Trading Post

After several more days of tense, watchful travel along the high ridges, Coatl-Cuahuitl began to recede, replaced by the familiar, chaotic sounds of the lower jungle. The air grew heavier, wetter, and carried a new scent on the breeze: woodsmoke. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they were approaching a human settlement.

The trading post, when they finally reached it, was not a grand settlement of stone, but a rustic, practical wood and vine. It was a collection of large, thatched-roof huts built high on sturdy stilts, a necessary precaution against the seasonal floods and the jungle's less savory inhabitants. The huts were connected by a network of wide, sturdy rope bridges that swayed gently in the breeze. It was a neutral ground, a place of truce and trade, buzzing with a quiet, purposeful activity that was a balm to the caravan's frayed nerves. Local Nohochchuchilan hunters, their bodies lean and corded with muscle, traded spotted jaguar pelts and bright macaw feathers. Women with intricate tattoos on their arms sat in the shade of a large hut, weaving colorful baskets from palm fronds. The air smelled of beeswax, smoked meats, and the sharp, earthy tang of turkey shit from the birds pecking for insects in the mud below.

The Itzotec porters let out a collective, audible sigh of relief. They had survived Coatl-Cuahuitl. They had reached civilization.

"No talking trees," Coyotl whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he touched one of the solid, man-made support stilts. "No phantom walls. Just people." He looked to the sky. "The gods are merciful."

Tlico, who was already scrutinizing the quality of the pelts being traded nearby, snorted. "The gods have nothing to do with it. This place is run by Akna. Akna does not tolerate mystical nonsense, from gods or from the jungle. She would charge a spirit a toll for haunting her bridges." He turned to the group, his face stern. "Follow me. Stay together. Touch nothing. And be respectful. Akna's tongue can be sharper than an obsidian blade."

Tlico led Etalcaxi and Citli toward the largest of the huts, a central structure that served as the heart of the small community. They walked up a wide, gently sloping wooden ramp, their footsteps echoing on the planks. The interior of the hut was a welcome respite from the humid heat, a dark and cool space that smelled of woodsmoke and a hundred different herbs hanging in dried bundles from the rafters. Every available surface was covered with wares from Akna's long and successful career. Stacks of folded animal pelts—jaguar, ocelot, and capybara—rested against one wall. Bundles of dried plants, medicinal and culinary, filled woven baskets. Carved limestone figures of grinning gods and stern-faced kings lined long shelves, next to stacks of intricate, black-on-red pottery.

In the very center of the room, sitting on a low, carved wooden stool like a spider in the center of her web, was Akna. She was an ancient Nohochchuchilan woman, her face a beautiful, intricate map of wrinkles. Her hair was a cascade of pure silver, braided with polished jade beads that clicked softly when she moved. She was smoking a small, elegant clay pipe, the fragrant smoke curling around her head like a halo. She watched the Itzotecs enter with sharp, intelligent, unblinking eyes that seemed to see everything, all at once.

Tlico stopped a respectful distance away and gave a low, formal bow. "Akna of the Whispering Leaves," he said, his voice full of a deference Etalcaxi had never heard from him before. "Tlico of the Itzotec brings greetings and seeks fair trade."

Akna took a slow, deliberate puff from her pipe, the bowl glowing a dull red in the gloom. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "Old friend Tlico," she said, her voice a dry, rustling whisper, like old leaves. "Your face carries more lines than last season. The road was hard on you." Her sharp eyes flickered from Tlico to Etalcaxi, taking in his leafy loincloth and the strange, distant look in his eyes. "And you travel with new companions. One a boy with a hero's fire, the other... a warrior who smells of flowers."

Etalcaxi felt a jolt, but Tlico smoothly stepped in, gesturing for the porters to bring their trade goods forward. Zolin and Coyotl, looking terrified, carefully maneuvered the wobbly cart up the ramp, its precious cargo swaying. With practiced efficiency, they unloaded their wares, arranging them on a clean mat before Akna. There were bolts of fine Tlacaxinachyotlan textiles, dyed in rich, vibrant colors. There was a sealed pot of valuable cochineal dye, the source of the most brilliant red in all the nations. And there were several masterfully crafted obsidian blades, their edges so fine they were almost invisible, their hilts wrapped in intricately woven cotton. Lastly, they brought the empty pots that had been carried all this way.

Akna did not rise. She watched as Tlico presented each item. He unrolled a bolt of cloth, its colors a shock of brilliance in the dim hut. He unsealed the cochineal pot, revealing the deep, blood-red powder within. He held up an obsidian knife, its flaked blade catching the light.

"We seek two items in trade, honored Akna," Tlico said, his voice resuming its familiar, professional tone. "The finest honey from the Melipona hives. And twenty long tail feathers from the Resplendent Quetzal, unmarred and of the highest quality, for a noble bride."

Akna inspected the goods with an expert's silent appraisal. She took the obsidian knife from Tlico, her wrinkled fingers testing its balance. She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of approval. She dipped a single finger into the cochineal dye, rubbing the brilliant red powder between her thumb and forefinger, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she gestured with the stem of her pipe toward a shadowed corner of the hut. In the corner were several large, sealed ceramic pots, identical to the ones the caravan had brought, and a long, flat box made of a dark, polished wood.

"You are fortunate, Tlico," she said, her voice a dry crackle. "The Serpent-Head Clan passed through yesterday."

Tlico's body went rigid. Etalcaxi felt a surge of cold dread. They were too late.

"Their leader, the peacock called Cozoc, swaggered in here, all jade beads and arrogance," Akna continued, taking another puff from her pipe. "He tried to buy all the feathers. All the honey. He made an offer." She paused, a glint of contempt in her dark eyes. "His offer was an insult. He thought this old woman was a fool who would be dazzled by his shiny ornaments. I sent the man away with nothing but the dust on his sandals and a flea in his ear about the proper respect due to his elders."

Tlico's face, which had been a mask of tense worry, flooded with a relief that seemed to take years off his age. Etalcaxi felt a surge of fierce, triumphant pride. They had won. The arrogant Lord Cozoc had been sent packing, and their mission was still alive.

A favorable deal was struck. Akna was a shrewd but fair negotiator. The fine Itzotec textiles, the cochineal, and three of the obsidian blades, along with the empty pots, for the six full pots of honey and the long, precious box of quetzal feathers. The porters, their faces alight with joy, carefully loaded the precious cargo onto their cart. The large, sealed pots of honey were heavy, but promised a successful return. The long bundle of quetzal feathers, wrapped in layers of soft cotton cloth, was handled with the reverence due to a precious object. The mission, which had been plagued by disaster, supernatural interference, and the threat of rivals, was a success.

The mood in the small clearing outside Akna's hut was celebratory. For the first time in weeks, Ixa and Zolin were actually laughing, a shared, genuine sound of relief. Citli, his face beaming with pride, clapped Etalcaxi hard on the back.

"A victory, Commander!" he exclaimed, his voice full of adoration. "We secured the prize, despite Coatl-Cuahuitl and the Nictex dogs! The stories of this journey will be legendary! And you, you are the hero of all of them!"

Etalcaxi forced a wide, brilliant smile. He clapped Citli on the shoulder, played the part of the triumphant leader. He should have been ecstatic. His duty was fulfilled. His honor was satisfied. He had overcome every obstacle. But all he felt was a vast, hollow ache in the center of his chest.

Victory meant the journey was almost over. Victory meant turning back, leaving the Uetatan jungles behind.

Victory meant leaving Ixtic.

Tlico, in a rare and shocking display of good humor, approached him. The old merchant's face was relaxed, the deep lines of worry smoothed away. He was holding a small, unsealed pot of honey—part of their own personal payment from Akna—and a piece of dried fruit.

"Taste our victory, warrior," Tlico said, his voice holding a genuine warmth. He dipped the piece of fruit into the pot, coating it in a thick, glistening layer of rich, amber honey. He offered it to Etalcaxi. "The sweetness of a mission well done."

Etalcaxi took the fruit. He smiled his thanks at Tlico. He was the commander, the hero of the hour. He had to play his part. He brought the morsel to his lips.

The moment the honey touched his tongue, he froze.

Everything around him—the celebrating porters, the proud Citli, the smiling Tlico—seemed to fade away, the sounds of their joy becoming a distant, meaningless hum. The honey on his tongue was not a taste of victory. It was the taste of her.

It was rich, floral, and incredibly complex. It was the taste of a thousand blossoms, of the deep, secret heart of the jungle. It was the taste of wild, dark honey, of rich, rain-soaked earth, of the heady perfume of night-blooming orchids. It was the taste of her kiss. The taste of her very essence. He realized with a sudden, gut-wrenching certainty that the bees of this region drew their nectar from the magical flowers of her grove. This honey was not a simple sweet. It was her.

The sweetness was not a reward. It was a painful, sudden, and overwhelming reminder of what he was now scheduled to leave behind forever. His forced smile dissolved, replaced by a raw, unguarded expression of longing.

Citli and Tlico were watching him.

"Is the honey not to your liking, Commander?" Citli asked, his brow furrowed with a naive concern.

Etalcaxi could not look at him. He could not look at anyone. His gaze was fixed on the dark, living wall of the jungle that surrounded the small clearing, the jungle that was her body, her home.

"No, Citli," he said, his voice distant, hoarse with an emotion he could not name. "The honey is... perfect."

He stared past his celebrating companions, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. The mission was over. His duty was done. He had won. And for the first time in his proud, ambitious life, Etalcaxi wished with all his soul that he had failed.