The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Wilson's eyes were glazed from the blow he had suffered, but his feet were beginning to respond. He became less of a deadweight on Da Silva, shuffling forward; blood from the rifle-butt blow above his ear was running down his cheek, caking on his dirty shirt. A scattering of men working on the planes paused in their labor, gazing curiously at the ragged pair and the armed men behind. They tramped through the field, between the planes, until they came to one from which canvas stretched to the ground to form a shade cover for Faca Alameida.

  The thin man looked up as the four approached. For an instant he frowned, and then his face split in an almost savage grin of recognition.

  “Well, well! Captain Da Silva! This is a pleasure!” His eyes flickered contemptuously to the dazed figure of Wilson, swaying before him. “And this, I suppose, is the hunting companion Chiquinho told me about. The American...” A sudden thought came to him, and his tiny eyes narrowed in a squint. “You don't seem to be surprised to see me. Is it simply your Indian stoicism, or did you have an idea...?” He shook his head. “It really doesn't make any difference now. So Chiquinho didn't kill you. Amazing.” He turned to look at the two guards. “Where is their gear?”

  “They didn't have any. Just guns and machetes.”

  “Idiot! Do you think they came through the jungle without gear?” The close-set eyes squinted in thought and then raised to judge the remaining light of day. “They had to cross the river somewhere. They probably made their camp near the water. I want four men to go upriver by canoe—two of our men and two of the Jivaros. I want to know where they landed and if they were alone.” The guards were staring at him stupidly. “Well? Get Gomez over here!”

  Da Silva waited with narrowed eyes as orders were given and Gomez went trotting off to carry them out. The tall detective's mind was racing. If Captain Freitas remained well hidden ... but these Jivaros could spot their landing marks ... or if the search crew came back before they reached the spit ... After all, it would be dark in three hours...

  Alameida turned back to face the frozen expression on Da Silva's face. He laughed.

  “The great Captain Da Silva! I was expecting you, you know. And my men will find your camp. Did you think you were the only detective alive?”

  Da Silva met the sneering stare without expression. His jaw tightened. “This man needs medical attention. He's been hurt.”

  “Medical attention?” Alameida sounded honestly surprised. “Do you actually believe you two are going to live long enough...?” He frowned, thinking, and then the cold smile returned. “On second thought, why not? Aldo, get bandages. We must fix the American up.” He turned back to Da Silva. “I understand that in his country they make sure a specimen is in good physical condition before they execute him. Out of common politeness, we can do no less.”

  His small, close-set eyes studied the two men before him sardonically. The set smile remained on his wedge-shaped face, as if painted on. Aldo returned and began to clean the wound, sprinkling powder in; a medicated pad and bandage lay beside him, ready for application. Alameida watched the operation a moment and then lost interest. He turned to face Da Silva, his eyes glinting in enjoyment. He swung a hand about lazily.

  “What do you think of it?”

  Da Silva's voice was expressionless. “Where did you get the planes?”

  “The planes?” Alameida's pride in his accomplishment came through in his voice. “Some were purchased from—various places. Oh, yes; in this world money will buy anything, and quietly—without publicity. And two of them"—he grinned almost wolfishly—"were reported lost in the jungle and never heard from again.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Are you curious?” There was a humorous shrug. “I'll be very happy to explain, since it really makes no difference now. You've heard of the crime of blackmail, and the crime of kidnapping? Well, this is a sort of combination of both. Only the victim isn't going to be a person; it's going to be a country. Brazil.”

  Despite Da Silva's efforts to keep his face from showing any emotion, his eyes opened slightly.

  Alameida laughed.

  “Crazy? You think I'm crazy? Believe me, I'm not. This operation has taken a long time to arrange, and a lot of money. Money from some of the biggest families in Brazil. Crazy? Just two days from now"—his eyes unconsciously consulted his wristwatch—"an announcement will go out on Radio Manaus. It will inform the Government that a squadron of bombers is one hour away from Rio de Janiero and that unless the Government turns its powers over to certain military commanders the city will be bombed.”

  Da Silva stared at him. “You'll be shot down by fighters.”

  Alameida laughed. “Do you think so? Do you honestly believe this was planned like a purse snatching? No; we've taken all possibilities into account and arranged to handle them. The commandant of the Galeão Air Base is one of those certain military commanders.”

  He looked past Da Silva. Aldo was finishing wrapping Wilson's head.

  “Well, that ought to last the American as long as it needs to. You know, I believe we'll allow you to see the take-off, Da Silva. You've certainly come far enough and worked hard enough to deserve at least this courtesy. And it's only two more days in any event. After that...” He shrugged. “Well, after that we'll let the Jivaros have you.”

  Da Silva returned the sardonic glance of the other with an imperturbability that fitted his almost Indian features, but behind the carved façade of his dark features his mind was racing. Two more days? Within himself he felt a sinking feeling. No time to warn anyone, and no means to do so. Even if a trade might be made—their lives for Elena's. Even if escape could be arranged...

  Alameida's smile widened as if he were reading the other's thoughts.

  “No, Captain. There will be no chance to suborn my men. They're a cut-throat bunch of deserters from the air force and a pickup of young boys looking for adventure, but I wouldn't trust them near you. Or you near them. I'll let the Jivaros guard you. You'll find it a little tough escaping them.”

  His voice hardened; he was tired of the game of cat and mouse. “Aldo! Bring rope. We'll tie our curious friends and deliver them to the village.”

  Despite his iron control, Da Silva almost winced as the thin cords bit cruelly into his wrists. Wilson, still dazed from the blow he had suffered, submitted meekly. Their arms were lashed behind their backs, fingertip to elbow; the slightest movement tore at their shoulder muscles.

  Alameida surveyed the cords with almost clinical detachment.

  “An extremely effective method of tying a man,” he told his prisoners. The Indians taught it to me. Much better than simply lashing the wrists together.” An agile man whose hands are tied behind his back can often step through and tackle the knots with his teeth.” He frowned in thought. “Aldo, their legs. Tie Captain Da Silva's right leg to the American's left. That's right—at both the ankle and the knee. That's it.” He stepped back to judge the effect, explaining as he did so. “You see, Da Silva, not only does this restrict your movement, but it will also afford the Indians some comedy.” He smiled unpleasantly. “They get much enjoyment from the embarrassment of others. Children ... Well, I think we can go.”

  Prodded forward by the insistent muzzle of the rifle, the two moved in awkward limping unity. Twice they fell and twice the cavernous Alameida waited patiently until they regained their feet. The fact that he had Da Silva in his hands and under control was acting on him like rich wine.

  “There's a trick to walking like that,” he said, as if explaining something to a child. “You have to accommodate yourselves, one to the other. It's a matter of practice.” He smiled. “I'm sure that if you had enough time before the Indians killed you, eventually you'd become quite good at it.”

  Da Silva stumbled and caught himself. His control almost broke, but he choked back the curses that automatically rose to his lips.

  Alameida pretended not to notice, walking slowly beside his staggering prisoners, talking without pause.

/>   “The shaman of these Jivaros is a great friend of mine. Years ago, in Ecuador, I managed to convince him I had supernatural powers. They're very superstitious, you know—probably the most superstitious of any tribe alive.”

  His tone was completely conversational; he might have been relating an odd experience to some passing sailors in the little bar in Belém over a glass of vermouth.

  “I was in Jivaro territory with a rich hunter from Lima—one of those who hunt from safety and then pick the harmless animals. The leopard skin they buy—anyway, I was his translator. This shaman happened to be suffering from a common disease. If you saw how they lived, you'd be surprised that they don't all have worse ones. Anyway, since a Jivaro has to blame all of his misfortunes on somebody, I convinced him that this character had laid a curse on him.” His voice lightened at the recollection. “I remember this poor stupid fat man standing there with a silly grin on his face while I talked to the shaman. God knows what he thought I was saying. But, anyway, that was the end of him. He was speared, as I recall.”

  He looked back down the years, remembering. “He had struck me for some very unimportant thing—stealing some of his liquor, I believe.” His eyes came up, cold and accusing. “You put me in prison, Captain Da Silva.”

  Da Silva stumbled along, Wilson dragging at his side. The swarthy man's face revealed nothing.

  Alameida sighed and forced himself from the present, returning to his story.

  “Anyway, I put terramycin in the shaman's beer, and within a few days he was well—and convinced that the reason was because he had ordered this fool killed. I became quite a person in his eyes.”

  He glanced at the two men struggling along beside him. “Of course, that's how I got them to come down here and guard the field for me. I simply told the shaman that a curse was waiting for them if they stayed where they were. I furnished them with transportation in the form of good canoes, and they were quite happy to come.” He smiled at the two men in a humorous fashion. “Of course the rifles I furnished them didn't do any harm.” The smile broadened. “I'm sure the shaman must have another small complaint that will be cured once your heads are taken and shrunken.”

  They were approaching the village now. Alameida paused and surveyed the giant clearing with almost the pride of ownership.

  “I discovered this river and this clearing when I was just a boy. I came across from Marãa. I was born there, though you might not believe it.” He grinned. “I never thought it would be put to such good use. Land up here generally isn't.”

  He broke off. They had left the camouflaged airfield and were in the open village street. Children and dogs congregated about the stumbling pair; wide grins lit their broad faces. Women came from the doors of the long, elliptical huts and laughed delightedly at this comical sight. Men, more delicate in stature than their women, followed them as they moved down the packed street of the village. Seen at close quarters, the dark faces were decorated with small triangles painted across the cheekbones. The men's long hair was matted with grease, and they carried an almost animal stench. The two men grimaced from pain and nausea.

  The parade ended before the door of the center house. Seated there in the shadow of the overhanging thatch that roofed the huge hut was an old man chewing steadily on coca leaves. A head-dress of monkey fur covered his small skull; two pigtails hung down, one at each side. Black stripes were painted evenly across his wrinkled, sunken cheeks. His teeth were blacked and jagged. Between his knees was a large bowl of chicha, the native beer, and into it he had been mixing natema, a narcotic which enabled him to visualize the enemy that caused the tubers to be bad or brought disease or accident to the hunters. The rheumy eyes lit up at the sight of the skinny figure and his captives. The shaman pushed aside the bowl and held up a hand for silence. The circling crowd of Indians quieted.

  Alameida took a step forward, standing tall and grim as he spoke. The shaman nodded and replied at equal length. The two men then turned to the bowl of chicha, and each withdrew a notched stem of hollow bamboo that held a drink and brought it to his lips. The conversation resumed; once again they drank. The crowd behind remained silent, listening intently. Da Silva's hard eyes were fixed on the two men; their language was completely unintelligible. Wilson balanced himself on his tied leg, his eyes looking dully at the crowd frozen in a circle about him.

  The shaman turned his head to stare at the two ragged figures, nodded twice in a decisive manner, and then came to his feet. The filthy monkey fur that covered his head barely came to Alameida's shoulder. He spoke again.

  Alameida replied and then turned to the two prisoners.

  “You will live for two days. As the planes take off the Indians will kill you as they wish. In this way the manioc crop will be guaranteed against failure and the new rifles will always shoot true and find their mark. You will remain tied and placed in the smallest hut at the end of the village. No one will touch you further there before the planes take off, for a taboo has been placed upon you and anyone who touches you will die of the blood sickness on the spot. If you attempt to escape, however, the taboo will be lifted and any may kill you as he sees fit.”

  There was a sardonic glint in the small eyes, but the thin face was expressionless as he recited this in a wooden voice. Before the shaman no demonstration of satisfaction could be shown; to the shaman the arrangements had been made by the gods and Alameida was merely their spokesman. The even voice continued.

  “The take-off of the planes shall be proof that the gods wish you dead, and the taboo will be lifted. Two days, Captain.”

  Da Silva spoke from cracked lips. “We won't live two days bound like this.”

  The tiny, close-set eyes surveyed him calmly. “That would be your misfortune. But if I know you, Captain Da Silva, you'll live. The pain of being bound disappears, they tell me. Your arms become numb. Yes, you will live. For two days.”

  He turned back to the shaman, speaking evenly in the Jivaro tongue. Eager hands fell on the two men. A loud scream of delight swept the crowd. They were thrown to the ground and dragged down the village street. Hands beat at them; dogs barked shrilly and darted through the legs of their attackers. They were flung unceremoniously into the small hut and lay panting just within the doorway. The shaman spoke again. Instantly the Indians scattered away, falling back from these bearers of the blood death now that the taboo was in effect.

  Alameida stared down at them. Da Silva met his look with a look of hatred.

  “By the way,” the thin man said quietly, “you will probably have another visitor before you—before we take off. My sister. You know her by the name of Elena. She'll be here any day now.” He suddenly leaned forward and smiled at the bound man lying in the doorway of the small hut. “Still no emotion? Still that Indian stoicism?” He chuckled. “The Jivaro women will have a lot of sport with you before you die.”

  He straightened up and turned and, with no further word, walked swiftly through the village in the direction of the airfield. The two guards followed. The shaman pulled his bowl of chicha back before the doorway of the large hut and returned to his task, shredding the natema into the bowl with little scrabbling monkey motions of his aged, gnarled hands.

  A small circle remained watching the prisoners for a while with wooden faces; then the people began to drift away.

  The cooking fires grew brighter; the sun was sinking fast into the forest now and darkness was sweeping over the village and the river. A dog approached and sniffed at the open doorway of the small hut; a startled cry from a small child sent the animal scurrying for safety, tail between its legs.

  Two days, Da Silva thought as the pain in his arms mounted. And our only hope is Captain Freitas, if they don't find where we landed. Which they will.

  Two days...

  Chapter 12

  THE TINY HUT swarmed with vermin, small nameless things that scurried investigatingly across their lashed legs or sought to nestle close in the night, seeking some mysteriously satisfying odo
r that emanated from these humans. Vague shadows interposed themselves at times between the dark, open doorway and the flickering fingers reaching up from the dying coals of the cooking fire as Indians arose in the night to relieve themselves.

  Da Silva could not remember a longer night in his life. The subtle tinging of the morning sky over the camouflaged field he faced came to him as a gift, a present from some God he had almost come to believe had deserted him.

  “Wilson...”

  There was a faint stirring beside him. “What?”

  “How do you feel?”

  Pain etched the stocky man's bloody face. The bandage about his head was filthy; flies fought for space on the caked blood that had soaked through. A bitter smile crossed his swollen lips.

  “Fine.” He swallowed painfully. “Or at least I will be as soon as my arms fall off.”

  Da Silva ran a thick tongue across his caked lips. “Do you think there's any chance of trying to twist more back-to-back so we could work on each other's knots?”

  Wilson twisted his head. In the dim light of the hut's interior he could just make out the other's tortured profile. “Work on each other's knots? I haven't been able to feel my fingers for hours.” He turned his head back, staring at the woven wall of the hut hopelessly. “I wish I could say the same for my shoulders.”

  Da Silva sighed. “Neither have I.” He twisted to scrape his itching face against the wall of the hut. “There's just one chance. Captain Freitas.”

  Wilson leaned his head back wearily. “There isn't any chance, and we both know it. You should have told Alameida we had his precious sister and tried to make a trade.”

  “I thought of it,” Da Silva said slowly. “I was going to use that as a last resort.”