“We follow the signs of the land.”
“What about the spirits? Where are they this time? Somewhere air-conditioned, I’d bet.”
Wareagle was not amused. “The words they speak filter through the light. The heart of darkness we are entering makes it difficult to hear.”
Now only Johnny’s massive strength pushing off of the bottom allowed the drunken Luis to steer the rickety ship that had been their home for over a day. After escaping from Casa do Diabo, Johnny and Blaine had driven straight to a small airfield outside of São Paulo. From there, unregistered flights were available to virtually anywhere in the country if the price was right. Fortunately Blaine had enough money left to make sure it was. Most of the men he usually dealt with weren’t fond of credit cards, so Blaine always traveled with large reserves of cash stored within secret compartments of his carry-on bag.
The plane took them to Manaus, a sprawling river port with a population of almost a million that rose from the densest part of the Amazon jungle. A combination of high-rise buildings and older stucco structures dwarfed in their midst, Manaus attracts a huge tourist population, primarily because it is a free port. Bargains in electronic merchandise abound, televisions and stereos sold out of warehouse lots from piles of boxes stacked to the ceiling. The port section is cluttered with hucksters and fishermen selling their wares from the docks, boasting of incredible bargains and trading barbs about freshness.
Upon arriving early Sunday morning, Blaine and Johnny filtered among the streams of humanity in no mood to linger too long. The need for a boat brought them to the port section, but few were available. They opted for Luis’s because he was lying drunk in a hammock and asked not a single question after being stirred. He didn’t even inquire where they were going until they were a mile out in the Amazon. Then his questions were answered by the money Blaine flashed before him.
The early hours of the voyage were almost pleasant. The waters of the Amazon are black due to the dissolving of humic acid, which repels insects and mosquitos. But as morning grew into afternoon, a stifling humidity took over. McCracken sat on the deck dripping in hot sweat that drenched even his hair and beard.
The boat motored easily as Johnny’s course took them into a maze of uncharted connecting waterways that ran green with the lifeblood of the countryside. With the coming of night came the onset of distinct unease on Blaine’s part. They could not have risked carrying weapons through Manaus, and none were available at any of the markets, except for ancient hunting rifles and shotguns. McCracken opted for the best he could find of the latter, a pump-action job that had seen better days. That and a box of ammunition were all they had on their side against the Spirit of the Dead.
“We are close now, Blainey,” Wareagle assured him, joining Blaine in the bow, where he was keeping a careful watch on the bottom for sudden rocks. The morning had dawned friendly, but already the dripping humidity was starting to choke the air.
“You going on strike, Indian?”
“Our boatman says the shallows have ended.”
Luis, behind the wheel, burped.
“And you trust him?”
“He has lived his life on the river, just as the Tupis have lived theirs in the jungle. He knows the waters as well as they know the land. Another twenty minutes and we will anchor.”
The resolve on Johnny’s face was sharp and keen. McCracken had seen it before, in other jungles, as other battles were looming.
They dropped anchor on schedule, and Luis helped them unload their packs; then Blaine instructed him to wait for their return. Luis gazed about him, not looking happy.
“Quando volta?”
Blaine gave him his best guess. “Amanhã.”
“Não sei,” the boatman said, resisting Blaine’s orders.
“Vehna ca, por favor,” Blaine told him. And then, in English, “Come on. I’ve got something here for you.”
Luis’s eyes gleamed when Blaine produced the contents of a sack not yet unloaded: three bottles of decent whiskey he’d purchased at the port market before they’d set out.
“Muito bem,” Luis thanked him. “Muito obrigado!”
“Then you’ll be here when we get back?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the boatman replied, cuddling up to the whiskey as if it were a long-lost friend.
The brush of the Amazon Basin was like nothing Blaine had ever experienced before. It was wholly unique, a world unto itself. There was no path to follow, just trees to slide between and bushes to shove back. The feeling that he might well be the first person ever to step where he was stepping was new and fresh to him. The entire jungle was alive, even more steaming than the water, with no breeze to cool the drenching sweat that poured off him.
Wareagle led the way, at first clearing their path with a machete. The deeper they plunged into the jungle, however, the shorter his swipes became, as if he were reluctant to disturb nature’s delicate balance. Vines and broad leaves scraped at Blaine’s face with the tenacity of iron. More than once he felt some reptilian creature slithering about his feet and feared that it might be a deadly bushmaster snake ready to inject its lethal venom into him.
The jungle about him was alive with constant animal sounds, some high-pitched and loud, others barely more than a chirp. Above, only slight rays of direct light were able to penetrate the thick canopy of trees that formed a shroud over the jungle. This part of the Amazon had thus far been spared the ruinous mining and senseless stripping of the land for profit by bandeirantes, the Brazilian backwoodsmen.
The jungle smelled fresh, too, in spite of the humidity; not rank like Southeast Asia. You hated Nam before you even knew you were there because the air stank. Here the woods smelled like a fresh salad and were blessed with an incredible diversity of plant and animal species that breathed vitality into the scene. Blaine dared ask himself if war might have been the difference in Nam. Perhaps it was the smell of hate more than anything that sickened him even in memory. Here there was no hate, only life; this land supplied one-third of the world’s oxygen.
Wareagle followed the trail that was invisible to Blaine until they reached a large clearing that contained stray piles of wood and thick leaves.
“A tribe slept here last night,” Johnny said. “Most of them set out at dawn, the rest followed closely behind to provide cover against pursuit. They were restless. Something happened that frightened them.”
“You didn’t tell me the Tupis were nomadic.”
“Because they never were before.”
They came upon the encampment two hours before sunset. Wareagle pointed out perimeter guards so well camouflaged that Blaine could barely discern them even when staring directly at their positions. The Indian then showed him where to silently wait until he returned with safe passage assured. Under the circumstances, the sight of a “white-face” might scare the Tupi guards. Their arrows and blow darts might not be as formidable as machine-gun fire, but death didn’t know the difference.
Blaine watched Johnny disappear into the jungle and did as he was told. One minute dragged into another and he began to ask himself how much longer he would wait before impatience led him to make his own move. The next moments passed as slowly as any he could ever recall; he had very nearly made up his mind to follow in Johnny’s steps when Wareagle’s frame emerged from the brush, followed by a pair of Tupi warriors.
“We were expected, Blainey,” Wareagle announced, bidding him to rise. “They knew I would be coming.”