“The Indians?”
“Yes, the People of the Mist. I think they came to hear the music. Be still, and follow me.”
They walked about twenty yards into the thicket, then stopped, just as they had before. As hard as Alex tried to see, he could not make out anyone among the trees; the Indians blended into the background. Suddenly he felt firm hands on his arms, and when he looked around, he saw that Nadia and he were surrounded. This time the Indians were not staying at a distance, as they had before; now Alex could smell the sweetish scent of their bodies. Again he noticed how short and slim they were, but this time he could also see that they were very strong, and that there was something fierce in their attitude. Could Leblanc be right when he claimed they were violent and cruel?
“Ah-ee-ah,” he said tentatively in greeting.
A hand clamped over his mouth, and before he could realize what was happening, he felt himself lifted off the ground by his ankles and upper arms. He started to twist and kick, but the hands did not let go. He felt a sharp blow to his head, whether a fist or a rock he couldn’t tell, but he realized that if he was smart, he would let himself be carried or they would knock him senseless or kill him. He thought about Nadia and wondered if she, too, had been taken by force. He seemed to hear his grandmother’s voice in the distance, calling him, as the Indians—and he—vanished into the darkness like spirits of the night.
Alexander felt sharp stabs in the ankle where the fire ant had bitten him. He was now in the strong grasp of one of the four Indians carrying him. His captors were trotting, and with each step his body jounced brutally; the pain in his shoulders felt as if he were being torn limb from limb. The Indians had pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his head, blinding and silencing him. He could barely breathe and his head hurt, but he was relieved that he hadn’t lost consciousness; that meant that the warriors had not hit him very hard, and did not intend to kill him. At least, not for the moment. . . . It seemed to him that they traveled a long way before finally they stopped and dropped him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The relief to his muscles and bones was almost immediate, although his ankle was burning terribly. He was afraid that if he pulled off the T-shirt, it would provoke his attackers, but he waited awhile and when nothing happened he went ahead and removed it. No one stopped him. When his eyes got used to the pale light of the moon, he saw that he was in the middle of the forest, lying on a cushion of humus. All around him, in a tight circle, he sensed the presence of the Indians, although he couldn’t actually see them in the faint light and without his eyeglasses. He remembered his Swiss Army knife and casually put his hand to his belt, but he was checked by a firm hand on his wrist. Then he heard Nadia’s voice and felt the tiny hands of Borobá on his neck. Alex yipped as the monkey put his fingers on the bump where he had been hit.
“Be quiet, Jaguar, or they may hurt us,” said the girl.
“What happened?”
“They were frightened; they thought you were going to yell, that’s why they had to carry you by force. All they want is for us to come with them.”
“Where? Why?” Alex mumbled, trying to sit up. His head was pounding like a drum.
Nadia helped him up, and gave him water from a gourd. By now, Alex’s eyes had adjusted, and he saw that the Indians were very near, watching him and talking loudly, with no fear of being heard or overtaken. Alex was sure the other members of the group would be looking for them, although no one would dare venture too far at night. For once, he thought, his grandmother would be worried. How would she explain to her son John that she had lost her grandson in the jungle? Apparently the Indians had treated Nadia more gently, because she was moving among them freely. As he sat up he felt something warm running down his right temple and dripping onto his shoulder. He put a finger to his forehead and then to his lips: blood.
“They split my head open,” he murmured, frightened.
“Pretend it doesn’t hurt, Jaguar, like a true warrior,” Nadia advised him.
Alex decided that he must make a show of courage. He staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the trembling in his knees, stood as straight as he could, and beat his chest the way he had seen Tarzan do in the movies, at the same time bellowing like King Kong. The Indians stepped back and clutched their weapons more tightly, astonished. Alex repeated the chest thumping and bellowing, confident that he had caused panic in the enemy ranks, but instead of running off in fear, the warriors burst out laughing. Nadia smiled, and Borobá jumped and bared his teeth, chattering hysterically. The laughter rose in volume; some warriors plopped down, too weak to stand, others rolled on their backs and kicked their feet with pure delight, and others imitated Alex’s Tarzan yell. The merriment lasted a long time, until Alex, feeling absolutely ridiculous, was himself caught up in it. Finally everyone calmed down, wiped the tears from their eyes, and slapped each other’s backs like old friends.
One of the Indians, who in the shadows appeared to be the smallest and oldest and was distinguished by a feather crown, the only adornment of an otherwise naked body, began a long diatribe. Nadia caught the sense of it, because she knew several Indian tongues, and although the People of the Mist had their own language, many words were similar. She felt sure she could communicate with them. From the oration of the feather-crowned chief she picked up references to Rahakanariwa, the spirit of the cannibal-bird Walimai had mentioned, the nahab, the Indians’ word for non-Indians, and a powerful shaman. Although he wasn’t named, since it would have been discourteous to do that, she deduced that they were talking about Walimai. Calling on the vocabulary she knew, and on gestures and mimicry, Nadia communicated that the carved bone she wore around her neck was a gift from the witch man. The Indian chief examined the talisman for a long while, showing signs of admiration and respect, then started speaking again, but this time directing it to the warriors, who came up one by one to touch the amulet.
Afterward, the Indians sat down in a circle and continued to talk as they handed around pieces of something like unleavened bread. Alex realized that he hadn’t eaten for many hours and was extremely hungry; he took his portion without noticing the dirt and without asking how it was made; his fussiness with regard to food was now history. Following the bread, the warriors circulated an animal bladder containing a thick, sharp-smelling liquid that tasted like vinegar, as they sang a chant to defy the ghosts that bring nightmares in the night. They did not offer the brew to Nadia, but they were sociable enough to share it with Alex, who was not particularly tempted by the smell and even less by the idea of sharing the bladder with the others. He recalled the story César Santos had told of an entire tribe infected by one puff from a journalist’s cigarette. The last thing he wanted was to pass his germs to these Indians, whose immune systems might not withstand them, but Nadia warned him that not accepting would be an insult. She explained that masato was a fermented drink made of chewed cassava root and saliva, something only the men drank. When Alex heard the description, he was afraid he would vomit, but he didn’t dare refuse.
Between the blow to his head and the masato, Alex was speedily borne off to the planet of the golden sands and the phosphorescent sky with six moons that he had seen in Mauro Carías’s patio. He was so blurry and intoxicated that he could not have walked a single step, but fortunately he didn’t have to because the warriors were also feeling the influence of the liquor and soon were stretched out on the ground, snoring. Alex concluded that they would not be going anywhere before first light, and consoled himself with the vague hope that his grandmother would catch up with him by dawn. Curled up on the ground, the ghosts of nightmares, the fire ants, the tarantulas, and the snakes all forgotten, he abandoned himself to sleep. Not even the dreadful odor of the Beast alerted him when it began to spread through the air.
The only ones who were sober and awake when the Beast appeared were Nadia and Borobá. The monkey was petrified, as if turned to stone, and the girl managed to glimpse a gigantic figure in the moonlight before the odor made her lose consc
iousness. Later she would tell her friend exactly what Padre Valdomero had said: she had seen a creature with human form, erect, about nine feet tall, with a small head out of proportion to the size of its body and powerful arms that ended in claws curved like scimitars. To Nadia, it seemed that it moved very, very slowly, but if it had chosen, the Beast could have gutted them all. The stench it emitted—or maybe the absolute terror it inspired in its victims—paralyzed like a drug. Before fainting, she had wanted to scream or run away, but she couldn’t move a muscle; in a flash of consciousness she saw the body of the soldier cut open like a slaughtered steer and could image the man’s horror, his helplessness and his terrifying death.
Alex awakened in confusion, trying to remember what had happened; his body was trembling from the strange liquor he’d drunk the night before and the stench, which was still floating on the air. He saw Nadia with Borobá in her lap, sitting cross-legged and staring into space. He crawled to her, barely controlling his lurching innards.
“I saw it, Jaguar,” the girl said in a remote voice, as if she were in a trance.
“What did you see?”
“The Beast. It was here. It’s enormous, a giant. . . .”
Alex went behind a fern to throw up, after which he felt greatly improved even though the Beast’s stench made him nauseated all over again. When he returned, the warriors were ready to get started. In the dawn light, he saw them clearly for the first time. Their fearsome appearance corresponded exactly to Leblanc’s descriptions: their naked bodies were painted red, black, and green; they wore feather bracelets and had bowl haircuts, with the crown of the skull shaved like a priest’s tonsure. Their bows and arrows were strapped to their backs, along with small, hide-covered gourds that Nadia said contained the lethal curare for their arrows and darts. Several of them were carrying thick clubs, and all of them had scars on their heads, proud badges of war, since courage and strength were measured by the marks of blows survived.
Alex had to shake Nadia out of her trance because her fright at having seen the Beast the night before had left her dazed. She managed to explain what she’d seen, and the warriors listened attentively but gave no sign of surprise, just as they had made no comment about the odor.
Immediately thereafter, the Indians set off, trotting single file behind their chief, whom Nadia had decided to call Mokarita since she couldn’t ask his real name. To judge by the condition of his skin, his teeth, and his misshapen feet, Mokarita was much older than Alex had thought when he had seen him in the dark, but he had the agility and endurance of the other warriors. One of the young men stood out from the rest; he was taller and huskier and unlike the others was painted all over with black except for a kind of red mask across his eyes and forehead. He always walked beside the chief, as if he were his lieutenant, and he referred to himself as Tahama; Nadia and Alex learned later that that was his honorary title, earned by being the best hunter in the tribe.
Although the landscape seemed never to change, and there were no landmarks, the Indians knew exactly where they were going. Not once did they turn around to see whether the alien boy and girl were following, because they knew they had no other choice; it was follow or be lost. At times it seemed to Alex and Nadia that they were alone, because the People of the Mist simply faded into the vegetation, but that impression wouldn’t last long; just the way they had vanished, the Indians would reappear at any moment, as if they were practicing the art of becoming invisible. Alex concluded that their talent for disappearing could not be attributed solely to the paint that camouflaged them; more than anything, it was a mental attitude. How did they do it? He thought how useful the trick of invisibility could be in his life, and determined to learn it. During the next few days he would realize that it was not a question of magic but a talent achieved with great practice and concentration, like playing the flute.
They kept up the rapid pace for several hours, stopping only occasionally to drink at a stream. Alex was hungry, but he was grateful that at least the bite on his ankle wasn’t hurting anymore. César Santos had told him that the Indians eat when they can—not necessarily every day—and that their bodies are used to storing energy. He, on the other hand, had always had a refrigerator stuffed with food, at least when his mother was well, and if he had to skip a meal, it made him uneasy. He could only smile when he thought of the complete upheaval in his habits. Among other things, he hadn’t brushed his teeth or changed his clothes for days. He decided to ignore the gnawing in his stomach and kill hunger with indifference. Once or twice he looked at his compass and noted that they were heading northeast. Would anyone come to their rescue? How could he leave signs along the way? Would they be seen from a helicopter? He did not feel optimistic; in fact, their situation was desperate. He was surprised that Nadia wasn’t showing signs of fatigue; his friend seemed completely wrapped up in the journey.
Four or five hours later—it was impossible to measure time in that place—they came to a deep, clear river. They followed it for a couple of miles, and, suddenly, before Alex’s astounded eyes appeared a towering mountain and a magnificent waterfall that fell with the roar of a battle, forming at its base an enormous cloud of foam and spray.
“This is the river that falls from the sky,” said Tahama.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Invisible Village
MOKARITA, THE CHIEF with the yellow feathers, gave permission for the group to rest a while before beginning the climb up the mountain. He had a face like wood, the skin scored like tree bark, but the effect was serene and kindly.
“I can’t climb,” Nadia said when she saw the smooth, wet, black rock.
It was the first time Alex had seen her defeated by an obstacle, and he sympathized with her because he was afraid, too, even though he had climbed mountains and rocks for years with his father. John Cold was one of the most experienced and daring climbers in the United States; he had taken part in famous expeditions to almost inaccessible sites, and had even been called on a couple of times to rescue people stranded on the highest peaks of Austria and Chile. Alex knew he did not have his father’s ability or courage, much less his experience, and he had never seen a rock as sheer as what stood before him now. To climb up the sides of that waterfall, without ropes and without help, was practically impossible.
Nadia went over to Mokarita and with signs and the words they had in common tried to explain that she was not capable of making that climb. The chief seemed very angry; he shouted, and shook his weapons and waved his arms. The other Indians joined in, surrounding Nadia threateningly. Alex went to stand beside his friend and try to calm the warriors with gestures, but the only thing he accomplished was to see Tahama grab Nadia by the hair and drag her toward the falls, while Borobá shrieked and slapped at him. With a flash of inspiration—or desperation—Alex unfastened his flute from his belt and began to play. The Indians stopped instantly, as if they were hypnotized; Tahama released Nadia and they gathered in a circle around Alex.
Once the men were calm, Alex convinced Nadia that with a rope, he could help her make the climb. He repeated what he had heard his father say so many times: Before you conquer the mountain, you must learn to overcome your fear.
“I’m afraid of heights, Jaguar, I get dizzy. Every time I get into my father’s airplane, I’m so scared that I get sick,” Nadia moaned.
“My father says that fear is good; it’s the body’s alarm system, it warns us of danger. But sometimes danger can’t be avoided, and then you have to forget about being afraid.”
“ I can’t!”
“Nadia, listen to me,” Alex said, taking her shoulders and forcing her to look into his eyes. “Take a deep breath. I will teach you to use your fear. I trust you and I trust myself. I will help you climb; we will do it together, I promise,” Alex assured her.
Nadia’s response was to burst into tears and rest her head on Alex’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do, he had never been that close to a girl. In his fantasies, he had put his arms arou
nd Cecilia Burns a thousand times; she was his dream love, but in reality, he would have run for his life if she had touched him. Cecilia Burns was so far away that it was as if she didn’t exist; he couldn’t remember her face. Almost as a reflex, Alex’s arms closed around Nadia. He felt his heart pounding in his chest like a stampede of buffalo, but he had enough sense to realize how absurd the situation was. Here he was in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by strange, gaudily painted warriors, with a terrified girl in his arms, and what was he thinking about? Love! He pulled himself together, pushed Nadia away, and faced her with determination.
“Stop crying, and tell these guys that we need rope,” he ordered, pointing to the Indians. “And remember that the talisman will protect you.”
“Walimai said it would protect me from people, animals, and ghosts, but he didn’t mention the danger of falling and breaking my neck,” Nadia protested.
“Well, my grandmother always says that you have to die of something,” he consoled his friend, trying to smile. And he added, “Didn’t you tell me that I should learn to see with my heart? This is a good opportunity.”
Nadia found a way to communicate Alex’s request to the Indians. When finally they understood, several of them sprang into action and soon produced a rope made of braided lianas. When they saw that Alex was tying one end of the rope to the girl’s waist and rolling the rest around his chest, they showed signs of great curiosity. They could not imagine why these foreigners would do anything that crazy: if one slipped, the other would be dragged down, too.
Now they were right by the waterfall, which tumbled freely from a height of more than a hundred and sixty feet to explode at its base in an impressive cloud of water crowned by a magnificent rainbow. Hundreds of black birds swept through the waterfall in every direction. The Indians greeted the river that falls from the sky by waving their weapons and yelling; they were very close to their homeland. Once they climbed to the high country, they felt safe from any danger. Three of them went briefly into the rain forest and returned with balls of a substance that when inspected turned out to be a white, thick, and very sticky resin. Imitating the Indians, Alex and Nadia rubbed the palms of their hands and soles of their feet with the paste. When their feet touched the ground, the humus stuck to the resin, creating a rough surface. Their first steps were difficult, but as soon as they were beneath the mist from the fall, they recognized its usefulness: it was like wearing rubber boots and gloves.
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