“I’m afraid not,” Banks said. “We paid you to get us where we need to go. And where we need to go is further upstream.”
The guide went pale, and paler still when Banks took him inside to the laptop and showed him the video playback. The man crossed himself, twice, and muttered something. It was in Latin, not Portuguese, and Banks guessed it was a prayer.
Giraldo looked into Banks’ eyes.
“It is as your Mister Wiggins would say, ‘bad shite,’ Captain. You do not wish to go to that place if you do not need to.”
“We need to,” Banks said, pointing to the screen. “One of our countrymen is being held there.”
“He is most certainly already dead, or wishes he was,” the guide said, with such certainty that Banks felt it sink into his own heart as truth.
“Nevertheless, we will go, and we will go now. We can take your boat anyway, but I’d rather have you with us, for you know the river and its ways. But if you want, you can stay here with Wilkes. We will be back in the morning, one way or the other.”
The guide didn’t reply, but Wilkes spoke at Banks’ back.
“I’m coming with you,” he said. “Buller’s my boss, but he’s also my friend. I’m coming.”
Giraldo spoke up.
“And you cannot have my boat without me,” he said, the resignation clear in his voice. “So I will take you. You will need me on the river in any case, for it can be treacherous enough by day, let alone by night. But promise me one thing, Captain,”
‘Name it,” Banks said.
Giraldo did a fair impression of Wiggins.
“If you see anything shite, shoot the fuck out of it first, and ask questions later.”
Banks had the squad get kitted up.
“Night goggles, ammo, rifles, and water. Leave everything else here. I’ve got a hunch that hard and fast is going to be the only way this one will get done.”
Five minutes later, they were all in Giraldo’s boat, the outboard taking them around the side of the dredger and onto the open river, making far better time than they had in the canoes earlier. Banks looked back, and saw the lights of the living quarters glowing bright against the background of mud on the banks; dusk was approaching fast. Banks welcomed it, for darkness would give them cover for the forthcoming operation.
The squad sat in the middle area of the boat, Wilkes with them, all getting smokes lit. Banks moved back to join Giraldo, for the tang of tobacco was starting to remind him again of how much he missed the old habit. He stepped back and joined their guide at the wheel, sitting beside him on the rickety bench that passed as the captain’s seat.
“Thank you for agreeing to this,” Banks said. “I owe you a favor.”
“I would not let any man take this journey alone who did not need to, but I do not like this, Captain,” Giraldo said. “We never go this far up river; not even for the fishing.”
“Why not?”
Giraldo shook his head.
“You would not believe me. You would think me a superstitious native; Mister Buller certainly thought that of me. Wilkes here still thinks that of me.”
“I am not Buller or Wilkes,” Banks said, and, remembering Antarctica and the high weirdness the squad had seen, and fought, in that cold Nazi bunker, pressed the question. “Try me. I too have seen things that would make you think me a superstitious native.”
Giraldo thought he was being teased and looked him straight in the eye for a long time, then Banks saw recognition in the man’s stare.
“I believe you have, Captain.” He poured them each a mug of thick, black coffee from a battered thermos and handed it to Banks, then lit up one of his noxious black cigarettes before continuing.
“It is a story we are all told as children in the village. I had it from my father, who had it from his father before him and so on, as far back as there have been fish in the river and men to catch them. I know now, having told it to my own boy, that it is a cautionary tale. It is meant to stop our young ones from venturing too far onto the river alone. But I also know there to be more than a kernel of truth in it. As to how I know this, I might tell you that too, but first, the story, as I heard it that first day I was old enough to take to the water.”
He began the tale in the singsong voice common to all such stories everywhere.
“Long ago, when the world was yet young and there were more fish than water in the river, there lived a boy in a village on the south bank.
“Raul was a boisterous child, always looking far away from his duties to hearth and home. His father tried to get him to work in the forest or on the river, but at the end of each day the work was not done, and Raul was found, ever more distant from his village, exploring the dark byways of the water.
“Every day he would venture farther. He began taking light with him, in order to see the dark places better, carrying flint and straw to make firebrands that he would carry on his explorations.
“It was during one such exploration, farther from his village than he had ever been, that he found the cave, a black cavern that ran deep into a rocky outcrop in the upper reaches of the river where it approaches the mountains where the gods live. He lit a fresh brand, his hands trembling with excitement as he did so, and ventured inside.
“His young head was full of the thought of treasure, of the ancient gold so sought after by the Conquistadors that they had marched into the jungle in their thousands after it, never to be seen again. Raul was not worried about suffering such a fate — he had his fire to lead him and warm him in the darkness.
“The cave went down deep into the hill, so far that all light from outside was lost, and there was only the burning brand. But still Raul for not afraid, for his burning curiosity was stronger than any fear. Panic only fluttered in his chest when he turned a corner, and stepped into a far larger, cavernous chamber. Something gleamed there in the dark, flickering golden in reply to his own fire. A voice spoke from the shadows, old beyond time, weary beyond sleep, as loud as thunder in the blackness.
“‘I like your red eye, boy,’ the voice said. ‘Give it to Boitata. She will take care of it for you.’
“Raul turned to flee but a great wind, warm as fire, blew through the cave, and blew out his brand as simply as puffing out a candle. He was left alone there in the deepest dark.
“But that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the fiery red eyes that opened, and blinked at him, tens, scores, hundreds of them there in the dark, coming closer as Boitata slithered from her sleep.”
“Back in the village, Raul’s father was frantic with worry as darkness fell, for young Raul was nowhere to be found. The father took to the river in his canoe, going up and down the banks and calling the boy’s name, but still there was no reply, and darkness was coming quickly. The man was making a turn for home when he heard it, a great splash in the water, and a surge under the boat as something huge swam beneath him. There came another splash, and suddenly Raul was there, splashing frantically in the water and crying most piteously. His father dragged the boy aboard, and at the same time Boitata came up out of the water, rising up high above the canoe and looking down, deliberately showing the father what had been done before sinking back into the river.
“The canoe went still in the water again as the father bent over the boy, looking down at his face, and the black, empty holes where his eyes had been. He did not need to ask the whimpering child what had happened — he had already seen for himself. The last thing he had been shown before Boitata sank back into the river had been Raul’s eyes, now showing flecks of fiery red, looking back at him from the great head of the river serpent.”