Temple of the Jaguar God
Zach Neal
Copyright
2016 Zach Neal and Long Cool One Books
Design:
J. Thornton
Original cover image by z-m-k , Wiki Commons.
ISBN
978-1-927957-99-8
The
following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person
living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely
coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights
to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.
Table of Contents
Act
One
Act
Two
Act
Three
About Zach
Neal
Temple of the Jaguar God
Zach Neal
Act One
They
were in the sixth form at Rugby. The end of term was coming up
fast.
Richard
Hamble, a year older, threw the letter down. He stared off into
space.
“ What an extraordinary fellow.”
They’d
been having a bit of a nosh-up in the privacy of Jeremy’s room. The
two of them had pooled all kinds of hoarded private tucker when
Hamble, always with his nose into everything, scooped up what was
another fellow’s private and personal mail. He was a big, hulking
fellow with a heart of gold. Jeremy was grateful for his odd
friendship—and a bit of protection.
“ Floreat Rugbeia . Yes, he really did
say that.” Hamble shook his head in disgust at the fancy,
monogrammed letterhead. “Fellow of the Royal Society, member of the
Explorer’s Club.”
Throwing
his feet up on the coffee table, he stuck his hands into his
waistcoat pockets in a characteristic pose.
“ Hah.”
Hamble
was from a family of genteel county aristocracy, at least to hear
him tell it, up Shropshire way. He could be, or beat on a ruffian
whenever he wanted to, which was as often as he thought no one was
looking and he could get away with it. Not so much evil, as
amusing, thought Jeremy. And why not. Other than school, this part
of the world—Rugby School in Warwickshire, was as boring as any
other place he’d ever been.
Uncle
Harry, Doctor Harold C. Fawcett, Ph.D., was an alumni of their good
old alma mater. Not that Jeremy Crowe was so fond of it. Not
hardly, always with the low grades, and not a snow-ball’s chance of
shining at either the letters or the games. If it wasn’t for Uncle
Harry, Jeremy wouldn’t even be there. The financial support was
more than welcome. Otherwise he would have had to go out and muck
and toil for his livelihood, something Jeremey wasn’t all that
enthused about. He was still young enough to dream of better
things.
Harry
was his mother’s younger brother and had made his name quite young,
with a fortunate dig in Mesopotamia.
To be
good at games was everything, but sweat and strain as he might, run
like hell after the ball, bigger fellows, not all of them older
men, made him look decidedly sick.
“ And he’s a doctor?”
“ Yes. Of a sort.”
“ Are you going?”
Jeremy
raised his eyebrows.
“ Egads. I hadn’t really thought all that much about it—” There
was that family connection, and some sense of
obligation.
Which
was something he’d always hated.
“ Well, you’d better make up your mind. Pretty damned quick, old
cock.”
“ Yes! I suppose I should.” Jeremy raised the tea cup and
drained it.
Hungry
as always, no matter how much he ate, it never seemed to translate
onto his lanky five-foot, eight-inch frame.
Flipping
longish blond hair out of his right eye, Jeremy picked up the
letter and read that last part again.
“ Wire me soonest. Will provide money and tickets. We leave from
Southampton on the ninth. You have to do something for the summer
holidays and this is the opportunity for a little adventure. Yours,
your Weird Uncle Harry.”
He
sighed, deeply. The thoughts of another long and lonely summer at
home in Norfolk drained all resistance. Stuffy country society
versus the Spanish Main—or so it seemed. Yet at one time he might
have looked forward to it, but most of his friends had moved on as
well.
Zach Neal
Copyright
2016 Zach Neal and Long Cool One Books
Design:
J. Thornton
Original cover image by z-m-k , Wiki Commons.
ISBN
978-1-927957-99-8
The
following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person
living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely
coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights
to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.
Table of Contents
Act
One
Act
Two
Act
Three
About Zach
Neal
Temple of the Jaguar God
Zach Neal
Act One
They
were in the sixth form at Rugby. The end of term was coming up
fast.
Richard
Hamble, a year older, threw the letter down. He stared off into
space.
“ What an extraordinary fellow.”
They’d
been having a bit of a nosh-up in the privacy of Jeremy’s room. The
two of them had pooled all kinds of hoarded private tucker when
Hamble, always with his nose into everything, scooped up what was
another fellow’s private and personal mail. He was a big, hulking
fellow with a heart of gold. Jeremy was grateful for his odd
friendship—and a bit of protection.
“ Floreat Rugbeia . Yes, he really did
say that.” Hamble shook his head in disgust at the fancy,
monogrammed letterhead. “Fellow of the Royal Society, member of the
Explorer’s Club.”
Throwing
his feet up on the coffee table, he stuck his hands into his
waistcoat pockets in a characteristic pose.
“ Hah.”
Hamble
was from a family of genteel county aristocracy, at least to hear
him tell it, up Shropshire way. He could be, or beat on a ruffian
whenever he wanted to, which was as often as he thought no one was
looking and he could get away with it. Not so much evil, as
amusing, thought Jeremy. And why not. Other than school, this part
of the world—Rugby School in Warwickshire, was as boring as any
other place he’d ever been.
Uncle
Harry, Doctor Harold C. Fawcett, Ph.D., was an alumni of their good
old alma mater. Not that Jeremy Crowe was so fond of it. Not
hardly, always with the low grades, and not a snow-ball’s chance of
shining at either the letters or the games. If it wasn’t for Uncle
Harry, Jeremy wouldn’t even be there. The financial support was
more than welcome. Otherwise he would have had to go out and muck
and toil for his livelihood, something Jeremey wasn’t all that
enthused about. He was still young enough to dream of better
things.
Harry
was his mother’s younger brother and had made his name quite young,
with a fortunate dig in Mesopotamia.
To be
good at games was everything, but sweat and strain as he might, run
like hell after the ball, bigger fellows, not all of them older
men, made him look decidedly sick.
“ And he’s a doctor?”
“ Yes. Of a sort.”
“ Are you going?”
Jeremy
raised his eyebrows.
“ Egads. I hadn’t really thought all that much about it—” There
was that family connection, and some sense of
obligation.
Which
was something he’d always hated.
“ Well, you’d better make up your mind. Pretty damned quick, old
cock.”
“ Yes! I suppose I should.” Jeremy raised the tea cup and
drained it.
Hungry
as always, no matter how much he ate, it never seemed to translate
onto his lanky five-foot, eight-inch frame.
Flipping
longish blond hair out of his right eye, Jeremy picked up the
letter and read that last part again.
“ Wire me soonest. Will provide money and tickets. We leave from
Southampton on the ninth. You have to do something for the summer
holidays and this is the opportunity for a little adventure. Yours,
your Weird Uncle Harry.”
He
sighed, deeply. The thoughts of another long and lonely summer at
home in Norfolk drained all resistance. Stuffy country society
versus the Spanish Main—or so it seemed. Yet at one time he might
have looked forward to it, but most of his friends had moved on as
well.
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