"Let's go," I said to Antonio and Purano. "Elicia, you stay with the others and come back to the Ninca camp. We'll go on ahead. I have to talk with Pico."
"Why…"
"Just do as I say. There isn't a minute to lose."
As Antonio, Purano and I hurried down the trail, heading for the tribe's camp, I explained what I hoped to learn from Pico.
Perhaps the old hermit couldn't remember a day thirty years ago when he had followed Ancio and his evil friends to a cave at the base of Alto Arete, in one of seven hollows.
But there were other memories, other knowledges, that hadn't been concealed deep in his mind by tragedies. Remembering the one might open the door to the other.
If I could tap those other memories, those other knowledges, there was a slim chance of saving the people of these two island countries.
If not?
I wouldn't think of that just yet.
Chapter Seven
My second meeting with Pico, the hermit, was a mixture of pleasures and disappointments. Or, as the comedians like to remind us somewhat monotonously, some good news and some bad news.
First off, he was angry at me for having left his camp on my own.
"I spent years, Senor Carter," he said, crouching among the short Indians to diminish the effect of his great height, "concealing the trail to my hermitage. No living man but you knows now how to come there. Besides, you weren't ready to leave. The poultice needed several more hours to do its work."
We were in the square of the tribal encampment. The hot midday sun blazed down on the mixture of white and brown bodies. Flies the size of teacups buzzed around us. Some of them even attacked the bandages on my side and my right foot. Shooing them away was a dangerous activity, fraught with promise of reprisal.
Antonio and Purano flanked the fat chief on one side of the circle. A little behind them were Elicia and the spearchuckers from the mission to the seven hollows. The body of the dead spearchucker was in a special burial hut, being prepared by the few remaining women of the tribe. I sat beside Pico on the other side of the circle. Filling in the circle, on either side of the hermit and I, were the village elders I had seen that first night in the council hut. Other spearchuckers, jealous that they hadn't gone on the mission to share in the glory, surrounded all of us, a circle outside a circle.
"The poultice did its work well," I assured Pico, "If it had done much better, it would be like not having had a wound at all. But I do apologize for breaking your rule. Will you accept?"
Pico grinned. It was all the acceptance I would receive. "You must promise never to tell another living soul how you left my camp."
"I won't." Actually, I couldn't. It had been darker than the inside of a pig the night I had left his camp. If I were given the chore of finding my way back there, I would probably wander in the jungle for the rest of my life.
"Now, what is it you wish of me, Senor Carter?" he asked after the amenities and the chastizing were over. "What is the purpose of such hurrying back here to talk to me?"
I refreshed his memory about our conversation, about his saying that he had followed Ancio and his friends, had learned that the man had indeed lied, and had seen his daughter and several others covered with oil and burned. I repeated as much as I could remember of what he had said, hoping to spark memories from him. Important memories.
"I want to know everything you saw and heard that night," I told Pico. "I know it's painful remembering, but this is important. I want to know as much as you can possibly remember before I show you something of great importance."
He looked puzzled. So did all the others. But everyone remained silent while Pico considered the request. I was conscious of the minutes ticking away, of the day and the mission being completely shattered, while this old hermit searched back through thirty years of memories.
"I was there, as I have told you," he said, his voice sounding deep and hollow, his eyes starting to mist. "I remember so little, no more than what I told you. I saw the cave. I saw the seashell necklace that I had made for my daughter. It was on the body of a naked corpse. That is how I was able to tell that it was her."
His voice cracked then and I wanted him to stop that particular line of thought. It wasn't necessary to recall details of the inside of the cave, of the grisly scene there. I wanted him to recall details of the outside, of how to get there. But I knew enough about idea association to let him ramble in his own way, as time slipped past, minute by minute.
But he was finished with his grim recollections. He looked at me blankly, puzzled over what I was seeking. I didn't want to lead him. It was important that his mind be free of prejudice when he saw what I had to show him.
"Do you recall any details of when you followed Ancio and his friends into the mountains?" I asked.
He spent some time thinking. Precious time. My anxiety grew.
"I was under great stress at the time," he said. "I had anticipated that my daughter was gone, but I had no idea…" He stopped, swept the circle of interested faces with deeply sad eyes, and said, "it was thirty years ago. I recall many scenes quite well. They are emblazoned on my soul. However…"
That was the worst of the bad news. He had no idea whatsoever of where the cave entrance was. I wouldn't be able to jog his memory with further questions, and I was afraid of even more bad news when I sprang my one and only possibility. But there was no more time to waste. I turned to Antonio.
"Would you get the map and show it to Pico."
"The map?" Antonio asked, puzzled. "Senor Carter, it is in Indian hieroglyphics and, if the Indians can't read the symbols, how can you expect…"
"Pico was a professor of anthropology at Nicarxa University," I said, looking at Pico to confirm that by memory of what he had told me that day at his hermitage was correct. "He was head of the department of Indian Culture when he became involved in a revolutionary activity that changed his life forever. Am I correct, Pico, in assuming that, as head of the department of Indian Culture, you would have been required to learn the various hieroglyphics used by all the tribes in this area?"
Pico nodded. "You have a map? What kind of map?"
I asked Chief Botussin to explain about the map. It was a mistake. The old chief wound himself up a tangled web of words that seemed to have no ending. It took five precious minutes for him to reach his point: that the map showed Ancio how to find the cave entrance and that his warriors took the map from Ancio and that it had been kept in a secret hiding place ever since and that he would be sorely tried if it fell into evil hands, etcetera.
"May I see it?" Pico asked.
Antonio had the map in a leather pouch strapped to the small of his back. He quickly undid the pouch and handed the fragile parchment over to Pico. The old man studied it for more time than I would have liked him to spend on it. The sun got hotter, the flies meaner and the day much, much shorter. Pico finally looked up and saw the worried looks on all our faces. He grinned at me.
"Don't worry so much about the time, Senor Carter," he said. "I have good news about that. The signal will not be given before sundown. At this time of year, sundown will come shortly after 8:30. You have ample time."
I looked at my watch, a digital creation that was a gift from David Hawk. It was full of lifetime batteries. And the numbers read 12:22. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I had estimated that we had perhaps six or seven hours to stop Don Carlos from sending the signal. We actually had more than eight hours. Yet, it was no great solace learning that piece of good news — we could use, I was sure, more than eight days and still be cutting it close.