“Well, don’t feel badly about it. Sometimes things just don’t jell, and sometimes …” She fell silent.
What was it with Roger? she asked herself. I don’t want to miss him. God knows everything wasn’t sweetness and light between us. She put her face in her hands. To hell with it! It’s past! Done! Finished! To hell with it!
“They’re very strict with their women down here,” said Jeb. “It reminds you of mid-Victorian customs that …”
“It’s a wonderful night to dig up the past,” said Monti. “Roll out the old dead bones! Line up the corpses!”
“You’re tired,” said Jeb. “Things’ll look better in the morning.”
“Now there’s a fancy platitude for you,” she said. “The countryside swarming with Indians trying to kill us, and you say—”
“Stow it!” he snapped.
David stirred restlessly.
“So I tried to pat you on the head and tell you we’ll do our best to get you through,” said Jeb. “So I haven’t learned how to use four-letter words in mixed company. Well, I’m doing my best to get us out of a mess!”
“Go ahead! Say it,” she said. “You warned me against coming.”
Gettler chuckled. “Is this the way you talked to your husband?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I wondered what chased him down here,” said Gettler.
Monti whirled, glared into the blackness. “What made an animal out of you, Gettler?”
“I was born that way. Same as every other animal.”
“Weren’t you ever human, even for a day or so?”
“I only pretended.”
“For whom? A woman?”
“Shut up!”
“What happened? She give you the old heave-ho?”
Gettler’s voice was like a tiger growl—deep and menacing: “Stop … pushing … me!”
“So you know what it is to lose someone!” she said.
“Shut up or I’ll kill you!”
Jeb grabbed Monti’s arm, pulled her around.
And now Gettler was certain about Monti’s voice. Even in anger, it carried the same throaty earthy quality as Gerda’s voice. It …
He retreated in terror.
I mustn’t think about Gerda!
Do I know what it is to lose someone?
Gettler felt that he swayed on a precipice of memory, that he might topple at any moment—head foremost into the jaws of chaos.
Gerda!
For one shattering instant he saw Gerda: dead and bloody—a naked, twisted corpse with the S.S. officer standing over her.
The muscles of his back quivered and tingled with the effort to reject the memory. He dug his fingernails into his cheeks, bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out the way he had cried out beneath the lash.
“Animal,” said Monti. She pulled away from Jeb’s hand.
Gettler drew in a quavering breath, hissed: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
The darkness trembled with suppressed violence.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Monti.
And she couldn’t explain to herself why she’d said this. It was just that Gettler’s voice carried such desperation.
But to Gettler it was Gerda’s voice. He turned his face into the corner. Tears burned down his cheeks. He wrestled with an indigestible fragment of experience, seeing it for what it was: the incident of terror out of his past had broken off an entire layer of his being—and this insane fragment was his own enemy, the enemy of everyone.
Calmness took a long time returning to him, but then he felt cleansed, relaxed.
“The trouble,” whispered Gettler, “is that everybody’s afraid of everybody else. Cowardice makes us beasts.”
And that’s what killed you, Rog, he thought. Cowardice. And a Nazi sadist with a whip. A man you never knew.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Monti.
“I know I’m right,” said Gettler. “Cowardice killed …” He stopped, overcome by a feeling of confusion.
“Killed?” asked Monti. “Are you trying to tell me that Roger …”
“Oh, no … no,” said Gettler.
That was too close! he thought. Cunning swelled in him tensed his nerves. His lower lip trembled uncontrollably.
“Roger was one of the bravest men I ever knew,” he said. “Even when he was trapped.”
“What were you saying then?” she asked.
“I was only going to say that cowardice kills the human half of us.”
Jeb felt that he had missed part of the conversation. Monti had crowded Gettler almost to the point of … The point of what? A confession that he killed Roger Bannon?
Cowardice? Trapped?
And Jeb suddenly recalled a scene out of his childhood. He had been David’s age, just turned twelve. And with a new .22 rifle—a birthday rifle. Hunting quail along a fence line of his uncle’s ranch in Eastern Oregon. Two of his uncle’s mismatched brindle hounds had burst over a rise in pursuit of a scrawny bitch coyote. The coyote had seen the boy and swerved left only to be trapped in a fence corner.
In the corner, the animal that was a symbol of cowardice had turned and slashed the two dogs into bloody ribbons. And the child Jeb had watched in awe, allowing the coyote to escape.
Now—remembering that scene—Jeb felt that here encapsulated was a summary of all human problems: some people were hounds, and some were the pursued and the trapped.
“I will take the first watch,” said Gettler.
Is he coyote or hound? Jeb asked himself. He’s hound. As long as he holds the guns. Maybe tonight we can reverse our roles …
But sleep overcame him: a were-slumber peopled by animal-faced women who hurled poisoned spears at him. Jeb ran and dodged the whole night through. And he awoke at dawn as stiff and cramped as if the dream has been reality.
The sonofabitch! He let me sleep again!
Jeb straightened.
A restless drapery of fog cloaked the river.
David leaned forward. “This is the fourth day,” he whispered. “How far’ve we come?”
“Something over three hundred miles,” said Jeb. He looked at the altimeter: eighteen hundred and fifty feet.
“Have the Indians followed us for three hundred miles?” asked David.
“Yes.”
“Won’t they ever give up?”
Jeb chuckled. “They’ll give up.”
Gettler straightened. “Let’s get moving.”
Jeb nodded, looked out at the shrouded island. The river had risen in the night to cover everything but the tips of bushes and the matchstick pile of logs that held the grapnel. Flooded remnants of bushes and grass bent downstream, vibrated with the current. The plane rested solidly against one of the logs.
“What’re we waiting for?” asked Gettler.
“You’re awful damn anxious to head for …” Jeb nodded downstream. “Them.”
“We can’t run away from them,” said Gettler.
“We’re trapped, so we turn and fight,” said Jeb. “Okay.”
Monti stirred, rubbed her eyes. “I dreamed that …” She looked up at the fog, the ghost-smoke along the island. “A plane came in my dream.”
Jeb opened his door, slipped down to the float, wrenched the grapnel out of its log, pushed off. The current seized the plane. The river held a new feeling of power, a swifter flow.
“When did the rain stop?” asked Monti.
“Just before dawn,” said David.
“Will it clear today?” asked Monti. She looked up at the platinum-colored sky.
Jeb hung the grapnel on the strut, coiled the line. “I dunno. What do you think, Gettler?”
“Maybe.”
“If it clears will a plane come and get us?” asked David.
“Quien sabe?” said Jeb.
“What’s that mean?” asked David.
“Who knows?” said Jeb. “That’s what it means.”
He tightened his belt another notch, foun
d the fish line, baited the hook with a damp beetle he caught resting on the strut.
“I’m hungry,” said David.
Jeb tossed the hook into water that was dirty brown, turgid and roiling. The thought of a fish made him tremble: a fat, juicy, wriggling fish …
Flooded banks rushed past them, with the jungle beyond growing clearer as the fog lifted. The river lapped at gnarled, obscene roots.
“Is it going to clear?” demanded Monti.
A fat drop of rain splashed against the windshield in front of her. Another and another.
“That answer your question?” asked Jeb.
Monti leaned back, closed her eyes. Why? Oh, God! Why? She thought about the Indians downstream. Why can’t we wait? Just tie up and wait?
A barrage of rain whipped against the windshield. The plane turned, dipped and wavered.
Jeb tied the fish line to the strut, hastily re-rigged the sea anchor, threw it into the heaving current.
Another blast of wind and rain shook the plane. It slacked off, then came in stinging sheets that blotted all color from the banks, left the four humans drifting in a grey world. The wind died, but the rain still fell so thickly that it appeared to move about horizontally.
Jeb recovered the sea anchor, hung it on the strut.
There seemed no separation between wet and dry. Through the rain pall they saw a mottled granite shore pass silently like a surrealist backdrop.
Something tugged at the fish line.
Jeb jerked at the line.
“Have you got something?” asked Gettler.
“I dunno.”
Another jerk.
Violence exploded on the other end of the line. Jeb held it grimly, gained two feet, lost one foot, gained another two feet.
Monti watched him. She wet her lips with her tongue.
“Careful,” whispered Gettler. “Don’t lose it.”
“What’s he got?” asked David.
Gettler shook his head.
A green shape almost three feet long broached beside the pontoon, spattered water over Jeb, and sounded. The line burned through his fingers.
“It’s a palinche!” said Gettler.
“What’s a palinche?” asked Monti. “Is it good to eat?”
“It’s the native name for a kind of tarpon,” said Gettler.
“It’s boney but edible.”
Again, Jeb brought the fish alongside. It rolled. Abruptly, the water around the fish erupted to darting forms: piranha. The palinche threshed, tried to dive, but Jeb hoisted it out of the water. Two piranha fell from it. Others leaped vainly out of the river. One fell across the float, vibrated its tail against the metal, splashed back into the water.
Jeb dropped a ragged, tailless remnant of palinche onto the floor of the cabin. The piranha were gone before he could free the hook and drop it back into the water.
“They left us a little bit of it,” said Gettler.
He set up the pellet stove.
“Aren’t you going to try for piranha?” asked David.
“This is a meal,” said Gettler. “Leave the little cannibals alone.” He cut out a section of fish liver. “Save this for bait. We can make a good meal on what the bastards left us.”
They ate the fish half raw, searching out every crumb.
“I never thought I’d like the taste of mud,” said Monti.
“They do taste a little on the dirt side,” said Jeb.
“Delicious,” said Monti. “Catch another one.”
Jeb took the fish line. “I’ll—”
The plane lurched. He slipped and clutched at the seat in front of him.
“What the hell?”
“Shallows,” said Gettler. “We’re out of the channel.”
Jeb dropped the fish line onto the cabin floor, grabbed up a cane pole. Gettler swarmed down to the other float, took a pole.
The plane rocked and scraped, swung free in a new current.
Jeb looked around. The river appeared a mile wide, spotted with clumps of trees, floating islands of sedge, drifting logs.
“Do you want me to fish?” asked David.
“Leave it alone,” said Jeb. “We’re in trouble.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Monti.
“River’s over its banks,” said Gettler. “We’re liable to get hung up.”
Again the plane skidded across shallows.
Jeb felt every movement against the patched float as though a sore on his own body were being scraped. But the patch held.
They pushed and fended with the cane poles, found more deep water. The work with the poles became a steady thing, keeping the plane out of the random currents that coursed into the drowned jungle.
Once, they hung up tail first where the river poured between two trees. Another time, they bumped and thudded over a twisting, water-logged snag that paced them downstream—rolling and diving like a live thing.
And the rain poured endlessly out of a leaden sky. Birds and animals disappeared, but the insects remained, and even increased. They hovered under the wings, invaded the cabin.
Monti slapped at her arms, neck.
“These bugs are driving me crazy!”
“They’re working in relays now, said Jeb. “There’s a fresh crew out here under the wings waiting to get in at you.”
“It’s not funny!”
“Take it easy, Monti.”
She pressed her palms against her face. “I hate them! I hate them!”
In the middle of the afternoon the rain slackened, fell off to an occasional plopping drop that spattered against the river, thudded on the plane. Pale avenues of blue opened in the clouds.
“It’s clearing!” said Monti. “Oh, my God! It’s clearing!”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Jeb.
They poled the plane onto a sodden mud bank by an open savannah. Jeb stared across the rain-flattened grass at the oily green jungle wall some two hundred yards away.
“See anything?” asked Gettler.
“Something moved. Could’ve been a leaf shedding water … or an animal …”
“Or an Indian?”
“Dunno.”
Jeb leaned against the fuselage, closed his eyes. “David.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Watch the jungle.”
“Sure.”
Gettler crawled into the cabin, sprawled in the rear seat. “We’ve got to find a canoe,” he panted. “This thing’s too heavy. It’s a man-killer.”
Monti leaned out the door above Jeb. “Do you hear something?” she asked.
He brought his attention out of his weariness, opened his eyes, concentrated on listening. Above the dripping aftermath of rain he heard a faint roaring like a distant wind through trees.
“Is it rapids?” asked Monti.
“Sounds like it.”
Gettler aroused himself, leaned out the door on his side, cocked his head. “Yeah. Rapids.” He sat back, began checking the rifle.
“Is this the place?” whispered Monti.
“What place?” asked David. “You mean …”
“Hush!” she said.
“What do you think, Gettler?” asked Jeb.
“It’s probably the place.”
Monti stared at the jungle. “Jeb!” she hissed.
“Huh?”
“I saw something move … over by those trees.”
They focused their attention on the jungle.
“What’d it look like?” asked Gettler.
“Just movement. I couldn’t see what it was.”
“We’d better shove off,” said Jeb. “Gettler, come down and hold us with a pole until I get the motor started.”
“Wait,” said Gettler. He looked downstream.
“What for?” asked Jeb. “Time’s on their side.”
Gettler swallowed, shook his head. The immediacy of fear clogged his mind. Ahead, nauseous violence! The pendulum that ruled him hurtled far out into anger.
“Let ’em come!” He began to t
remble. “I’ll cut their guts out!”
“I can hold the plane,” said Monti.
Jeb glanced at the jungle. “Okay.” He clambered into the seat as Monti slid down to the opposite float.
At that moment, a gap opened in the clouds. Sunshine hammered down upon them, set the world to steaming.
“The sun!” said Monti.
Jeb looked up at the blue avenue opening overhead.
Steam began to mist the river surface. It hovered in soft eiderdown patches whirling a few feet off the water. The interior of the plane began to fog. Vapor condensed on the windshield.
“A plane could see us now,” said David.
Jeb nodded, glanced again at the jungle. Something moved the tall grass halfway to the green wall of trees.
“Monti,” whispered Jeb. “Give a very gentle push and climb inside.”
“But you haven’t started the …”
“Do as I say!”
She leaned against the pole.
Immediately, bronzed figures leaped from the grass, charged toward the plane. A current gripped the floats, turned the plane. Darts thudded into the fuselage.
Gettler screamed, slammed open the door beside Jeb, began firing the rifle. David pulled his mother in the other door.
“I’m all right!” she shouted.
Jeb pulled the starter. The engine coughed twice, died. He pumped the primer, and again pulled the starter. And again the motor failed to start.
Gettler re-loaded the rifle.
A circling current whirled the plane around a bend. The sound of the rapids grew louder.
Again Jeb pulled the starter.
“Baby,” he prayed. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
The motor suddenly caught, coughed and backfired, settled into its banging roar. Oil fumes began to choke the cabin.
“Close the doors!” shouted Jeb.
They were slammed.
“You okay, Monti?”
“Yes.” She began to shake.
“Fasten your belts.” He locked his with his left hand.
Another bend: and ahead—no more than a quarter of a mile—the flooding river plunged off between glassy walls of black rock. Water tumbled and leaped in crazy violence, like a wild thing trying to escape.
The plane skimmed across a glossy pool, and a slithering current shot them sideways—a hundred feet closer to the smooth black wall.
Spray filled the air.
And the vast pulsing roar of the chasm overcame all other sounds.
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