This forest trail is very old, the narrator reflects. How far back would it go? Would it go back to the colonization of the forest by the remote ancestors of these men? Or would some climatic change have intervened?
When the porters or load-carriers (perhaps carrying their own things) pass, they grunt out greetings to Lucas and Mateo, and sometimes from below their taut forehead bands they look up at the narrator. Their faces are the faces of old men. The narrator thinks of the peasants and carriers in Japanese woodcuts; the resemblance is quite remarkable. And just as in woodcuts by Hokusai of rural scenes everything belongs — straw and roofs, trees and the timber of bridges — and nothing is imported, so here in this scene in which he is walking, almost everything belongs — except for the narrator himself, the clothes and canvas shoes of Lucas and Mateo, and the tins and sometimes the printed cardboard boxes in the carriers’ loads. A hundred years before, the narrator thinks, everything in this scene would have belonged; and a hundred years before that.
They stop for a while to rest and eat and drink a little. Lucas and Mateo use their machetes to trim a place for the narrator to sit. As they walk on again, the narrator surrenders to the idea of the antiquity of the forest and this trail. He begins to wonder about the idea of time that men must have in this setting.
When men know their world well; when they know every tree and flower; all the foods and poisons; all the animals; when they have perfected all their tools; when everything exists in balance, and there is nothing from outside to compare, what idea can men have of the passing of time? It is the things we pass that give us an idea of speed. When there is nothing to compare, men must exist only in their own light and the light of the people they know — the narrator thinks of the dim lights in the blackness of the mission clearing, thinks of the play of his flashlight and the others’ as they pick their way back to their cabins. Beyond that, backwards and forwards, there must be nothing.
The narrator wrestles with this difficult idea, very strange in the bright light. While the sun is still high the march ends. It is the rule. Two hours before sunset. They camp beside a stream. The sun strikes through the shallow reddish water; inches below the surface webs of light dance over the crushed grey and red rock at the bottom. Beauty; but it is only Lucas and Mateo who have made it safe. Lucas and Mateo are like people to whom the forest is home. Very quickly now, using their machetes, they trim slender tree branches, sharpen one end, bury it in the earth, and put up a low shelter, roofed with the fronds of the wild banana.
They light a little fire. Lucas and Mateo prepare their own food; the narrator prepares his own, using the river water. The sun begins to go; very quickly it falls out of the sky. The evening melancholy, the long hours before daylight, cast a gloom on the narrator.
Mateo is whittling away at a toy dugout-paddle.
The narrator asks Mateo, “What does your father do?”
A foolish question to ask in the forest: the narrator feels it as soon as he talks.
“My father dead.”
“How did he die?”
Mateo puts down his paddle and throws a twig on the small fire and says, “Kanaima kill him.” Mateo speaks like a philosopher, like a man resigned to grief.
The kanaima is the spirit of death of the forests. It inhabits the body of a living man. Somewhere in the forest is the killer who looks like a man, looks like Mateo and Lucas and all the others, and kills all men. In a world without time, where men live only in the present, by their own light, as it were, all a man’s life is spent in this fear. Without the kanaima, a man could truly be happy; might live forever.
Impossible to enter this way of perceiving. The narrator asks, the little twig fire dying down, the night stretching out ahead, “Are you married, Mateo?”
The other boy answers, “How can he be married?”
And Mateo says, “Indian girls foolish. They know nothing.”
The narrator is filled with shame and grief for the people of the forest. They are very far away, these people who can see everything in the forest, who have so many talents, and have perfected so much in their isolation. They are beyond reach. They are further away than any group the narrator has known; perhaps even the revolution will not reach them. Everywhere else, in Asia, Europe north and south, Africa, tribes and peoples have been in collision since the beginning of time. These people, after the migration of their ancestors from Asia, have become people entirely of themselves, without resilience or the talent to adapt. Once their world was broken into, they lost their wholeness.
The little fire dies down. Lucas and Mateo stretch out away from the hut. The forest sings; from time to time, for some reason, the singing subsides for a split second and the river sound is heard. The narrator tries to imagine himself living in that setting for some years; for the rest of his life; for five hundred years. He feels an artificial touch of stress. He takes a sip of whisky from his bottle.
One of the boys sits up straightaway and says, “You drink rum, sir?”
“Not rum.”
“You give us rum, sir.”
“No rum.”
The boy lies down again, sighing like a man.
The narrator is awakened by the sound of rain, falling loudly on the wild-banana fronds of his hut roof. He awakens to his earlier stress, his own feeling of dislocation.
One of the boys is standing in the darkness outside. He says, “Can Lucas and I come here, sir?”
They come in, and the narrator is enveloped in the smell of stale tobacco, enveloped in the idea of appetite: appetite the antidote to stress.
He lets his hand fall on the body next to him, not knowing to whom it belongs. The boy is passive. Appetite grows on the narrator; and even while his fallen hand opens, against the hardness of the body, a finer version of a body like his own, a body therefore more than half known, the narrator’s thought is of the grossness of the big blond woman at the station now a day’s march away. Appetite, appetite: the passivity of the boy feeds it.
When he gets up in the morning the narrator finds himself alone in the little leaf-and-branch shelter. He has a moment of alarm. But the boys are higher up the river, preparing for the day. The narrator still doesn’t know which of the two had been beside him.
The time comes to leave. With their machetes Lucas and Mateo — following some forest rule, perhaps — cut down the little shelter. So protecting during the night, but so flimsy, really.
The march begins. The narrator is no longer at ease, no longer the man he had been. The path moves away from the upland river to the forest. Such beauty there; but something of the safety and wholeness of the previous day has left the narrator. Something nags; he never has to search far for the reason. As often as he rejects it, as often as he applies his mind to it, unease returns, to come between him and the moment; and below all of this now, and adding to his agitation, there is the idea of his cause, the starting point of the journey.
Tossed about, sickening inwardly in a familiar way as the day wears on, he ceases to look about him. He walks mechanically between the two boys, fixing his eyes on the heels (in dirty canvas shoes) of the boy in front of him.
The boys, on the other hand, are today more animated, cutting switches with their machetes, flicking leaves and small insects from the path, sometimes using their machetes to cut, very swiftly and neatly, light trail-marks on trees, talking loudly in their own language over him, as it were, as though it is important to make a human noise in the forest. There is a different swing to their gait; it is as if they were alone. They call out from afar to the people they see on the path; and sometimes, seeming to follow abrupt hunches of their own, they leave the path and — holding themselves still at a particular spot, as though they wish not even to disturb the air just then — they stand looking at something or for something.