There you go, wild man. You’re shaking with cold. Maté made with rainwater to resuscitate you.
They drink maté and eat Brazil nuts, admiring the night and the lightning. Little Ítalo calms down somewhat, and his mother puts the cot back in the tent.
You can sleep under here if you want. But we don’t have a camping mattress, and the blanket got wet.
I don’t want to be a bother.
You won’t be.
Okay then. I’ve got a sleeping bag. Thanks.
He takes his damp sleeping bag out of his backpack and partially unrolls it in the small free space under the tarpaulin.
Where’re you headed?
Nowhere special. But I think I’m going to start heading home tomorrow.
How many days have you been walking?
I’m not exactly sure. About ten, I think.
I think it’s more.
Do you think I’ll be able to get a lift to Garopaba from Pinheira?
Definitely. Tomorrow morning I’m going to head down the valley to wash Ítalo’s diapers. Come with me, and I’ll show you the way. It isn’t far. You just have to be careful not to take the wrong trail. There are several that go through the hills and lead nowhere, or to the old man’s cave.
Old man’s cave?
There’s an old man who lives in a cave.
Where?
On the other side of the valley.
How do you get there?
He doesn’t accept visitors. And he’s not always there. At least that’s what they say. I’ve never been. No one goes there.
But how do you get there?
It’s in the middle of the forest between two trails. One of them leads through the bottom of the valley, and the other one goes to the top of the hill. It’s almost impossible to see the entrance until you’re really close. I’ve taken the lower trail. There’s a barbed-wire fence, and from there you can see the cave. The fishermen in Pinheira say he’s two hundred years old, and they sometimes leave fish and flour on the trail for him. He must have some kind of contagious disease because they always say not to get too close.
He starts rolling up his sleeping bag.
Can you show me how to get to the lower trail?
You want to go there now?
Yep.
I’ll show you in the morning. It’s too dark now. You won’t be able to see a thing.
I’m going now. Will you show me or not?
I’m not going out walking through the dark forest in this rain.
Let him go, mumbles Val inside the tent. The baby starts wailing again.
He hasn’t rolled up his sleeping bag properly, and now it won’t go back in its plastic bag.
I’m going to leave this here. Is that okay? I’ll come back for it afterward.
Man, no one ever goes there. There’s got to be a reason. I reckon the whole story about an old man is just some fisherman’s tale. I just mentioned it for the sake of it.
If he wants to go, let him go, says Val, sounding irritated.
Can you at least point me in the direction of the right trail?
Only if you tell me why you’re in such a hurry.
I think the old man in the cave is my granddad.
Jarbas, come here.
Duck pushes his glasses up with the tip of his finger, adjusts the position of his head to see him better, then responds to Val’s request and stoops to go into the tent. There is something turtlelike about him. The door is zipped closed. Another clap of lightning brings home the unexpected yet obvious realization that to the couple he is a frightening figure who appeared in the night without warning and that their hospitality may only be an indication that they are scared. He hears whispering behind the baby’s crying and the noise of the rain. He can’t wait to leave. Duck comes out and explains how to find the lower trail that leads to the cave. He needs to stay on the trail he was on before he saw the tent, take it downhill to a miniature beach where there is an old fishing shed, cross the creek that runs through the bottom of the valley, and turn left instead of following the main trail. After walking for a while along the foot of the hill, he will see another trail. He will come to a barbed-wire fence on his right, and a little farther along there will be a kind of gate that actually looks more like barbed wire rolled around some stakes. That’s where they say it is.
He thanks him for the shelter and the maté and apologizes for not being able to offer anything in return. Duck leans forward and whispers.
Don’t say anything, ’cause I don’t want Val to know. If we see you again and she accuses you of stealing this, don’t deny it.
Duck hands him a battery-operated flashlight.
I can’t accept this.
Bring it back to me later tonight or tomorrow.
I owe you one.
Sure you don’t want to go first thing in the morning?
I’ve got to go now.
He shakes Duck’s hand and calls Beta, who is already sleeping. He covers his head with his hood and leaves. The rain is thick and warm. His feet sink into the mud. He uses the flashlight to find his way out of the woods and guide himself along the trail, which soon disappears down a slope covered with low grasses. Beyond the light of the flashlight, the darkness is complete, but a sense of his bearings gives him an approximate notion of where the trees, rocks, valley, abyss, and ocean are. Occasional flashes of lightning offer snapshots of the diluvial landscape.
The valley ends in the miniature beach of rocks that Duck told him about. All the rain has turned the creek into a small river, and it takes him a while to find a place to cross. He wades the two to three yards from one side to the other, through the current, with the water above his waist, flashlight in his mouth, hugging the dog to his chest. The most accessible path through the other side of the valley must be obvious during the day but requires careful exploration in the dark. He retraces his steps and gets his bearings again every time he finds a steep slope or dense forest blocking his way. When he is beginning to suspect that he is searching in vain, he sees the barbed-wire fence. He continues groping the fence with his right hand for a few minutes until he comes to the rusty gate of barbed wire. A quick inspection with the flashlight reveals that it is easier to open than he had thought. He releases one of the stakes from a loop of nylon rope, and the gate lies down docilely on the drenched ground.
For a few yards the path is no more than an almost indistinguishable opening in the middle of dense forest. Then suddenly a carefully tended dirt trail becomes visible in the beam of the flashlight. The grass on either side appears to have been trimmed recently, and the surface is firm and smooth even after weeks of rain. It starts to climb the slope, snaking around rocks, which at one point form a continuous wall on his left. He passes his hand along the slimy stone, leaning into its comforting solidity. Beta stays at his heel, sniffing. He realizes that the wild vegetation has begun to show signs of landscaping. He notices strips of well-tended grass and bromeliads fastened with wire to the trunks of trees that bend over the trail like arches.
A natural staircase, with steps molded by roots, appears, and after another abrupt curve around a rock, he comes face to face with a large rectangular aquarium at the side of the trail. He approaches it and points the flashlight. Inside the glass box are several stone, clay, and ceramic chips arranged as if they were in a museum display case. The curved lines of many of the fragments suggest that they are pieces of statues, vases, or old plates. Some have inscriptions in unknown characters or patterns of triangles and diamonds. In one corner of the aquarium are half a dozen arrow tips similar to the ones he found in his first few days of walking. The lid of the aquarium is well sealed, and the very white sand at the bottom preserves a dryness that seems extinct in the world.