Nadia had been following developments but was still clinging to her father and Borobá. She regretted having left Walimai’s talisman in the nest of the crystal eggs, because without its protection she felt lost. Abruptly, she started crying like an owl. César Santos was afraid that his daughter had been through more than she could handle and was having a nervous breakdown. The bloodshed in the village was horrifying, and the moans of the wounded soldiers and the blood streaming from Mauro Carías’s head had been a harrowing spectacle. The bodies of the Indians still lay where they had fallen; no one had made a move to pick them up. The guide concluded that his daughter was disoriented from the brutality of recent events; there was no other explanation for the screeches coming from her. In contrast, Alexander had to mask a smile of pride when he heard his friend: Nadia was casting about for the last possible lifeline.
“Hand over the film!” Captain Ariosto ordered Timothy Bruce.
For the photographer, that was the same as giving up his life. He was a fanatic when it came to his negatives; he had never in his career handed one over, ever; they were all carefully cataloged in his studio in London.
“I think it an excellent idea, Captain Ariosto, that you take measures to ensure that those valuable negatives are not lost,” Leblanc intervened. “They are the proof of what happened here, how that Indian attacked Señor Carías, how the valiant soldiers fell before the arrows, how you yourself were obliged to shoot Karakawe.”
“The pest was meddling in things that did not concern him!” exclaimed the captain.
“But of course. He was a madman. He tried to prevent Dr. Torres from performing her duty. His accusations were insane,” said Leblanc, and cleverly added, “I regret that the vials with the vaccine were destroyed in the heat of the fighting. Now we shall never know what they contained, and we have no proof that Karakawe was lying.”
Something happened around Ariosto’s mouth that in other circumstances might have been taken for a smile. He put his pistol back in his holster, ignored the matter of the film for the moment, and for the first time spoke without shouting. Perhaps these foreigners did not suspect anything; they were much dumber even than he had thought, he muttered to himself.
Kate followed the dialogue between the anthropologist and the captain openmouthed. She had never imagined that the self-important Leblanc was capable of such cool-headed thinking.
“Please, Nadia, be quiet,” César Santos pleaded as Nadia repeated her screech-owl cry for the tenth time.
“I suppose we will be spending the night here. Do you want us to prepare a bite for the evening meal, Captain?” Leblanc offered pleasantly.
Ariosto gave them permission to cook whatever they could find and to move around the camp, but he ordered them to stay within a radius of a hundred yards, where he could see them. He commanded the soldiers to collect the dead Indians and put them all in one place. The next day they would bury them or burn them. The nighttime hours would give him the opportunity to make a decision regarding the foreigners. Santos and his daughter could disappear and no one would question it, but the others would take more care. Ludovic Leblanc was a celebrity, and the old woman and her grandson were Americans. In his experience, when something happened to an American, there was always an investigation; those arrogant gringos thought the world belonged to them.
Although it had been Professor Leblanc’s suggestion, it was César Santos and Timothy Bruce who prepared the meal because the anthropologist was incapable of boiling water for an egg. Kate excused herself by saying that the only thing she knew how to make were meatballs, and she didn’t have those ingredients. Besides, she was completely occupied with trying to feed the baby spoonfuls of a solution of water and condensed milk. Meanwhile, Nadia sat down to keep scanning the underbrush, repeating her owl call from time to time. At a quiet command from her, Borobá jumped from her arms and loped off into the forest. A half hour later, Captain Ariosto remembered the issue of film, and forced Timothy Bruce to hand it over, using the excuse Leblanc had given him: in his hands, it would be safe. The English photographer protested in vain. He even tried a bribe, but the captain was firm.
They ate in shifts while the soldiers stood guard, and then Ariosto assigned tents for the expedition party; they would be somewhat more protected there in case of attack, as he said, although the real reason was that he could control them better that way. Nadia and Kate and the baby occupied one of the tents, and Ludovic Leblanc, César Santos, and Timothy Bruce the other. The captain did not forget that Alex had knocked him down, and had taken a blind dislike of him. It was the fault of those two kids, especially the damned American, that he was in such a predicament, anyway. Mauro Carías’s skull was crushed, the Indians had escaped, and his plans to be a millionaire and live in Miami were in serious jeopardy. Alex represented a danger to him; he had to be punished. He decided to separate him from the others, and ordered him tied to a tree at the edge of the camp, far from the tents of the other members of the group and far from the oil lanterns. Kate furiously protested the treatment her grandson was receiving, but the captain shut her up.
“Maybe it’s best this way, Kate. Alex may find a way to escape,” Nadia whispered.
“Ariosto is planning to kill him during the night, I’m sure,” the writer replied, trembling with anger.
“Borobá went to get help,” said Nadia.
“You actually think that little monkey can save us?” she snorted.
“Borobá is very smart.”
“Child, you are sick in the head!” Alex’s grandmother exclaimed.
Several hours went by. No one in the camp could sleep except the baby, exhausted from crying. Kate had made him a place to sleep on a bundle of clothing, wondering what she was going to do with the poor little creature; the last thing she wanted in her life was to be responsible for an orphan. The writer was watchful, convinced that at any moment Ariosto would murder her grandson first and then the rest of them—or perhaps the reverse, first them, and then take his revenge on Alex with some slow, horrible death. The man was extremely dangerous. Timothy Bruce and César Santos also had their ears to the canvas of their tent, trying to make out the movements of the soldiers outside. Professor Ludovic Leblanc, in contrast, had gone outside, using the excuse of relieving himself, and was standing talking with Captain Ariosto. The anthropologist, aware that every hour that went by increased the risk for them, wanted to distract the captain; he suggested a game of cards to Ariosto, and invited him to share a bottle of vodka provided by Kate.
“Don’t try to get me drunk, Professor,” Ariosto warned, but filled his glass.
“How could you think that, Captain! A little vodka won’t faze a man like you. It’s going to be a long night; we might as well enjoy ourselves,” Leblanc replied.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Protection
AS OFTEN HAPPENS on the altiplano, the temperature dropped when the sun went down. The soldiers, used to the heat of the lowlands, shivered in clothes still soaked from the afternoon showers. None were asleep; by the captain’s orders, they all were guarding the camp. They were alert, weapons held two-handed across their chests. Now they were afraid not only of the demons in the jungle, or the possible appearance of the Beast, but they had the Indians to fear—they might come back at any minute to avenge their dead. The soldiers had the advantage of firearms, but the natives knew the terrain and had the mystical ability to materialize out of nowhere, like wandering souls. If it weren’t for the bodies laid out by a tree, they would think they weren’t human, and that bullets couldn’t harm them. The soldiers were eager for morning, when they could get out of there as early as possible. Time passed very slowly in the darkness, and the sounds of the forest around them were terrifying.
Kate, sitting cross-legged beside the sleeping baby in the women’s tent, was thinking how she might help her grandson, and how to leave the Eye of the World alive. A little light from the campfire showed through the canvas of the tent, enough for the writer to
see the silhouette of Nadia wrapped in her father’s jacket.
“I’m going out now—” the girl whispered.
“You can’t!” her companion said, cutting her off.
“No one will see me, I can make myself invisible.”
Kate took the girl in her arms, sure she was delirious.
“Nadia, listen to me . . . You are not invisible. No one is invisible, that’s only a fantasy. You can’t leave here.”
“Yes, I can. Don’t make any noise, please. Take care of the baby till I get back. Later we’ll return him to his tribe,” Nadia murmured. She was so sure, and her voice so calm, that Kate did not dare stop her.
First Nadia put herself in the mental state of invisibility, as she had learned from the Indians; she reduced herself to nothingness, to pure transparent spirit. Then silently she lifted the flap of the tent and slipped outside, aided by the shadows. Stealthy as a weasel, she passed within a few yards of the table where Professor Leblanc and Captain Ariosto were playing cards, past the armed guards patrolling the camp, and past the tree where Alex was tied, without anyone’s seeing her. She moved away from the flickering circle of light from the lanterns and the campfire and disappeared among the trees. Soon the screech of an owl interrupted the croaking of the frogs.
Like the soldiers, Alex was shivering with cold. His legs were asleep and his hands were swollen from the too-tight bonds around his wrists. His jaw hurt; he could feel the stretched skin, he must have a huge lump. He ran his tongue over his broken tooth, and felt the puffy gums where the captain’s pistol had struck. He tried not to think about the dark hours ahead or about the possibility of being killed. Why had Ariosto separated him from the others? What was he planning to do with him? He wished he were the black jaguar, that he had the strength, the fierceness, the agility of the big cat, that he could turn into pure muscle and tooth and claw and confront Ariosto. He thought about the bottle with the water of health in his knapsack, and how he had to leave the Eye of the World alive and take it to his mother. His memory of his family was hazy, like a badly focused photograph in which his mother’s face was barely a pale blob.
He was beginning to nod, overcome with strain, when suddenly he felt little hands. He jerked upright. In the dark, he could identify Borobá, sniffing his neck, hugging him, whimpering slowly in his ear. “Borobá, Borobá,” Alex murmured, so moved that his eyes filled with tears. It was just a monkey no bigger than a squirrel, but its presence wakened a wave of hope. He was deeply comforted by the animal’s caresses. Then he became aware of another presence at his side, a silent, invisible presence veiled in the shadows of the tree. At first he thought it was Nadia, but then realized it was Walimai. The tiny ancient was close beside him; he could smell his odor of smoke, but however much he tried, he couldn’t see him. The shaman laid one of his hands on Alex’s chest, as if feeling for his heartbeat. The weight and warmth of that friendly hand transmitted courage to the youth; he felt calmer; he stopped trembling and could think clearly. “The knife, the Swiss Army knife,” he murmured. He heard the click of the metal being opened, and soon the blade slipped across his bonds. He didn’t move. It was dark, and Walimai had never used a knife; he could easily saw into his wrists, but within minutes the Indian had cut through the ties and taken his arm to lead him into the jungle.
In the camp, Captain Ariosto had finished the card games and emptied the vodka bottle. Ludovic could think of nothing more to distract him, and there were still many hours before dawn. The alcohol had not stunned the captain, as Leblanc had hoped; he really did have guts of steel. He suggested that they try the radio, to see if they could reach the barracks in Santa María de la Lluvia, and for quite a while they twiddled the dials, in the midst of deafening static, but it was impossible to reach the operator. Ariosto was preoccupied; he didn’t like being away from the barracks, he needed to get back as quickly as possible in order to control the versions the soldiers might tell about what had happened in Tapirawa-teri. What were their stories? He needed to send a report to his superiors in the army and meet with the press before the gossip spread. Omayra Torres had left muttering about the measles virus. If she started talking, he was ruined. What a stupid woman! the captain fretted.
Ariosto ordered the anthropologist to go back to his tent, and he took a turn about the camp to check that everything was as it should be. Then he went to the tree where he had tied the American boy, ready to have a little fun at his expense. At that instant, the smell struck him like a club, so strong that the impact threw him backward to the ground. He tried to reach his pistol, but he couldn’t move. He felt a wave of nausea, and his heart bursting in his chest, and then nothing. He sank into unconsciousness. He never saw the Beast only three steps away, spraying him directly with the lethal stench of its scent glands.
The asphyxiating odor of the Beast floated through the rest of the camp, first felling the soldiers, and then those inside the tents. In less than two minutes, no one was left standing. For a couple of hours, a terrifying silence lay over Tapirawa-teri, and in the nearby jungle, where even the birds and animals had fled, frightened by the foul smell. The two Beasts that had attacked in tandem retired at their habitual lumbering pace, but their odor persisted most of the night. No one in the camp was aware of anything that happened during those hours, because they did not regain consciousness until the next morning. Later they saw the tracks and were able to reach some conclusions.
Alex, following Walimai, with Borobá on his shoulders, pushed through the vegetation, keeping very low until the quivering lights from the camp disappeared from view. The shaman moved through the jungle as if it were broad daylight, perhaps following his wife-angel, whom Alex couldn’t see. They snaked among the trees for quite some time, and finally came to the place where the ancient had left Nadia waiting. They had communicated through the owl calls most of the afternoon and night, until she was able to slip out of camp and join him. Nadia and Alex embraced when they saw each other, and Borobá clung to his mistress uttering little shrieks of happiness.
Walimai confirmed what they already knew: The tribe was watching the camp, but they had learned to fear the magic of the nahab and would not dare challenge them. The warriors were so close they had heard the baby’s crying, as well as the call from their dead who had not been given a dignified funeral. The spirits of the murdered men and the woman were still joined with their bodies, said Walimai; they could not let go without a proper ceremony, and without being avenged. Alex explained that the Indians’ one hope was to attack by night, because during the day the nahab could use the bird of noise and wind to search the Eye of the World until they found them.
“If they attack now, some will die, but otherwise the entire tribe will be exterminated,” said Alex. He was ready to lead them and fight at their side; that was why he had been initiated: he, too, was a warrior.
“Chief for war: Tahama. Chief for negotiating with the nahab: you,” Walimai replied.
“It’s too late to negotiate. Ariosto is a murderer.”
“You said that some nahab are evil and other nahab are friends. Where are the friends?” the witch man persisted.
“My grandmother and some of the men in the camp are friends. Captain Ariosto and his soldiers are enemies. We cannot negotiate with them.”
“Your grandmother and your friends must negotiate with the enemy nahab.”
“The friends do not have weapons.”
“They have no magic?”
“In the Eye of the World, they do not have much magic. But there are other friends with much magic far away from here, in the cities, in other parts of the world,” Alexander argued, frustrated by the limitations of language.
“Then you must go where those friends are,” the ancient concluded.
“How? We are trapped here!”
Walimai would not answer any more questions. He sat crouched on his haunches, staring into the night, accompanied by his wife; she had adopted her most transparent form and neither of the two y
oung people could see her. Alex and Nadia passed the hours awake, very close together, trying to keep each other warm, and not speaking because there was little to say. They were thinking of the fate awaiting Kate, César Santos, and the other members of their group. They were thinking of how the People of the Mist were condemned. They were thinking of the centuries-old sloths and the city of gold. They were thinking of the water of health and the crystal eggs. And them? What would become of them, trapped as they were in the jungle?
A gust of terrible odor came to them suddenly, diluted by distance but perfectly recognizable. They jumped to their feet but Walimai did not move, as if he had been expecting it.
“It’s the Beasts!” Nadia cried.
“Maybe yes and maybe no,” replied the impassive shaman.
The rest of the night was very long. Shortly before dawn the cold was intense, and Nadia and Alex, huddled with Borobá, shivered while the ancient witch man, totally motionless, his eyes lost in the shadows, waited. With the first signs of dawn, the monkeys and birds awakened and Walimai gave the sign to leave. They followed him through the trees, again for some time, until as the sunlight began to pierce the foliage they came to the camp. The bonfire and lanterns had gone out; there were no signs of life and the foul odor still lingered on the air, as if a hundred skunks had sprayed the camp at the same time. Covering their noses, they entered the outer edge of what until only recently had been the peaceful village of Tapirawa-teri. The tents, the table, the kitchen . . . everything . . . lay scattered across the ground; the remains of food were tossed everywhere, but no monkey or bird was scrabbling through the debris or the garbage because none dared brave the hideous stench of the Beasts. Even Borobá hung back, shrieking and jumping up and down. Walimai showed the same indifference to the smell that he had to the cold the night before. The young people had no choice but to follow where he led.