Well, a week in Campeche was plenty. It isn't a horrible place, but it's humid and swampy. They have nice seafood and fish, but I couldn't get anything in the city so was relegated to smelling it as I slunk around. My local guide left a great deal to be desired as well.

After dropping off some packages, I was given a talking bird who seemed nonplussed to find himself the companion of, for all intents and purposes, a predator of birds. He tells me he's descended from a line of parrots who were created to be guides and sources of information. As far as I know he's the only member of his kin on active duty though. The parrot's name was Gayo, and he called me Perro. I know what Perro means in spanish and yet I somehow had the self restraint not to bite him. Goodness knows he bit me more than once. This adds more evidence to my theory that all parrots, even intelligently sentient ones, are bastards.

Gayo guided me to the temple grounds Tim wanted me to examine. It was actually just a patch of dirt overgrown and partially flooded, but it had been consecrated and a few stone blocks had been placed there. Of course the Mayan method of 'consecrating' a new temple is to kill a few people. Something happened and the actual temple was never built, but the ritual and the blood spilled still made it a bad place.

For good or for bad, I didn't find anything out of the ordinary. The site wasn't being used and had not been visited in a long while. Tim had given me a stake to hammer into the ground, which I did, and then I made my exit. I believe the purpose of the stake was to disrupt the 'flow' of the magic in the area. A dark location can potentially be used for dark purposes, and the stake messes with this somehow and eventually turns it into a normal patch of land.

On the way there and back Gayo would fly off and come back with big messy fruits and things that he would then eat while perched on my back. I think I'm still picking seeds out of my fur as well as the by-products of a parrot with a healthy appetite. Like I said, all parrots are bastards.

After that it was just a matter of going back to town, finding my boat, and heading home. The captain, bless his dear heart, had caught some Pompano fish and shrimp and we had a merry feast for half the journey. I hadn't had fresh ocean fish in forever! In thanks I sewed up several of his tattered shirts, scrubbed the deck better than it's probably been scrubbed in ages, and took over steering so he could go below and wash his fish down with something a bit more potent than water.

Home now, and there is a hot shower waiting for me. Once I wash off Gayo's gifts that I couldn't scrub away on the boat it's back to shelving books.