The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Yes. Sometime during the night. I do not know where.”

  Da Silva turned to Wilson with a grin. He winked and turned back, addressing the small man below. “This young man—did he have a radio? Did he listen to Radio Manaus every night? At exactly nine o'clock?”

  The black eyes shifted to the one speaking to him. He studied the bandanna about the other's head incuriously. “Yes.”

  “This boy's a regular chatterbox,” Wilson said to Da Silva in English, and then switched to fluent Portuguese as he leaned over the rail. “How did this young fellow leave?”

  The black eyes moved over evenly to study this new questioner. “By canoe.” For once he expanded upon his answer, as if in polite recognition of the other's ignorance. “There is no other way.”

  “And did he take any of your supplies?”

  “No.” The small head shook briefly. “Only the canoe. And that was his; he came with it a year ago.”

  “Do you know from where?”

  “No.”

  The captain looked up at the two faces above him. He could not think of any other questions. The children remained frozen along the riverbank, watching this exchange gravely. Senhor Mello stood waiting quietly, his face expressionless.

  Da Silva tried again.

  “Senhor, did the young man who worked with you have the habit of chewing the leaves? Did he chew coca?”

  “He chewed, but what he chewed I do not know.” The small man shrugged. “I do not have the habit myself.”

  Silence fell. The captain cleared his throat. “Well...” He leaned over to unloop the rope and then paused. “Senhor Mello, we have lost our canoes. If you could give us the loan of one until I can replace it...”

  The small hand waved negligently towards the bank of canoes pulled in along the clearing. The captain nodded his thanks, lifted a canoe as easily as if it were half the weight, and slid it up to the rail. Wilson grabbed it and wrestled it aboard. The captain flung the rope aboard, grasped the pole offered him from above, and pulled himself over the rail with surprising agility for one his size. He raised a hamlike hand.

  “Well ... obrigado. Até logo."

  The merest nod from the brown face indicated acceptance of the thank-you and leave-taking.

  The captain hesitated and then stumped back up the stairway to the bridge, calling his standard cry below.

  “Fire! Steam!”

  The small vessel edged once more into the wide river. Da Silva and Wilson joined the large man on the makeshift bridge and waited as he turned the boat slightly, bringing it to face the current, keeping the engine at a speed that held them opposite the dock as they pondered their next move.

  “Well,” Wilson said quietly. “You were right, Zé. There seems to be a gathering of the clan somewhere. But where? And why?”

  “If they left by canoe, then they had to go downstream,” the captain said positively. “If this young fellow from Mello's had gone upstream, we would have passed him.”

  “Other than the fact that ‘downstream’ covers a couple of thousand miles,” Wilson said broodingly, “let's assume that that answers the question of ‘where.’ Now will somebody explain to me why?” He looked up. “If Bailey started out from Marãa, whatever we're looking for ought to be between here and there. So why are these lads going in the other direction?”

  Da Silva and the captain waited as Wilson frowned and continued.

  “Another point is that we've heard a few stories about the country up there—that the Indians are scarce, that the few nomad tribes are leaving ... in short, that there's something funny up there. So the logical thing to assume, coupled with Bailey's death, is that whatever we're looking for is up there—north of the Japurã and west of here.”

  The captain shook his head stubbornly. “These young fellows had to go downstream,” he insisted.

  “Right,” Wilson agreed. “Which merely proves that they don't have anything to do with whatever we're looking for.”

  “No!” Da Silva was frowning fiercely. “Look ... it would just be too much of a coincidence. They do have something to do with it.”

  Wilson looked at him closely. “Another one of those famous Da Silva hunches?”

  “It's more than a hunch,” Da Silva said. “You're forgetting the fact that Bailey's head was shrunken by Jivaros, and that Jivaros chew coca, and that the old seringueiro said he got his leaves at a plantation a few days below Marãa, and that the boy there chewed ....They're tied into it, I tell you!” He swung around. “Maybe they didn't go very far downstream. Maybe we can find them if we go on a bit.”

  The captain looked dubious. “Downstream with the current they can go almost as fast as we can.”

  “Well, we have to assume they're not going all the way down to Belém,” Da Silva said a bit testily. “They'll be leaving the river soon. Maybe...”

  “Maybe we're looking for a needle in a haystack,” Wilson suggested dispiritedly. “With the needle upriver and the haystack downriver.” He stared at the jungle. “And I do mean haystack!”

  Da Silva glared at him. “Do you have any better idea?”

  “Me?” Wilson grinned at him. “A better idea than a Da Silva hunch? God, no! The only thing is,” he added, “I'm sorry we didn't pick up some of those coca leaves: then we could all dream.”

  All that long, bitter day they beat their way down the wide river, coming in as close to the matted shore as the captain dared while Da Silva searched the tangled mass of leaves and vines along the bank for some sign that their quarry had left the river. Birds scattered with loud cries at their approach; once a black jaguar peered at them suspiciously from the heights of an exposed tree root and then turned contemptuously to mingle with the darkness behind him. Twice the captain slowed his engines, fighting the strong current to hold the small steamer in place while Da Silva and Wilson took their borrowed canoe and paddled in close to shore to examine some suspicious breaks in the solid wall. But each time the two returned with shaking heads, more and more mosquito bitten, to drag the canoe aboard wearily and disgustedly signal the captain to continue.

  Alligators followed them—large caimans of eighteen-foot lengths, massive and ugly, lifting their heads curiously at the beating paddles and riding easily in the wake, jaws open as if recognizing the defeatism within the small boat. Twice Wilson raised a rifle to fire at them, and twice he set it down; a shot might give unwelcome notice to someone further downstream. And shooting one alligator in the Amazon is like taking one drink of cognac in the hope of sharply reducing the output of the French vineyards.

  They made one stop at a small inhabited clearing some five hours below the Mello plantation. Their faces tightened at learning that two young men who had appeared there the year before, willing to work for nothing but their keep—undoubtedly escaping the police, the owner said—had selected the previous night to disappear as suddenly as they had appeared, taking with them a good part of the few supplies the tiny settlement could boast. They listened to this story with grave faces while the small naked children of the place watched intently from a safe distance; and then the captain had one of the boiler crew carry a few sacks of salt and sugar up to the main thatched hut, set back in the clearing. In exchange he accepted several cubic meters of hardwood, which were loaded aboard with the help of the settlement women. The small steamer chugged back into the current once again. Each of the three remained silent with his own thoughts.

  In the late afternoon a single canoe was discerned, skirting the bank below them. The engine was accelerated, and they drew near the smaller craft to a point of endangering it; but as they approached they saw it was occupied by a family of four, steadily paddling their way beneath a canvas that had been rigged to keep the sun from the smallest member, a one year-old infant sleeping fitfully in its mother's arms. Hands were waved enthusiastically; the canoe cut behind them, crossed their wake precariously, and headed for the deepening shadow of the south bank. In a short time the bobbing shape could no longer be dis
tinguished on the vast moving surface of the brown flood.

  When the fading light no longer served for good observation, they were forced to tie up for the night. They selected a point where the river bent in a wide curve; here a giant lubuna tree spread its umbrella-like leaves high over the surrounding jungle. A washout in the bank exposed some of the enormous trailing roots. Da Silva and Wilson paddled close, fighting off the clouds of mosquitoes, and managed to swing a rope about one of the trailing roots. A swarm of huge birds rose with a whirring sound, the beating of their wings frightening. The shrill chatter of monkeys came immediately, inquiring as to the disturbance. The evening symphony of the jungle had begun.

  They ate from tins, squatting alongside the deck enclosure, too tired and discouraged to attempt to go ashore and build a fire. The two caboclo members of the boiler crew were chatting easily beside their iron charge; the river was their life and they asked few questions of it. They had laid their marmites of farinha and maize atop the boiler and were waiting patiently for the remaining heat to warm the small pans. Wilson flicked his empty bean tin over the side, reached up, and dragged his netting down from the hammock above him, swathing himself in it.

  “You know,” he said reflectively, speaking through the fine mesh of the netting, “this chase makes me think of an old Sogolow cartoon. Two cops are chasing a thief through a department store, and when they come to an escalator they all get on and stand there, unmoving, until they get to the top. Then they all start running again.” He scratched his nose. “That's the way it seems to be up here. When night comes, everyone stops running. When it gets light again in the morning, everyone starts up again.”

  “Except those policemen could see their quarry,” Da Silva said slowly.

  Wilson quirked an eyebrow at him. “I was trying to be funny.”

  “I'm not in a funny mood.” Da Silva shook his head. “Something is wrong with our reasoning. I have a feeling we're going further and further away. I know they couldn't have gone upriver, but even so...”

  Captain Freitas puffed on his pipe steadily. “No matter where they went, we won't be able to follow them much longer with the wood we have. Even with the two meters we picked up this morning we have enough for only three-four days.”

  “That's the least of our problems,” Da Silva said shortly. He jerked a finger in the direction of the black forest behind them. “We can always get wood. And we have plenty of supplies.” He hesitated, his face suddenly screwed up in thought. “Supplies...” He sat up with a jerk, his eyes opening wide. “Of course! Supplies! God, we've been stupid!”

  Wilson looked at him morosely. “Don't tell me we forgot to bring along all that junk I picked up in Manaus,” he said. Then suddenly his face also lighted. “Of course!” he cried. “The supplies!”

  He jumped to his feet and struggled a moment to untangle himself from his netting; then he disappeared into the deck enclosure and returned a moment later waving a small bottle.

  “Insect repellent,” he announced triumphantly. “The twentieth century's answer to the buggy Amazon! It's a good thing you remembered, Zé.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine forgetting we had this and letting those monsters eat us alive?”

  “No, you idiot! Sit down.” Da Silva swung about, his face animated. “Supplies! The mate who ran away from the steamer and gave me this clout on the head—he took half of the ship's supplies! And at that clearing where we stopped this afternoon—where we got the wood—the two men who left there last night also took most of the supplies the poor devil had.” He leaned forward in excitement. “But the one who left from Mello's—he didn't take anything!”

  “So he happened to be more honest,” Wilson said calmly. He had washed his hands with the repellent and was busy rubbing it into his face. “Sometimes it happens. Even in the worst of families.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Da Silva said shortly. He turned to the captain. “Don't you see? He didn't take anything because he was going back!”

  There was a stunned silence at his words. Wilson sat rigid, the bottle of insect repellent motionless in his hand. He set the bottle carefully on the deck and slowly nodded his head. “Of course...”

  The captain frowned. “So where did they hide while we were searching the riverbanks?”

  Wilson shook his head in great self-disgust. “Even I can answer that one now. They crossed the river to some rendezvous point. And when they were all together, they went back. Simple. Of course,” he added broodingly, “they were lucky we were stupid.”

  Da Silva shoved himself shakily to his feet. “Captain, tell your caboclos to start getting steam up in this thing. We've got to get back upriver!”

  “At night?” The captain was scandalized. “It's too dangerous. This isn't a European freighter. We can't.”

  “We can and we will! We'll stay well in midstream, and there's enough moonlight to see any floating grass. Come on!”

  The captain shrugged fatalistically and pushed his great bulk up from the deck. He knocked out his pipe and stowed it in a pocket. His eyes were doubtful. “It's dangerous.”

  “Sitting here and wasting time could be more dangerous.” Da Silva was suddenly alive again. “Wilson, help those men get a fire up. Let's get going. No ... wait! We have to untie this damn thing first. Give me a hand with that canoe.”

  Captain Freitas looked at him. “First we're going to change that bandage on your head,” he said firmly, “and there'll be no arguing about that.”

  Da Silva opened his mouth and then closed it. He seated himself on the deck and winced as the large captain stripped away the bandanna and washed the crusted blood from the cut before applying iodine and penicillin.

  Wilson watched the operation closely.

  “Don't tamper with his head too much,” he advised the captain. “It's finally beginning to work again.” And then he padded forward to start the canoe into the water.

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS AN eerie and frightening ride back up the river that night, but the relief of having a goal, no matter how tenuous, relieved much of the terror. The glow from the crackling wood fire whenever the boiler door was thrown open cast weird shadows against the blackness of the heavy night. The moonlight was pale, now lost in clouds, now distorting the river with banks and shoals that did not exist. Islands, canoes, even large darkened riverboats suddenly seemed to rise before them and then as quickly disappear as the low prow cut relentlessly forward. In midstream the jungle sounds faded to a muted murmur, broken but rarely, and then only by some terrifying scream or laugh that seemed directed at the idiocy of attempting the river at night. An occasional flash of heat lightning low on the horizon would give them a momentary glimpse of the wide water, burned upon their retinas for a brief instant and followed by a blackness that seemed even more intense.

  The night seemed endless; the coming of the dawn was the greatest relief that Da Silva could remember. It found them well in midstream, far from any danger but exhausted and on edge from the phantasms of the night before. But daylight also brought frustration, for the riverbank seemed to inch by as the steamer fought the current. At least, Da Silva thought with weary satisfaction, we know where we're going for the first time since we left Rio. He felt a quirk of conscience. Maybe Elena would have seen something that I missed, he thought; maybe we would have saved time if she had been along. He dismissed the idea. If she were along, he thought, my thinking would probably be even more muddled than it has been so far.

  The captain, no longer under the compulsion of holding the vessel in the swift current of midstream, took advantage of his knowledge of the river, easing the small boat from current to current, finding the eddies and the quiet spots. At such times the tiny vessel seemed to spring forward of its own volition; it seemed as anxious as its occupants to reach their common goal.

  Wilson worked tirelessly with the two-man boiler crew, heaving logs rhythmically into the maw of the insatiable iron monster. At times the captain's eyebrows raised as the steam-pressur
e gauge passed any previous marking, but if he felt any trepidation he never mentioned it; instead, he used the steam as fast as it was produced by pushing his small engine far beyond any performance imagined by its manufacturers. The small boat trembled; the paddles lurched around madly. The captain's eyes kept constant measure of the diminishing supply of logs; it would be tragic to fall short of their goal for lack of a meter or less of wood. He swallowed as another thought struck him. That maniac Da Silva was fully capable of burning the deck enclosure before he would stop to refuel.

  They ate at their tasks, hurriedly swallowing their mouthfuls and returning to work. The river stretched to the distant horizon before them. Da Silva stared at the wall of trees that lined their passage, wondering how any traveler could possibly tell where he was in that wilderness. Each mile they passed seemed an exact duplicate of the mile before, and the mile after, and all the thousands of meandering miles of weary, uninhabited jungle through which the vast network of rivers flowed.

  But the captain did not share this ignorance. Late in the afternoon they heard him bellow from the upper deck; and he was pointing.

  “Mello's!”

  The steamer ran closer, edging in toward the bank; the small pier grew in size. Wilson straightened up with a sigh of relief and went to stand at the rail. Once again they saw the small figure of Senhor Mello come out on the dock and wait for them. The captain brought the steamer around; Wilson hastily broke into his rest to shove the pole over the side, following it with the rope. The small man looped it expertly about a stanchion and then stepped back as they clambered over the rail. The little dock dipped perilously under the weight of so many; they all moved quickly to the riverbank.

  This time the little man did not need prodding. The small black eyes were burning. “They came back,” he said in a low, bitter voice. “They took my rifle, one of my axes, most of my sugar...”

  “Where did they go?” Da Silva's face was carved in weariness, but his voice was urgent.