The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Da Silva released his grip on Wilson's knee. The latter's voice was soft and under complete control when he finally spoke.

  “I'm sorry. I've been talking as if we had a choice between getting out of here on a bus or a train—whether we wanted to save money or time.” He cleared his throat. “I'll be a good boy; I promise. It's just that I've got this damnable headache.”

  Da Silva raised his hand in alarm; it found Wilson's face in the darkness and pressed against it. His hand burned against the bearded, sunken cheeks. “You've got a fever. You ought to get some rest. We still have hours before daylight. You'll need it.”

  “I'm all right.” Wilson swallowed. When he spoke again, his hoarse whisper even had a note of his usual humor in it. “Apologies all around. All right, Zé; tell us how to get out of here in daylight when we can't do it at night. It sounds like a typical Da Silva gesture.”

  Da Silva stared soundlessly in the direction of the soft voice. He started to say something and then choked it off. When he finally spoke his voice was even. “Tomorrow morning every man on the field and every Indian will probably be removing camouflage from those planes. Should they leave any here as guards...” He paused significantly. “We'll have to divert their attention, and I think I know how.”

  “I believe you. I won't even ask how.” Wilson sounded groggy. “I'm sure it isn't stealing an airplane, because even if the field was clear and they didn't have all that camouflage, I know that Captain Da Silva despises airplanes. If you ask me, this sounds like a better trick than getting out of a tank of water after being tied in Alameida's inimitable fashion...” His voice trailed off stupidly.

  His body brushed Da Silva's as he fell. The swarthy man caught him, held him a moment in stupefaction, and then eased him tenderly to the ground, cradling the rolling head on his knee. His eyes sought the large shadow beside him in the hut. “I'll take him with me tomorrow. I'll have to. I need him, and you couldn't possibly handle both him and the canoe.”

  He paused, thinking furiously, attempting not to allow his thoughts to be distorted by the harsh-breathing man in his arms, bringing his mind coldly on the problem facing them. When he finally spoke his harsh whisper was without expression, analytical.

  “There's one thing about this scheme of mine you ought to know. It means you'll have to stay here in the hut alone for about an hour, in broad daylight. After we've gone.” He hesitated, staring through the darkness at the silent figure beside him. “If anyone looks in ... if anyone finds you ... then...”

  “I'll stay.” The captain's whisper was strong; it betrayed no emotion. Da Silva might have been asking him to pull into the shore on a routine trip on the steamer and then to wait for him so he could study a particular flower. There was a moment's silence. The captain leaned over. “Exactly what's your idea?”

  Da Silva bent towards him, leaning over the still head in his lap, whispering urgently. The large captain listened, nodding laconically from time to time.

  Outside the hut the sounds of the guards periodically meeting and parting came at regular intervals; the light from the cooking fire rose and fell, its shadows lifting the night from time to time from the empty doorway of the little hut.

  Wilson's breathing became calm, regular. In the forest an ocelot woke at some strange sound, sounded his frightened alarm, and padded swiftly to a less suspicious tree limb. The river swept by imperturbably under the sliver of moon that vainly tried to light the vast sky.

  Chapter 13

  THE BREAK IN the tightly woven wall of the hut had taken time to complete; frond by frond, silently, Da Silva had slit an opening with the knife, waiting between each encounter of the Jivaro guards to cut a bit more and then to fold it back cautiously so no mark of their proposed exit could be seen. He remained now, eyes glued to a small break in the opening, studying the sky for the first light of dawn. As he waited he continued to flex his fingers: they would do. Swollen, painful, but they would do. They would have to do. He heard the guards approaching and pulled back, looking down at Wilson, who had awakened and sat hunched at his feet.

  “It's almost time to leave. How do you feel?”

  “Happy to go. This place has bugs.” Wilson's voice indicated his regained alertness; his four hours of sleep had been precious. His usual humor had returned. “Remind me never to come back.”

  Da Silva grinned in the darkness. “You'll be all right. All you needed was some sleep.”

  “That's all I ever need. That and not having people trying to kill me.”

  Da Silva grinned and turned to the large silent man squatting with an eye on the entrance to the hut. His grin faded. In moments he and Wilson would be gaining the freedom of the forest, leaving the large captain alone in the hut. “Captain Freitas...”

  The large man was leaning forward. “Quiet! Someone is coming!”

  In an instant Da Silva had dropped down and laced his arms painfully behind his back. He pressed his leg tightly against Wilson's leg and bent his head.

  The monkey-furred head of the little shaman peered in the doorway, studied the prisoners a moment, and then backed away. The entrance was clear.

  “He's gone.”

  Da Silva was on his feet, his heart still beating heavily from the unexpected visit. “You'll fix the opening as soon as we leave?” It was a foolish question and he knew it. He went on almost hastily. “We'll make it as fast as we can. If anything should happen...”

  “Nothing will happen.” The large head turned to study the doorway once again. “I'll be on the beach when you get there.” He added almost as an afterthought, but quietly and sincerely, and without turning his head, “Go with God.”

  Da Silva stared at him a moment, lost in admiration for the other's imperturbability and bravery, and then returned to study the sky through the slit in the frond wall. The first faint strands of dawn were leaving their mark on the night; objects took form, draped in the lacy mist of early morning. The guards were at the other end of their post, far below them. His hand found Wilson's shoulder with urgency. “Let's go.”

  He folded back the palm fronds and slithered quietly through, followed by Wilson. Shadows cast by the fire below competed with the growing light; the forest edge could be seen but yards away, solid and reassuring. In seconds he had dashed across the intervening space and was safe in the obscurity of the huge trees.

  Wilson pulled up beside him, panting.

  “The guards...”

  Da Silva answered in a swift whisper. “The guards are placed in the daytime. Nobody stays in the forest at night. And today everyone will be busy removing the camouflage ... I hope.”

  He turned and pushed his way through the thick brush for a few yards and then turned again and began skirting the airfield just outside the periphery of the thick foliage that protected it. Light in the clearing was slowly increasing; the mist rose gradually in the trees, like a slow-billowing curtain.

  Wilson stumbled along beside him. In the darkness of the forest each root and vine seemed to lift to catch at their feet; the brush was soaked and pawed at them with wet claws. They pushed ahead. Da Silva seemed alive again, his movements sure, his energy renewed by the thought of the task ahead. He paused, staring about him, and then plunged on once again, only to pause once more. He swung about to Wilson.

  “Yesterday we split up about here. Where did you hide the pack?”

  In the dimness of the huge forest it was almost impossible to distinguish one tree from another. Wilson scanned the area, squinting in an effort to see. His fever was coming back: the forest about him seemed to waver. His head began to throb.

  “It was a cetigo, I remember. We'll have to wait until it gets lighter.”

  “We can't wait! The captain's waiting for us, and every minute means hours for him! Where did you put it?”

  Wilson turned, his eyes attempting to measure the distance to the growing band of light that was filtering in from the cleared airfield. “I think we were further in; the clearing wasn't that close.
Wait a second...” He forced his way to the edge of the field and peered blurrily through the wall of brush at the line of planes, now clearly visible in the early morning light. His eyes turned to the gasoline dump. After a moment's labored calculation he shoved his way unsteadily back.

  “It was further back; we were about three hundred yards from the fuel dump, and we're a lot closer now. And we were deeper in.” He forced clarity into his voice. “Come on!”

  They retraced their steps, digging deeper into the forest. Wilson paused, panting, and stared about him. The constant beat in his head seemed to be growing; his mouth was dry. Light was growing in the monster trees about him. He swung about again, and then, with a low cry of triumph, he hurried forward to a whitish-barked tree and fell to his knees in relief, burrowing in the brush at his feet. His face came up white, and then he returned to his task in almost hysterical haste. He sat back, panting.

  “Zé! It's not here!”

  “It has to be there!” Da Silva dropped down beside him, digging his hands furiously through the rotted leaves and vines. He picked up a handful of rot and flung it away in frustrated anger.

  “It's gone!” Wilson swung his head about in despair. “They must have found it.”

  He rose to his knees, staring about himself hopelessly as Da Silva continued scraping madly through the brush beneath the tree. Then he turned towards the clearing once again and sprang unsteadily to his feet.

  “Zé! There's another cetigo! I think...” He scrambled forward through the brush, oblivious of the stinging cuts of branches slashing across his face, and fell to his knees to burrow beneath the huge tree. His voice rose in excitement and then fell instantly to a hoarse whisper of triumph. “Zé! Here it is!”

  Da Silva fell to his knees beside Wilson. Their eager hands dragged out the hidden pack, now wet with dew and already beginning to feel moldy. Spiders scurried away from Da Silva's scrabbling hands as he hastily unbuckled the pack. A grim smile crossed his face as he bent back the canvas. The grenades were still nested in the pocket in which they had been placed. He withdrew three, hung one onto his belt and grasped the others in his two hands. He got to his feet.

  “Come on! We're behind schedule now!” Without waiting for an answer he started to move toward the field, jamming his way relentlessly through the vines and the brush, stumbling over hidden logs and branches that choked the forest floor.

  Wilson was at his heels.

  "Zé... .”

  “What?”

  “God knows how long the captain has had them. They may not—”

  “Work? They have to work!”

  They had come to the edge of the clearing. Da Silva peered through and then snatched his head back. Men were there before him, clambering on planes, beginning to strip away the camouflage.

  “Further along ... about a hundred feet. Come on!”

  “Zé"...

  “What?”

  “Better let me...”

  But Da Silva had pushed ahead without listening, tearing his way through the foliage now with almost insane disregard for noise. Once again he suddenly paused, panting, and peered through the screen of leaves that hid the field. There before him was the stack of tins. A stronger light tipped the boughs that made up the cover of camouflage over the planes; the edge of the sun was just clearing the trees at the far side of the huge field.

  “Now!”

  A hand clamped on Da Silva's drawn-back arm. He turned in amazement to find Wilson reaching unsteadily for the grenade in his hand.

  “What...?”

  “Let me!” Wilson took the grenade from Da Silva. His hand was hot as it touched the other's, but his grip was implacable. “If this had to be kicked, it would be a job for a Brazilian; but this calls for an ex-baseball player. Here we go!”

  He steadied himself, his eyes alight with a gleam of satisfaction, and pulled the pin.

  The grenade looped gently through the air.

  At the first sign of dawn the shaman of the Jivaros, dressed in the exact robes of his exalted office, began assembling his people for the removal of the camouflage and the clearing of the long runway. The day he had awaited so many months had finally arrived; the fulfilment of all the prophecies would come this day! When the long metal monsters were free and had slid into the air and the prisoners’ heads were being slowly turned over the ceremonial fires and packed with burning sand, then would the gods answer propitiously! Three heads! And one that of a giant! It would strain their skill, but the shaman had no doubts. This was the day, and the day was beginning. He turned his head to the east. The light was increasing.

  He called his group together and gave his instructions sharply. The squat men in their odd dress listened to the high voice without expression. The sooner the clearing was empty of the large metal machines that made noise, the sooner their ritual could begin, and the sooner the gods could be satisfied. The women's eyes narrowed salaciously at the thought of the day's sport. All that remained was to take down the boughs they had so laboriously laid across the metal beasts in the field beyond. They turned in a body to join their men. It was strange, this working at the side of the hated white man, but the will of the gods was not to be denied, and the thin one was of the gods. Their shaman had attested to that from past experience.

  Alone in the village—except for the guards patrolling the riverbank and the children and elders still in the main huts—the small shaman squatted by the cooking fire, staring steadily into the flames. There seemed to be an oppressiveness in the air, not unusual on days of momentous happenings; but today it seemed to him that it brought with it a particular sense of foreboding. His small face wrinkled in concentration under the monkey fur of his headdress as he reviewed the events of the past year for some omen that might have escaped him. But all had been good and in full accord with the promises of the thin white shaman with the wedge-face and the tiny eyes. The fish had been abundant and the hunting good; the manioc crop was as good as could be expected in a strange land, and the rifles were more numerous and better than had been anticipated. Still the uneasiness remained.

  He leaned forward and stirred the fire, hoping to see in the twisting flames some sign as to the cause for his inquietude. An ember, disturbed by his prodding, tumbled from the fire to the dust at his feet, winking out. A tiny wisp of smoke rose from the charred wood. His eyes suddenly narrowed, reading into the blackened ember a frightening possibility. Could one of the prisoners have died in the night? True, he had seen them himself but a short time ago, but they had been unmoving, silent and rigid in the gloom of the hut. The thought of their death by any agency except his own was suddenly terrifying; in such a case would the portents hold? Would such a death not be, in fact a negation of the promises to be realized from the death? He pushed himself to his feet, hurrying to the hut with beating heart.

  His sharp eyes pierced the shadows, and in an instant he knew a far greater fear. Facing him, white-faced but resolute, was the giant; but the other two had disappeared! Without sight or sound they had melted through the walls, leaving no mark, as Yangudi had fled through solid walls to disappear into the sky and establish the stars that now shone in the night.

  He fell back precipitously, whimpering deep in his throat, and then suddenly screamed hysterically for others to come and bear true witness with him to the miracle.

  His scream rose in the still air and then was lost in a sudden thundering explosion. With a devastating roar a wall of flame shot up from the far side of the vast clearing—an orange-red curtain that twisted tortuously in the morning sky. The scream died in the small shaman's throat. The scene before him challenged the rising sun with tumbling stars as gasoline tins erupted to catch the sun's strong rays and then to fall like flaming rockets across the tangled mass of interwoven camouflage. The report was repeated, muffled now under the greater sound of the fire, and then repeated again. The flames towered now, triumphant, as if aware that no challenge to their destructive supremacy could survive, and then scattered f
or new victories, leaping across wide spaces, even licking eagerly at the edge of the forest beyond. Black smoke swirled, caught up in the churning heat, rising in majestic pillars to spiral in the airless sky.

  The shaman swung his head in dazed acceptance of the unfailing sign from the gods. Almost as if in response to his turning head the flame swept across the dried camouflage, bough catching bough, to tremble a moment in the delight of consumption, and then to pass the fiery message beyond, to run the length and breadth of the covered field. Faint screams of trapped men tried to compete with the holocaust and were lost in the giant crackling sounds. Another thundering roar came as one of the plane's tanks exploded; the burning branches above heaved wildly, torn apart by the shattered buckling of metal, and then dropped into the void created by the collapsed wings. The flames stormed across the field now, eagerly consuming one dried branch after another, licking at them in growing hunger. A third and fourth gas tank erupted; a mountain of sparks rose to ignite the avid air. A wave of blistering heat washed into the empty village. The few openmouthed watchers stationed there for reasons of security or age felt the hot, smoky breath in their faces for a brief moment, and then the fiery air swept back as the cool river air rushed in, filling the vacuum created by the rising black billows of smoke.

  The tiny shaman dropped to his knees before the small hut, his mind drugged by the enormity of the miracle he had been privileged to witness. His lips moved soundlessly; his monkey-furred cap bobbed in rhythm to his incantation. His glowing eyes raised. They were not at all surprised to find themselves staring into an empty hut. The giant had also disappeared without the slightest trace, undoubtedly gone to join Yangudi and his brother in the far reaches of the boundless sky...

  Only the thick growth that lined the forest's edge saved Yanguái's brother from the evident folly of dropping a grenade into twelve thousand gallons of aviation gasoline while standing less than fifteen yards from the point of detonation. The deafening roar of the explosion crashed into the protecting trees, bending them; it sought and discovered a partial bypass for its blatant fury and swept through, buffeting the two men.