Bronx broke into the spell encompassing me. “C’mon kid. We’ve got more than a few hours walk. We’ll get you home again someday.” He followed my gaze up the rocky walls. “And we’ll get you there without that cat stalking you.”
“She wasn’t stalking me.”
“Damn cat was about to have you for breakfast.”
“She was guiding me.”
The mountain man ran his hand through his beard. “Hmmph. Strange things happen to your head at these altitudes. Let’s concentrate on getting you food and rest.”
We didn’t say much as we climbed westwards, one barren ridge after another, then dipped into a shallow valley where a few scraggly pine trees stood near a stone hut. We crossed over a clear, cold stream on a half-dozen well-placed rocks and entered the one room building.
“We’ll camp here for the night. This is a communal lodge, so we might have visitors. Late tomorrow, we should reach my place down the valley.” He threw some sticks on an area of the dirt floor that showed past use as a hearth, then lit them. “Let’s eat some warm food, and then we’ll take a look at those feet. They must be sponges.”
That night, I felt dry for the first time in almost a week. I slept on warm flat stones next to the fire. The few times I awoke during the night, the mountaineer was sitting up, feeding small branches to the flames.
“Hey, Bronx, what are you doing out in these mountains?”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Maybe misfortune, maybe fate.”
“Don’t give me that esoteric bullshit. Look, we got time in these mountains. Get your story straight, then tell it to me.”
“Hey. Okay. No need for grief. I’m an artist. Got lost after some cowboy tried to steal my car and kill me. I’ve been running from that jaguar and kept getting forced to climb higher.”
“Well, I figured you came from the llanos. How long you been living in the jungle? Look, I said you’ve got time to come up with what you want to say.”
“What do you mean? I don’t need to make anything up. What’s with that?”
He stared silently at me, the red glow flickering across his features. I realized my rescuer didn’t need me or my problems. He was helping me out, but a glint of danger emanated from him.
“You know what I was doing up near Pico de Tigre, Deets?”
Pico de Tigre. I had been climbing towards it for weeks, but because of towering jungle trees and sharp cliffs, low dips, blind valleys, and mist-shrouded saddles, I had never even caught a glimpse of the peak.
Or had the mountain even been there? Had it only materialized after the previous night’s electrical storm? Had I skipped into some alternate universe? Betsy’s space-time tunnel? Or Einstein’s black hole? She had said no one knew what happened inside a black hole. It just sucked everything into it.
I answered cautiously, “No, what were you doing there?”
“Looking for you.”
“What, man? What are you saying? Do they know I’m lost? Have they found the bodies?”
His eyes flickered momentarily in warning. An older man telling me to slow down, watch out with what I said. In a ripple of clarity, instinct told me he was closely guarding his own secrets.
“I was looking for you, because, like I told you, strange things happen in these mountains. Yesterday morning, a lady friend of mine and her child found me on the trail and said they had seen a half-human, half-plant creature walking in the high forest. It was screaming a strange plant language at her and looked hungry. So I thought I’d investigate.” He let out a loud guffaw. “Damn, when I first saw you I thought she had actually told me the truth. You have leaves and burrs and brambles stuck to every inch of yourself. You should see your hair. Don’t get too close to that fire.”
I picked a short stick from my beard. “Ha, I’d probably burst into a bonfire.”
We laughed together, a laugh that settled into a thoughtful silence. I decided to trust him with the basics of my story and told him some of what had transpired between getting on the plane in New York and waking up near the plateau of Pico de Tigre.
“Heard about the gun battle over by the main river. There’s more people in these mountains then you came across. News gets around. Haven’t heard about any murder or missing gringo though. Authorities probably keeping a lid on that. Most likely, they found the vehicle. Damn.” His eyes were on something distant—something lost inside him. “Sorry, kid.”
Chapter 24
Bronx’s house was in thin jungle a day’s hike down the same valley where we had shared the fire. After cleaning up in the ice cold stream, I treated my infections with compresses dipped in boiled water, draining any pus using sewing needles I disinfected over a hot blaze. The mountaineer kept a medicine chest with an assortment of powders and ointments that I then applied to the bites and small cuts covering my body.
A pile of bamboo cages were stacked behind his three room shack. I remembered the similar cages from the clearing where Vladimir, Ezequiel, and Chaco had found me and figured the mountain man caught live animals. Two donkeys slept in an outlying shed at night and wandered an open grassy hillside during the day.
Occasionally, I made out the sound of a cow’s plaintive moo, far off and barely audible.
Bronx had told me the woman I had surprised on the path lived nearby. A couple of times I saw her or her child surreptitiously studying me as I sat by the creek operating on my wounds. I only caught momentary glimpses of them, as they would hide or scamper away as soon as they knew I had spotted them.
On my third day at Bronx’s homestead, I was soaking a swollen, ugly-looking sore on my arm that wouldn’t subside when I heard a clanking sound and looked up to see a goat with a bell strung around its neck approaching me. Walking alongside the animal was a squat Indian woman in a ponderous woolen skirt. She was severely buck-toothed, and one of her eyes drooped half shut. I recognized her as Bronx’s neighbor. She came to a halt on the other side of the stream and chuckled, pantomiming motions of our encounter in the jungle, gesturing with exaggerated hand motions how branches and leaves grew from my head.
I laughed. Not able to find any words to say, I removed the wet rag from my reddened arm to show her the wound.
She walked through the shallow stream, reflecting genuine concern about my infection, then sat nearby and pointed at my wound. “Araña.” She wiggled her fingers through the air in perfect imitation of a crawling insect. Her hand pounced at my arm as she snapped her teeth to signify a vicious bite.
“You mean spider? Could be. I must have had a thousand crazy bugs hitching on me everyday.”
She tapped her lips with one finger in thought, then exclaimed, “Ah ha, esperame.” She signaled for me to wait and trudged off across the donkey pasture. The goat meandered nearby, munching on something that cracked loudly with every bite.
When the Indian woman returned, she placed a slimy pack of leaves on the bite and looped a thin vine around my arm to hold them in place.
“Gracias.”
She patted my shoulder and gave me a lopsided smile. Hidden in her weatherbeaten features, I saw a spirit that looked years younger than how old I had presumed her to be. Could she be twenty, not forty? I couldn’t tell. She held one hand to her heart and said, “Mai.”
I pointed at myself and said, “Deets.”
She tried to repeat my name but couldn’t, and we went back and forth as I corrected her pronunciation until we were both satisfied with “Disa.” She stood, pleased with herself.
As she walked away, I noticed a little twitch underneath the bundle of her dress. She looked back over her shoulder shyly as she caught up with her goat.
“Don’t even think what you’re thinking, Deets.”
Bronx stood in his doorway, adjusting his belt. When he had it buckled, he tugged on his hat and stepped out, rifle strapped across
his back. “It took me two days to convince her you’re not some evil spirit. You know how many prayers she must have said just to be able to approach you. You can see she’s a good woman. What she did just now—talked with you, laughed, and touched you, told you her name—well, that was an act of total bravery and compassion, not to mention a heavy dose of trust in whatever spell she cast to protect herself from you.”
“Yeah, she’s been reluctant to show herself until today. She’s seems nice. You leaving?”
“For a few days. Now that Mai’s taken to you, she’ll come by and nurse you. Probably cook you meals. Look, she’s warm-hearted and will do anything to help you heal your wounds. Don’t go mistaking that for anything else when the nights get cold up here.” The stern look didn’t fade as he went around the back of the hut and reappeared with three cages. He carried them over to the donkeys and told me to grab a few more and bring them to the shed. Watching him strap them to the back of one of the burros, an uneasy feeling came over me. Though curious about what animals he was going off to capture, I was reluctant to poke into his business or ask where he was going. He adjusted the load’s balance, patted the gray, thick-haired donkey, and gave me a cold stare.
“Doing some trading. I’m not headed in the direction you need to go.”
“I’ll hang here.”
He strode by me with the pack animal in tow. “Be back in about four or five days. Certainly not more than a week. Nothing much to worry about here. You know where the food is. Mai will help you take care of the burrito, but remember my warning. Be very wary of trying to climb under her skirt. People in these mountains ain’t the same as New Yorkers. That said, I can land us some beer. You smoke?”
“Yeah, Kools.”
“Kools. Ha ha. Kools. Lord almighty. Just go out in the jungle and bring me back a pack of Kools. Ha ha. Yep, just me and the monkeys smoke them.” He yanked on the donkey’s lead, and they walked off downstream. After he was out of sight, I heard a voice booming with laughter shout from the thick bamboo, “Ha, ha, anybody got a pack of Kools?”
I spent the day patching my clothes with scraps of cloth, reliving moments of the past few weeks. I was thankful that I had food, shelter, and warmth. Worn out and sick with a variety of troubling infections, I sat with my feet practically in the fireplace, treating a fungus on my toes by enveloping them in smoke from a burning spiky leaf that Mai recommended using.
My mind was frazzled by the violence of my trip through the valleys of hell. Murder in the truck; the predatory indifference of the caiman; wild rivers; plants like razors; bugs, spiders, and centipedes—all crawling, biting, or stinging; the snake flying up from nowhere, its fang bumping my back; the constant threat of a bullet in my head by armed rebels; the explosive power of the chopper’s guns; a ghost with wraparound sunglasses running behind me, covering my retreat; the jaguar appearing to direct me skywards, always deeper into the mountains.
And then when I was finally about to die, the spotted feline turned away from me—with a casual demeanor—just before Bronx’s shot smacked into the ground. That cat was leaving. She wasn’t attacking.
There were mysteries gathering in the mountain air. Mysteries that came as a thickness in the atmosphere, descending from Pico de Tigre and engulfing the valley around me. Every jungle plant, rock in a stream, or cloud in the close sky carried a secret within them. Every lizard or goat or burro eyed me, seemingly with a foresight that eluded my abilities of perception. With no way to predict when or where the next magic would happen, or how it would shape itself, all I could aim for was to continue treating my ill health. There was no way for me to plan anything else. If Steel or Santa Pigeon were going to appear, or their allies or pets or whatever schemed to interfere or redirect my path, well, I had learned I was at their mercy no matter what action I took.
But, right then, not fearing for my life, and with my feet toasting comfortably, I fell asleep.
In a dream, a bird carried me up from the depths of my nap with its song. When I awoke, I realized the melody was Mai calling my name.
“Disa.”
She hunched over me, offering a bowl of food. Her son sat nearby, watching me curiously as he spooned beans and potatoes into his mouth. The goat stood in the doorway, voraciously mashing a leafy branch between its jaws.
The sun was disappearing as we finished eating. Mai uncorked a bottle filled with clear liquid and offered it to me. “Aguardiente de la montaña.”
It caught my throat on fire. I sputtered and coughed trying to find my breath, my tongue, and my brain. She laughed, rescued the bottle before I dropped it and took a long pull before offering me another go at it.
She checked the spider bite, shook her head in concern, then punctured the reddened area with a hot knifepoint. Pus flowed as she prodded my skin. When the poison finally ran dry, she soaked a cloth in the aguardiente and washed the wound. She continuously made “tsk” sounds as she examined inflamed cuts that hadn’t cleared up. With fire, firewater, and Bronx’s medical box, she treated my arms, then told me to take off my shirt. She worked on a discolored sore that was bothering me and poked, sliced, and cleansed infections I hadn’t been able to reach. Bronx had looked me over a few days before, but many of the older bites were just beginning to fester.
Mai shooed her son out of the room, then pointed at my pants, telling me to remove them. Turning her face away, she covered her eyes with one hand and with her other, gestured for me to lay on my stomach.
She checked my buttocks, announcing, “No hay problemas aqui.” After placing my shirt over my waist, she concentrated her ministrations on my lower legs. Mai wiped away the ooze of liquids released by her knife or a hot needle with warmed-up aguardiente. She must have operated for a half-hour on my calves. With the heat of the fire, the drink in my bloodstream, and a woman tenderly treating my hurts while talking in a gentle, concerned voice, I felt drowsy and nurtured. A rush of desire crept into me, and I wanted her hands to roam and soothe away my newest ache.
When she told me to roll over onto my back, she sensed my mood and looked a bit distressed. As I turned over and adjusted my cover, she had to notice the obvious—my cock was halfway hard. She checked the front of my legs, her attitude becoming more hurried. Perturbed with the sexual invasion that permeated the room, her touch changed from being a nurturing caressing-away of the wounds to a precise mechanical treatment.
I felt embarrassed to be able to be turned on while being treated medically. She was dealing with pus and punctures, and I was getting an erection.
As I tried to pretend away my bulge, the oddest thing happened. Mai sat back, thinking quietly, her lips moving as if whispering to herself. Minutes passed in that near silence before she stirred and leaned in closer to me. With barely open eyes, I watched her lift the cover off my waist and stare, almost diagnostically, at my now thickening dick. I prayed she would remove her bell-shaped, multi-layered, bulky slips and skirt and reveal her nakedness. There was a wetness on her lips and a flicker of interest in her good eye. Inner magnets clicked, and we exchanged a glance. In that brief intimate moment, we saw clearly how incomprehensibly alien we were to each other. “Who are you?” echoed in the firelight and shadows between our bodies. Every breath we took seemed a secret wanting to be revealed. Her head dipped, and I thought she was going to take me in her mouth, but she lifted a candle and studied my cock. As she purged her curiosity, my mind continued to thrill itself with thoughts of her exotic nature and what she was hiding from me. I thirsted for her.
Her chest heaved with quickened breath.
She was almost with me.
Then—an ember in the fireplace suddenly flared high, and from nowhere, a palpable but non-physical and silent presence passed down the length of the valley. I felt it as the essence of something—maybe a god, a thought, an invisible—that existed but didn’t belong anywhere. It swirled along river banks and pressed into the forest, leav
ing signs that expected to be discovered but would inevitably be forgotten. It seemed like eternity searching for itself.
Distantly, like part of a dream half-remembered, a cow mooed, and the goat’s bell clanged.
Mai shivered as if shaking off a spell and looked at me, disinterested. Strange—I thought her expression to be almost cynical. She waved her hand in a circular motion above my dick and balls, saying something in a stifled tone that I took to be her asking if I had any cuts or infections in that area.
“No.”
Her manner may have turned unemotionally clinical, but I was lying naked with a hard-on. I reached for her. She didn’t resist, and only a slight whimper of protest escaped her throat when I began to lower her hand towards me. There was a heat in her fingers that the fireplace would have sought. After weeks in the wet jungle, I needed that heat. Deserved it, wanted it, had to possess it. Touching her skin, my cock rose to full rigidity.
Her good eye became wide with alarm.
“Disa. No.”
I placed my other hand on her waist, caressed her through the thick wool skirt.
She shook her head. Her mouth gaped open in astonishment. “No, no.”
Rubbing, trying to feel through the cloth, I moved my advances up her body. She shut her arm against her side, trapping my wrist. I slid it loose. She shifted and squeezed herself tighter, trying to block my movement.
Our hands that still gripped together were a tangle of flexing fingers struggling with each other’s fiery touch.
She whispered, “No.”
And I dismissed her words. I wanted her.
My hand bumped past her protective arm, and my palm landed on the soft bulge of her breast. I squeezed gently.
Her eye flashed with a fear that paralyzed me. I saw fire and heard bullets and Greg was holding down a young girl while another soldier pulled at her panties.
Magic (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 2) Page 15