Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.
September 1983
“The cave stinks like stale, wet laundry. We’d spent weeks hiking all over the Yucatán and were used to the damp, rotting smell of the jungle, but this was something else entirely. Locals said the island was cursed—bad things happened when you stayed too long. The air definitely felt heavier here, like it knew something we didn’t. And it was no cooler inside. The walls were covered in a layer of moss that became thick with slimy hair the farther we walked.”
George’s father had told countless stories–mythic, dramatic, larger than life–but never this one. Just imagining the smell made George’s nose wrinkle.
“Down we went, deeper and darker, until even the last sliver of daylight vanished behind us. It felt like the cave had swallowed every trace of light. We couldn’t see a thing, but our ears told us we were in a massive room. My guide and translator, a man I called Hermano, paused, listening—he could hear water trickling down the walls. Then he rummaged through his pack for a flashlight.”
His voice dropped, almost like sharing a secret, “Hermano was always more prepared than me.”
“When it sputtered to life, we saw we were standing on a ledge. Beyond us, nothing—just a vast, open black. It didn’t feel empty. It felt ancient, like something older than the jungle was waiting inside it. I knelt and scooped up a few stones.”
Holding a leather book in one hand, his father reached down with the other, fingers brushing the shag carpet of the boy’s room. “And threw them.”
The pebbles sailed through the air. George saw them arc past his dresser, over the clothes slouched on the edge of the laundry basket, and disappear into the deep.
“A few hit the walls, some skittered forward. Tink-tink. Then, after a long pause, we heard them bounce far below—so deep the light couldn’t touch it. We could only see a few feet ahead.
Catching a glimpse of the leather journal as the page turned, George tried to read ahead. The handwriting was neat and angular, but barely legible to him.
"'El tesoro?' Hermano asked in a whisper, pointing down.”
"Treasure?" the boy asked.
“Maybe.” Setting the journal aside, his father looked at him, their eyes meeting in the dimly lit room. “Everyone’s always chasing gold, looking for something glittering in the dark. But what if they’re wrong. What if the real treasure was something else entirely?”
The boy's eyes widened, as if to say, “What could be more valuable than gold?”
“What if–”
"Did you have a map?" George interrupted.
His father laughed. “This isn’t ‘X marks the spot’—there is no spot. Just riddles and rumors. There’s history carved into temples and stelae, but most of it we still can’t read. And remember, the Spanish burned almost everything the Maya ever wrote—thousands of books, gone. What survived became an oral history, passed down like memory songs. Like in Fahrenheit 451—when the pages are gone, the people become the books. We followed what scraps we could. Honestly, just finding the island was a miracle.”
There are no pictures of this adventure—not even a Polaroid. Just the images his father’s voice painted, flickering like a film reel in George’s mind. He sees him—tanned and young, like Indiana Jones. No, not quite. More like Indiana Pérez, the Mexican version.
George sinks deeper, not just hearing the story but stepping into it. He sees his father and Hermano paddling across the water, the island growing larger as the mainland slips away. Then the jungle—slashing at vines with machetes, the sky dimming to twilight, stars pricking through the canopy overhead. His eyes go wide, imagining that kind of outside. That much sky might be too much.
He blinks, adjusting the picture behind his eyes. The sounds come next—buzzing, skittering, mosquitoes the size of his hand or his face. No thank you. No bugs.
Music might hide those sounds. Something big and spooky, like in the movies. A creeping symphony? No—drums. Heavy, deep, like thunder rumbling far off.
Like Conan the Barbarian.
Yeah. That’s better.
He hears them now, echoing in his head. And down in the hot cave, he pulls the blanket tighter over his legs.
"Our path was no wider than a foot across. One wrong move, and we would’ve fallen to our death. We cautiously stepped forward, holding onto one another. That’s when we started to hear a sound."
Snapping back from his daydream—what sound?
"It was like a deep, throaty roar. The farther down, the louder it became. Las voces. An incantation, a chant, something that was definitely not wind. It started echoing through the cave."
A low, deep moan comes from his father, the sound of the cave coming to life in the dark. His eyes dart to George then around like he’s really there, listening, searching for the sound. George presses against his arm, forcing a smile—he doesn’t want his father to think he’s scared. Even though, if he’s being honest, he’d rather hear a different story before bed. Something with fewer spooky caves. Fewer voices echoing in the dark.
"We finally found the bottom. The sound, whatever it was, was clearly coming from in front of us. It was then that Hermano’s flashlight fizzled out, plunging us into darkness again, just at the edge of a giant pool of water."
George’s shoulders tensed as his head slowly lowered down in a protective shrug.
"Once our eyes adjusted to the dark, we could see water… and a glowing river, flowing beneath the walkway. The edges of it shimmered with tiny flashes of light beneath the surface. It wasn’t much, just enough light for us to see as we slowly shuffled forward toward…"
Sucking in air, George held his breath, waiting for the next words. His father paused, glanced at the book and the story ahead, then looked down at the boy and said, "Maybe that’s enough for tonight…"
"Dad!?"
"You want me to keep going? Even if it gets scary?"
His mouth dry from the heat of the cave, George swallows, his tiny Adam’s apple plunging. In his dim bedroom, he can see the sparkling water reflecting on the walls. The voices still echo in his head—even as music drifts in from the next room. Kathryn’s music:
Stranded starfish have no place to hide
Still waiting for the swollen eastern tide
George nods—keep going.
His father studies him for a moment, eyes searching, like he’s weighing something unspoken. George wonders what he’s looking for—one of those big, silent questions he never quite knows how to answer. But beneath it, there’s something steadier. Quieter. A flicker. A spark.
George feels it too. Like something is being passed to him, not just the story, but a weight, a wonder. A bundle placed in his hands. A map, maybe—its markings still invisible, waiting to be revealed.
His father opens the journal again, the leather cover curled and heavy. He thumbs through, his finger dragging down a page to find his place.
"We followed the sounds. In the darkness, I wasn’t sure if my eyes were tricking me until Hermano noticed it too—a faint light ahead, like a door opened just a crack."
George’s father squinted, lifting a hand to shield his face as if fending off some invisible wave. "As we got closer it hit us," he continued, his voice lower now. "A blast of hot air, like stepping too close to an open furnace. Hermano whispered that we shouldn’t go any further. I could feel him leaning backward, hesitant. We could see the opening more clearly, the light and heat coming from just around a corner where the voices were coming from."
George sits up, pushing away the Empire Strikes Back comforter, the frozen safety of Hoth is no match for the story’s rising heat.
"A low, throaty chant came from a room made of the mountain itself. As we craned our necks to peek inside, we saw a group standing in a circle, each holding a small glowing torch. Their faces were covered, but we could clearly see they wore long, decorative cloaks and hoods that hid their features. They surrounded a plinth made of stone. It looked to be made of the earth, with designs that circled it."
"Like a…” George interrupts, thinking about the word, “stelae?" It feels clumsy in his mouth.
"Good memory!” His father considers this, “It was definitely a marker of sorts but not carved, it was painted with intricate designs all around. Ancient and otherworldly."
“Could you read any of it?”
“A little, but I’m no expert.”
George’s face fell.
"Jorge, it was so hot, and we were scared out of our wits," his father said, shaking his head. "But I did see two shapes..."
Turning the leather-bound book, George leaned to get a better look. On the page were two hand-drawn pictures, traced over several times, like someone emphasizing their importance or trying to remember the details before losing them forever.
"What I could see"—he hesitated, brow furrowing—"was only a little between the figures standing there, through the empty spaces in the group."
George looked at them, studying them. "A turtle and a girl?"
"Yes. But I don’t know what they mean. And my drawing isn’t as good as yours, Jorge.”
The boy sighed, perplexed, eyes narrowing as he turned the puzzle over in his mind. He traced the lines with his fingers. The shapes were unmistakable but only fragments. They felt like an album cover where the magic of their meaning was to be understood only when the music on the record revealed the full story.
“I’ve looked at other pictograms from Chichén Itzá to Guatemala and can’t find a similar one," his father said, adding, "Maybe you can figure them out, Jorge."
George looked back at his father, a slight grimace on his face. He was entertained but not certain at all, at eight years old, that he was capable of such a feat. He looked back at the drawings and, trying to read his father’s handwriting for more meaning, saw a single word in the text below...
"Murciélago?" George said.
His father turned the book, deciphering his own writing.
"Yeah!" he said. "I’ll get to that."
George pulled the covers back over his legs, still sitting up, waiting for whatever might come next.
"This was no room of treasure—at least, not the kind we expected. We had stumbled onto something ancient. A ritual maybe. And we did not feel welcome to stay and watch. Hermano pointed to a passage on the far side of the chamber. The voices rose, rhythmic and steady, but at least they masked our footsteps. We moved carefully, silent, hoping not to be noticed."
George saw a close-up of boots on the cavern floor, a few pebbles of rock quietly grinding against the floor as they stepped.
"We sneaked around the group, their voices almost an animal-like growl. They swirled up and reverberated off the walls of the cavern getting louder and louder. Sweat blurred my vision, stinging my eyes. I lost my place behind Hermano, stumbling into the wall just as we were about to slip past them. A torch on the wall crashed to the ground. Immediately they turned toward us! Inside one of the hoods, a jaguar’s face stared back—burning eyes locking onto mine, through me. I froze.”
Hands on his cheeks, George sees them staring at him, too.
“Hermano yanked me to my feet as I grabbed the fallen torch, holding it like a weapon. More figures turned—first a crow, then a coyote, then a quetzal. Each more terrible than the last. Then, the Jaguar growled at us, no: howled! It reached out for us, not with the arms of a man but with grotesque claws. Hermano and I ran!”
Holding the book to his chest, George’s father moved side-to-side, running in place, his chest heaving.
“As we exited the chamber, the cave opened up around us. The stone path split into a bunch of directions—we didn’t know which way to go. I bumped into Hermano, the torch slipping from my hands as it dropped into the water. As it sank, those sparkles in the water started swirling around it until it just vanished somewhere deep. Right then, something brushed against my cheek, and I could hear the flutter of wings...”
“The bats?!” George said.
“Yes! There was a shimmer in the air, a tiny blur of light. But not just any bat — this one was glowing! All over its back was this star-like twinkle we could see as it twisted and turned around us. It would circle us then move away making these crazy loops before coming back. Then, a swarm of them flew from the darkness, streaks of light coming from every direction and heading off into the cave.”
George looked around his room, in the darkness of the cave he’s watching the bats weave through the air.
“We kept expecting the, the, whatever-they-were to find us. To attack us. Hermano pointed in the direction the bats flew like they were telling us which way to go. In the dark, we followed their lights, down a long path.”
George’s pulse is racing with every word.
“Like guardian angels they dove down, perching in the mouth of a cave, just inches above the water. The glow on their backs was pointing the way—down, into the water! We dove in, the water all around us lit up with those tiny little lights. The cave was like an escape tunnel but the further we ventured in the passage got smaller. With seconds to decide, the only way forward was underwater. We held our breaths as the current swept us down…”
George gulps a chestful of air, holding it. Monsters. Bats. A dark cave.
“The current pushed us down and through the long caves, water sparkling all around. Hermano got pulled down a side tunnel and I lost sight of him. The cave was so rocky that I banged my head, the world was spinning and I almost lost consciousness.”
Still holding his breath, the boy's eyes are wide, unblinking, incredulous.
“Finally, after what felt like minutes, the cave spit me out, somewhere far down the mountain. The beach was only a few feet away at the edge of the tidepool. I just laid there, gasping for breath.”
George lets out his breath. With it comes a long, high-pitched sigh.
“When I flopped onto my back the sky was a blurry mess of blood from the gash on my head. I laid there for a few minutes catching my breath. I looked around for Hermano but he was nowhere to be found.”
His father exhales, watching his son, eyes wide.
“And what happened with the… the jaguar or the coyote?” George asked.
“They didn’t follow us. I was too scared to try and find the cave again, just grateful to have escaped the first time.”
“And Hermano?”
“He found me at the boat. Neither of us said much as we pushed off toward the mainland. Hermano looked worse than I did. We just laid in the boat bleeding and passed out. When I came to, I didn’t recognize the shoreline. We’d drifted miles down the coast.”
George noticed the slight scar just above his father’s eye, a small indention in the skin he’d never seen before.
“Months later, I tried to call him—to hear what he remembered. He picked up… but said he didn’t know me. Said we’d never met.” His father’s eyes dropped. “I can describe the island, but I couldn’t find it now if I tried.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air in the room felt charged, like the story had left something behind. A flicker, maybe.
As the quiet set in, his father pulled the comforter across him, Chewbacca roaring into the snowstorm printed across the fabric.
“How am I supposed to sleep after that?” George says. The question goes unanswered.
George watches his father stand, journal closed and tucked under his arm – the leather cover dark and curled at the edges. He turns off the light on the nightstand.
“Dad,” George asks, tracing a finger over the bedding, “what about the treasure? If you knew which island, could you find the cave again?”
“I don’t know, Jorge,” his father pauses, thinking. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be found.” Silhouetted, his father pauses, then smiles, just a little. “But who knows.”
His father turns away down the hall, and for a moment, everything is quiet.
George rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The room is still warm with the heat of the jungle, but he feels a chill anyway. His mind drifts to the story, to the cave, to the glyphs no one could read. To the bats.
And to the beasts, who all turn again in his memory and see him lying there. The jaguar’s burning eyes. The twisting shadows of the coyote and quetzal.
He tells himself the story will fade by morning. Maybe he’ll even forget about the images.
But he knows he won’t.
If you like what you’ve read, please share it.
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Music
The Anvil of Crom - Basil Poledouris
Here Comes The Flood – Peter Gabriel
I love how imaginative George is, and the way his imagination brings his father’s story to life. Also this line was great: “Like something is being passed to him, not just the story, but a weight, a wonder.” Makes me think of how some stories can be like that!
This final draft came together nicely, brother. I am so ready to return to the island. Let's go!