All his thoughts of an alliance with the creature fled, scattered by fright, Rosacher fired, fired again, saw bullets strike home, eliciting an even greater roaring, dredging up gouts of blood from Frederick’s cheek and forehead…then a shout from behind him: “Into the river!” A hand caught at his shoulder, yanked, and he pitched off the bank, landing on his back in the water. He went down beneath the surface and came back up sputtering, still holding his rifle, and sought purchase with his feet, but the river was too deep. He wiped the water from his eyes and saw Carlos’ head an arm’s length away. Four or five heads were visible farther upstream, but Rosacher could not identify them. Grumbling, Frederick—his body bulkier, more elephantine—prowled the water’s margin and Rosacher thought that his lie about taking refuge in the river might have been intuitive and that they were safe. And then in the dimness, though he could not be sure of what he saw, the torches no longer flickering, the world drenched in shadow…he thought he saw Frederick lean out over the bank and extend his neck to an improbable degree, stretching to a length of four or five feet, bending to the river and snapping off one of the heads. Shouting in panic, the other swimmers flailed at the water. Rosacher let loose of his rifle, dove beneath the surface and swam as hard as he could for as long as he could without taking a breath. He came up for air and then dove again, repeating this process over and over until, exhausted, he fetched up against the far bank, tucking himself into a fold of shadow, an indentation in the clay, and clung there, alerted by every stirring and sound, however slight. At some point he passed out and when he awoke, his teeth chattering, he saw that a gray dawn had broken over the jungle. He hauled himself up onto the bank and stripped off his wet clothing. A gentle rain began to fall and, gathering his clothes into a bundle, he sought shelter beneath a giant silk-cotton tree, finding a dry spot amidst the roots that stretched out on all sides like the tails of caimans whose heads were trapped beneath the trunk. He stared blankly at the great gray-green dripping presence that pressed in around him, with its feathered fronds and nodding leaves the size of shovel heads that yielded a pattering like the drumming of childish fingers on the skin of a thousand small drums. The rain began to slant downward and its noise grew deafening; a chill settled in Rosacher’s bones. He had no means of making fire and so he set forth walking, jogging when he found it possible…not often, because the trail he followed went uphill and down, often at sharp angles and with only a few yards between slopes. Rocks and roots jabbed at the soles of his bare feet, forcing him to a slower pace—he could not bear to put on his boots, because they reeked of the river and were packed with silt. He had not the least idea of his location or of the direction in which he was going. His thoughts congealed, his mind slowing as had his feet, and he became a sluggish machine capable only of lurching forward.
After a while, a very long while, it seemed, he smelled meat cooking. He crept along, uncertain whether he would find friend or foe, and shortly after that, he saw up ahead an embankment atop which an enormous tree had fallen, creating a natural shelter. Beneath it sat the king, shirtless, yet still wearing his riding trousers. Rosacher felt a measure of bitterness on seeing him so at ease. Relative to Rosacher, he was the picture of contentment—he had made a fire of branches and twigs, and was roasting the spitted carcass of a smallish animal. The prospect of warmth and food enticed Rosacher, but he hesitated to approach, mindful of how he would be received. Carlos carved a slice of meat from the animal’s haunch with a skinning knife and laid it on some leaves to cool…and that was too much of a temptation for Rosacher. He started forward and, glancing up from the fire, Carlos said, “Richard! I thought you had drowned.”
Rosacher dropped down beside the fire. His teeth still chattered and Carlos built the fire up, adding twigs and leaves until Rosacher’s body had soaked up sufficient heat to allow him to think and speak. “What was that thing?” he asked, accepting a strip of meat that Carlos extended on his knife tip. The meat was greasy, but good.
“It’s nothing I’ve seen before.” Carlos sawed at the carcass. “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered any other survivors.”
Rosacher shook his head, No, and his teeth began to chatter again. Carlos urged him to rest and spread his clothes by the fire so they could dry.
Once his chill had passed, Rosacher had a second bite of the meat. “This is good. What is it?”
“Agouti.” Carlos nibbled and chewed. “No one at court cares for the meat—they think it fit only for peasants. But I’m quite fond of it.”
After Rosacher had finished his first piece of meat, the king carved him another. Rosacher had a bite and then, recalling why he had come to Temalagua, he asked Carlos if he knew what had happened to Cerruti.
“I can’t be sure,” Carlos said. “It was too dark to see clearly, but I think he was the one the beast decapitated.”
His response started Rosacher to wondering why Cerruti had gone into the water. Had he been moved by instinct or had he been pushed? And if what Carlos told him was true, what did that say about the relationship between Cerruti and Frederick? His head was spinning and he was incapable of focusing on these questions, so he asked how Carlos had made his escape.
“I saw you go underwater and followed your example.”
If Carlos said more, Rosacher was not aware of it, for he lapsed into unconsciousness. On waking, he discovered that the king had covered him with his doublet. He made to give back the garment, but Carlos refused to accept it, saying, “You’re suffering from exposure. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
The rain had been reduced to a drizzle and Rosacher’s trousers were almost dry—he put them on and asked if Carlos knew where they were.
“About an hour east of Chisec, I believe. I haven’t hunted this part of the jungle for years, but if memory serves, we follow this trail for about a half-hour and it intersects with something approximating a road. That should take us to the village.” The king patted him on the shoulder. “Are you up to a little walk?”
“Give me a few minutes.”
“We’ve plenty of time. It’s not yet noon.” Carlos added twigs to the fire. “I should be able to get word to the palace tonight. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be resting in comfort and I can get about organizing another hunt.”
“You’re going after that thing?”
“If there are no other survivors, I reckon it’s killed more than twenty people. Allowing it to run free would be criminal.”
“But how can you hope to destroy it?”
“If we can isolate it, hem it in against some natural barrier and trap it there, we may be able to set fires around the perimeter and burn it.” Carlos spat into the fire. “I haven’t given the subject much thought, but tomorrow I’ll gather my huntsmen and we’ll come up with a scheme. Something with alternatives in case things go awry.”
However great a narcissist Carlos was, Rosacher thought, one couldn’t fault his courage, though his judgment might be called into question. Once again he tried to put his commitment to the mission into perspective and once again he found himself testing the principles underlying its every facet—his concerns for the business, his quasi-loyalty to the disloyal Breque, and the idea that everything in his life had been a reaction to some fraudulent stimulus. When he first arrived in Teocinte, it seemed he’d had a plan, but he most certainly had not had one since then; he had been coerced and manipulated into every action, and now, understanding this, he wasn’t able to assign a priority to any future action, least of all the murder of a king.