It was a purely natural thing—an abundance of life—but I felt I had seen another promise of God’s kindness, and so felt able to continue my journey in better spirits. Natty felt rested, our ponies were refreshed by their grazing during the night, and the warmth of the early sun was pleasant on our faces. Even the chapel, which the previous night had been a box of darkness breeding all kinds of suspicion, now looked innocuous; its red mud walls and little tilting cross might have been a toy made for a child.
The next few hours passed very easily, our ponies picking their way over ground that was softened by a thin covering of weeds, with cacti sprouting here and there and also several large bushes covered in purple flowers that released a peppery aroma when we brushed against them. Then, toward noon, when the sun was hot enough for me to think we should take shelter and rest our ponies, I noticed some seagulls squabbling and circling above a patch of darker ground off to the west, and decided they must be competing for food. In the same breath I knew there must be a river nearby.
Our ponies, which by now were even thirstier than we were, since they did not have the warm dregs of a water-bottle to share, immediately thought the same. For a moment I wondered whether I should prevent them and stick to my original plan, which was to continue due north. But when I saw how eager they were to drink I let them be. We began trotting at a good pace, and only slowed down when the ground became more fertile, and we found ourselves in a little grove of orange trees, with their fruit glowing like lamps. I snatched one of these as we passed and bit into it, but the taste was very sour so I threw it away. I did not care; I could hear the river ahead of us now—a delicious rush, like the sensation of drinking itself.
Then the orange grove ended and we came into open ground again, and I saw footprints. I could not credit my eyes at first, but when I hung over the side of my pony there was no mistake. Human footprints, plain as day. One track alone to start with, and widely spaced so I knew it must be a man running; the feet were turned slightly outward and the toes splayed. Then several together. A hunting party, I thought, and said so to Natty. But what kind? She did not answer, only signaled with her hand to show we must be quiet and move forward more slowly.
What if the men were not running in pursuit of something but away from something, an enemy or a ferocious animal? The idea was almost enough to make me turn tail and head for the desert again, but I could not. The thought of returning to that emptiness was too dispiriting; too like a defeat. Much better to trust that we were right, and would find friends soon.
I rode up beside Natty and we went forward together, entering another belt of trees. I did not know what kind these were but it hardly mattered; the cool shade they cast, and the light playing across their pale trunks and curiously extended roots, immediately quenched my anxieties and plunged me into a strange sort of contentment.
No doubt the noise of the river was partly responsible, soothing me as it floated through the leaves. Never loud, never roaring, but always a steady pattering ripple, broken sometimes by splashes as a part of the bank toppled into the current. In the same way I was also bewitched by—of all things—the moss we now found growing on the branches. Moss that was quite unlike any we have at home in England, which forms little pads or cushions. This hung down in swags as long as the beard of Jehovah: silvery and lime-green and lemon-green and gray-green and curiously crisp when it touched my face and hands.
The effect was so soothing, our ponies seemed to forget their thirst. And as for ourselves, we did not speak a word. We did not look at one another. We simply rambled and nodded, swaying sometimes to right or left, hearing the noise of our ponies’ hooves change from a soft clip-clop to a scrape and slither when we reached stonier ground, feeling the air shake as the voice of the water grew louder, drifting in the flicker of sky and shadow.
Then we saw the river and were wide awake again. The river and a small jetty, with half a dozen savages crowded onto it and all facing away from us. But doing what? The confusion of bodies was bewildering. One moment they seemed knotted together, with their black hair plastered to their heads and mud flying as they hauled at a rope stretching into the river; the next moment the tension had gone from the rope and everyone was tumbling about separately, shouting instructions or warnings because any second now the demon they had lassoed in the water would rear up and eat them.
They had not seen us yet, although we were only fifteen yards behind them. Should we creep back into the trees, I wondered, in case they thought we were an easier kind of prey? There was no time to decide; Natty’s pony suddenly gave a loud whinny, and the savages whirled round with their rope still bucking and shuddering in their hands.
They were like children—children surprised in a mysterious game that required them to remove most of their clothes and decorate their foreheads with a stripe of charcoal, but who very quickly recovered their wits and showed us with nods and shouts they would like to make us welcome but were occupied for the moment, and would we kindly wait?
I lifted my right hand in what I hoped they would think was a sign of friendship. Little as it was, the men seemed satisfied that this meant we would not hurt them, and went back to their work, hauling on their rope as before, while at the same time setting up a chant, a single word, which to my ears sounded like “caiman,” with the accent on the second syllable. As the volume increased and the rope became steadier in their grip, they braced their legs and leaned backward, straining until whatever they had caught began rising toward them.
In the minutes before it appeared I saw several long snouts emerging from the water around the jetty, snapping their jaws together with horrible liquid crashes, and knew then what the men were after. An alligator. I had never seen one before, but the supple glistening backs, the gnarled skin, the yellow serpent eyes were all unmistakable.
I decided our Indians must be lunatics to want such a creature anywhere near them. But they were completely set on it and obviously expert, even though the river showed nothing for the next little while, except its own muddy colors churned into a fury. Then as I continued watching, a ghost slowly appeared beneath the surface of the water—black or black-green, with a texture like an oak tree. “Caiman, caiman”: the chant was gradually louder now, and when the snout broke the surface at last, and the jaws opened to show gray slanting teeth and mottled pink gums, and a great explosion of steaming breath rushed from the nostrils, and the water rattled like pebbles in the long exposed throat, then the chant ended and became a shout.
A bellow of triumph, but also of warning, because the creature that now lay near them was so full of rage, and so determined to scramble aboard the jetty and knock everyone into the water. Our ponies snorted and shimmied backward. Natty seized my arm and whispered something but did not look away. Neither could I; the contest was too magnificent. Especially since the alligator, as the scrabbling front claws made contact with the timbers of the jetty, leaving deep pale scars, decided to switch its plan and launch forward instead of resisting.
It mounted the jetty in a scuttling dash, swinging its head from side to side and all the while gaping and grunting. The rope, which I could now see was tightened midway around the body, and gripped it behind the front legs, lay limp in the hands of the Indians, who did not flinch at all.
Then the head grew still. The yellow eyes made a lazy blink. The tail scraped until it lay in a straight line with the body. The thick legs tensed and lifted the body six inches from the ground.
Every inch of knobbly skin, every iron muscle, was braced to attack, and in my mind’s eye I already saw myself galloping back through the trees and their mossy waterfalls, riding for my life. But the men were quicker. In the same second that the creature paused, exulting in its strength, the tallest of them stooped and picked up a spear from the jetty. He stepped forward until he was so close to the alligator he might have hit him on the nose. Then he leaped.
One moment he was among his friends on their flimsy platform, the next he was astride the alliga
tor and facing us with his knees gripping its flanks, his face gaunt with excitement, hoisting his spear with both hands and aiming it exactly at one of the yellow eyes before plunging the point downward; the eyeball exploded immediately, releasing a jet of dark blood that sprayed over his chest and face and dribbled from his chin.
Every time I had seen an animal killed—on the marshes as a child when a hawk knocked down a pigeon, or at farms nearby when pigs and cattle were slaughtered by their owners—I had seen life depart quietly, in an instant. It had been the same in the chapel the previous night, when I caught our supper with my bare hands. But this alligator remained as dangerous in dying as it had been in life. Although half-blind, with a needle grinding in its brain, the head pounded so wildly on the jetty that I thought its timbers would soon be smashed into pieces. The tail curved upward like a scorpion until it almost touched the head of the Indian who had done the murder, then swished back and forth to swat him away—until the energy shriveled, and faltered, and failed, and the enormous weapon crashed back onto the boards.
Even then the life was not extinguished; the jaws continued to mash together, and the single eye to glare at the world until the coup de grâce was delivered. For this, the Indian squatting astride him went quiet for a moment, composing himself as a person might do before undertaking a ritual of great significance, with his head lowered and his eyes closed. Once he was concentrated in this way, he looked up again and took from one of his friends a small hatchet—which was presented sideways, on flat palms—and used this weapon to chop the backbone of the alligator in two with a single heavy blow.
As the yellow eye turned cloudy at last, the Indian rose so that he was standing over his victim, then carefully inserted the point of his spear into the gash he had made between the shoulders, pushing downward until almost the whole length of the weapon was hidden inside the skin. Next, when he was quite sure there was no more danger, he stepped away from the body and joined his friends to stand in line with them, with their heads all thrown back to make another chant. This was unlike the first, having no hint of threat or excitement but rather a note of sadness—as though, after the passion of the kill, their only feeling was regret.
I have to admit I did not understand at the time why a person might grieve for something he had been determined to destroy; but I did at least begin to think that such a ceremony, for all its strangeness, meant those who took part in it could not be described merely as savages.
When the chant ended, so did our role as spectators, and two of the Indians broke away from their fellows and bounded toward us up the slope of the river-bank. Watching them in their battle I had already noticed how slightly built they were, how nimble and darting; now, as they came close to us for the first time, I saw they were also very open-faced and affable. It struck me that our approach to each other was more like a meeting between friends who had long been separated, than one between strangers who had every reason to feel suspicious. In my own case this had something to do with simple curiosity; in theirs, I could not decide whether it showed a natural kindness, or was derived from previous contact with travelers like ourselves.
As with their hunting, so with their greeting. They made it into a ritual by halting a yard in front of us and holding up one hand with the palm outward, as I had previously done myself. I noticed the skin of their fingers was rubbed sore where the rope had chafed them; the rest of their bodies were smooth and supple-looking, and their skin a dark reddish-brown, the same color as the earth thereabouts.
To show we understood their good intentions and shared them, Natty and I then climbed down from our ponies and made the same gesture in return. The Indians seemed very pleased with this and looked happily at one another, and I dare say would have taken us back to their village immediately if we had not delayed them. But Natty had the idea that we should do more.
“Show them the necklace,” she said.
“There’s no need,” I told her, very surprised by the idea.
“Show them,” she repeated.
“I…”
“Show them,” she said for a third time, and because I did not think clearly enough about what the effects might be, I obeyed. I opened the satchel where it lay against my chest, and drew out the necklace to hold it toward our friends; even though we were sheltered by trees, and the sunlight only penetrated the leaves in odd little flicks, the silver pieces glowed as if they were alive.
“Not like that,” said Natty. “They’ll think you’re giving them a present. Put it on.”
Once again I did as she asked, tying the leather string behind my neck, and polishing the silver pieces with a quick movement of my hand as they lay flat against my shirt.
When I looked up again I found our friends had retreated several yards and were gazing at me with anxious faces; one of them had actually dropped onto his knees and seemed to be recommending that others did the same.
“They recognize it,” said Natty. “They think you’ve killed him.”
“Do they know him then?” I said—which was foolish of me, but I felt amazed by the confusion I had caused, and was sorry for it.
“They’ll be grateful,” Natty said. “You’ll see.”
She took my hand and led me forward, still raising her free arm as before, with the palm toward them. By the time we came close they had shuffled backward as far as the jetty and could go no further; their retreat was blocked by the body of the alligator.
“We do not mean you any harm,” said Natty, speaking slowly and a little more loudly than usual, as if this allowed everyone to understand. When she had finished she let go of my hand and touched the necklace, running her fingers over the carvings of the animals, touching their hard little eyes and sweeping bodies, then holding her fingers toward our friends as if she was passing them something substantial—color, or warmth, or a skim of the silver itself.
This seemed to reassure them a little and they began whispering to one another again, bending their heads together as if they did not want us to hear what they were saying. While this continued the clouds gradually lifted from their faces—lifted so thoroughly that when they turned back toward us again they seemed almost as simple and friendly as they had been at first. But there was a different look in their eyes, I felt sure of it.
“They think you’re a god,” Natty said.
“Nonsense,” I told her, because it was a preposterous idea.
“Wait,” she said—and as though everything had already been planned, or Natty had seen it in a vision, one of the Indians then stepped forward. This was the tallest and oldest, the man who had killed the alligator and was obviously the leader of the whole party. With the monster’s blood still smeared on his chest and face he slowly took one, two, three paces until he was near enough to let me inhale the river-smell off his hair and skin; next, with a little nod as if to ask my permission, which I quickly gave by nodding in return, he extended his hand and gently touched the necklace, stroking his finger-ends over the silver pieces and the animals that chased across them, all the while murmuring under his breath.
Whether he was praying or exclaiming or translating what he saw for the benefit of his friends, I had no idea. But the longer his admiration continued, the more I felt I should help him to a conclusion.
“Black Cloud,” I said. As the words left my lips, I realized this was the first time I had spoken to anyone other than Natty for many weeks. Brief as they were, and although they were the name of an enemy, I felt I had made my first proper connection with our new world.
“Black Cloud,” repeated the warrior, staring hard into my face. He was no longer touching the silver but holding my hand; his fingers felt slimy with river-water.
“You see,” said Natty softly. “They think you’ve killed him. You’re their savior.”
“Perhaps,” I told her, but without looking round because my eyes were fixed on my friend, who was now nodding his head very energetically, as if he understood everything.
“Black Cloud
,” he said again, “Black Cloud,” and then another word that sounded like “mert,” but when I repeated it to myself I realized was “muerte.”
“I told you,” Natty went on. “Muerte. Death.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the truth?” I asked, still facing away from her.
“And how would we do that?”
“We could explain somehow.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll find out one day. They’ll see we’re liars.”
“Again, Jim. How would they do that?”
“Because Black Cloud will follow us. He’ll find these people and they’ll know. He’ll punish them. We’re putting them in danger if we lie to them.”
Natty did not answer this, and I said nothing more; I felt too daunted—though cowardly might be a better word. I let my friend hold my hand for a moment longer; I smiled back at his own smiling face; I felt the hands of others patting me on the back as they also came forward; I let them touch my skin and my hair; I let them caress the necklace, until at last I thought I must show I was satisfied with their thanks, and took a step away so that I was raised a little on the slope above the river.
The Indians accepted that this marked the end of whatever ceremony we had just undertaken, and promptly returned to the work we had interrupted. They untied the rope from the body of the alligator, then used one part of it to truss up the jaws and another part to make a kind of cradle to support the body. Once this was done they watched us lead our ponies to the water and there enjoy the drink they had wanted for so long, then divided into two groups, picked up their trophy, and set off along the river-bank. Every few paces one or other of them turned round to make sure we were following—which of course we were, leading our ponies behind us, and believing these men were the friends we had imagined, the guides who would lead us to others of our own kind, who in time would show us the way home. They made a very pretty picture with the sun dappling on their naked shoulders, and glinting in the moss that hung around us on every side.
The New World Page 8