Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 97: Years of Danger
Guatemalan Highlands, 1822
The forest feels different when we leave the ruined observatory behind. It suddenly feels heavier and more watchful. As though the trees themselves know we carry something precious.
Ixchel senses trouble and walks quickly, her hand wrapped around Yalitza’s. The girl keeps pace, though her breath comes fast and shallow. I feel her pulse through the bracelet ... small, fluttering, and frightened. Balam keeps pace with them, but Nicte is soon some distance behind.
We reach a narrow ridge path overlooking the valley. The astronomers’ village lies below, quiet and sunlit. For a moment, it looks peaceful.
Then the shouting begins.
Six armed men are in the village ... republican militia, uniforms dusty, faces hard. They move with the tense, predatory energy of men who have been hunting rebels for weeks.
Ixchel stiffens. Yalitza freezes. The bracelet warm sharply against Ixchel’s wrist.
The militia leader points at us as we enter the village. “You three. Stop.”
Ixchel turns slowly, keeping Yalitza behind her. “We’re just travellers. Part of the caravan that is resting here.”
The leader’s gaze drops to the bracelet. “That’s a fine piece you’ve got there.”
Ixchel’s pulse spikes. I feel it through the glyph.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she says.
The man steps closer. “Heirlooms can be confiscated if you’re aiding rebels.”
“We’re not,” Ixchel says calmly.
But the soldier behind the leader has already spotted the wounded man from our caravan moving down the slope toward the village. He shouts, “There! Loyalist scum!”
The militia surge forward, forgetting Ixchel and Yalitza for the moment.
The wounded man tries to flee, but they catch him easily. He cries out as they drag him to the ground.
Yalitza whimpers. Ixchel pulls her close.
The leader turns back to Ixchel. “If you’re travelling with him, you’re suspect.”
“We’re not,” Ixchel says again, voice steady but taut.
The leader’s eyes narrow. “Then why did you say you were travelling with the caravan?”
Ixchel doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The forest behind us is the only safe direction.
Nicte appears beside us, breathless. “Go,” she urges. “Take the child. Take your knowledge. They won’t listen.”
Ixchel hesitates for only a heartbeat.
Then she grabs Yalitza’s hand. “Come.”
Ixchel and Yalitza run. I befuddle the soldier’s mind to allow the pair enough time to escape.
The forest air is thick with humidity and the smell of crushed leaves. The dense undergrowth swallows them quickly ... branches whipping past, roots catching at their feet. Ixchel moves with fierce determination, guiding Yalitza over fallen logs and through narrow gaps between trees.
The bracelet warms against her wrist, steadying her, urging her forward.
Behind us, the militia’s shouts fade into the distance.
Only when the forest grows quiet again does Ixchel stop. She kneels beside Yalitza, brushing hair from her face.
“Are you hurt?”
Yalitza shakes her head, though tears cling to her lashes. “They were so angry.”
“I know,” Ixchel whispers. “But we’re safe now.”
The bracelet pulses gently, offering what comfort it can.
Ixchel stands, looking in the direction of the village for any signs of pursuit. “We can’t go back. The highlands aren’t safe any more.”
Yalitza wipes her eyes. “Where do we go?”
Ixchel looks at the bracelet. “Where Jeannia leads us.”
I feel the fragment hum ... quiet, insistent, pointing toward the distant Maya lowlands, toward another piece of the ancient instrument.
‘North. Toward Yucatán,’ I whisper.
Ixchel lifts her satchel. “We’ll travel slowly. Carefully. We’ll find safe villages and rest. We’ll learn what we can along the way.”
Yalitza nods bravely. “I’ll help.”
Ixchel smiles faintly. “I know.”
They begin walking again ... two figures moving through the forest, carrying knowledge, fear, hope, and an ancient fragment of an instrument that seeks its purpose.
Ixchel doesn’t doubt that the journey ahead will be hard. Dangerous. Full of detours and narrow escapes. But the path is set. The long, slow journey to Yucatán begins.
After their experience in the Balam’s and Nicte’s village, Ixchel decides that the road they travelled from Chiapas is too dangerous for her and Yalitza to use. Instead they turn east moving from village to village, trading healing skills for food and supplies. As Ixchel anticipated, the journey is long and hard. The route through the mountainous jungle is full of dangers, and Ixchel feels her responsibility to keep Yalitza safe and to teach everything she needs to know. They rest often, sometimes for months when they find a welcoming village.
The forest becomes their refuge. Ixchel moves carefully, choosing paths that keep them away from the main roads, militia patrols and rebel skirmishes. Yalitza learns to stay quiet when danger is near, to listen for distant voices, and to read Ixchel’s expressions like a map.
At night, Ixchel teaches her the stars. Yalitza’s small finger traces the arc of Venus across the sky.
“Is it guiding us?” she asks.
Ixchel smiles softly. “In its way.”
The bracelet warms against her wrist.
‘In my way too,’ I whisper.
The fragment hums faintly, pointing north‑east.
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