The next morning they traveled in two canoes as dawn lighted the sky. At a fork in the river Mr. Vicks and the Frenchman took one canoe with two Indians to gather disease-resistant Hevea seedlings from an old stand of wild rubber trees the Indians knew. Mr. Eliot and Edward went with the two Indian boys, neither more than twelve years old but already familiar with dozens of wild epiphytic orchids found only at the tops of the highest trees. On each side of the river the great trees towered out of sight in a canopy of foliage. Lianas hung from the branches, interwoven to form webs of coiling vines.
Edward watched closely. Sometimes a tree appeared covered with orchid blossoms that thrived on the lianas. Climbing ferns and vanilla clung to the trunks, and epiphytes graced the branches. Large arums sent down long aerial roots the Indians used for ropes. In the undergrowth different species of palms grew among the tree ferns, whose feathery crowns were twenty feet above the ground. Great broad leaf heliconias, leathery Melastoma, and succulent broadleaf begonias grew all around; Cecropia trees had a ghostly presence with their white stems and large white palmated leaves that stood straight up like candelabras. Sometimes the riverbank was carpeted with flower petals of yellow, pink, and white fallen from some invisible treetop. The air was filled with a delicious perfume, but in all the overshadowing greenery no source was visible.
The Indians knew exactly where to take the canoes in the branching estuaries; they knew where to find the Cattleya violacea by its fragrance. That afternoon Edward and Mr. Eliot returned with the canoes full of lovely rose-purple flowers with a round ruffled front lobe marked with a patch of vibrant yellow streaked with purple. Eliot assisted him with the labeling and packing of the day’s collection, and Edward could not help but notice how little Mr. Eliot knew about wild orchids; moreover, Mr. Eliot evidenced no interest in observing the natural habitats of the specimens. While Edward stood at the foot of the great trees to catch the specimens the Indians climbed for, Mr. Eliot napped in the canoe with a bottle of rum between his legs. Mr. Eliot did count the specimens twice and note the number in a small notebook he carried in his breast pocket.
Later Mr. Eliot invited Edward to join him at the cantina, but soon disappeared onto the hotel barge with a giggling mulatto girl. A Negress in a bright red dress joined Edward at the table, but when he offered to buy her a drink, she said she was off duty and only wanted some conversation. She was Jamaican by birth, she said, and if she didn’t die of some fever or go crazy from boredom she would be rich when she left the Pará. Already she had saved thousands for the store she would open in her village back on the island.
Edward told her a bit about the expedition, but she shook her head; she didn’t care at all for those orchids. They might be costly but the flowers were shaped like giant insects and they were hardly fragrant. She much preferred roses and gardenias. She daintily patted her forehead with a linen handkerchief and he noticed she wore a gardenia blossom on a white satin ribbon at her wrist. He admired the large blossom and she held her wrist to her face and closed her eyes with a big smile as she savored the fragrance. She said she was never without a gardenia because its perfume wards off yellow fever. Some nights the huge jungle moths hovered near her flower; they seemed to recognize her, she said.
The monkey watched them hopefully; the Negress laughed and went and untied the monkey and brought the little creature to sit on the table. People there believed the monkey was good luck, she said; some years ago only the monkey survived the massacre at the rubber station. The monkey was found in the same tree the attackers hung the monkey’s dead master, a rubber station foreman. The monkey was specially trained to perform many tasks, so the Frenchman bought the monkey from the police inspector who investigated the crimes. In no time the monkey learned to crank the music box. That happened before the Negress came to work for the Frenchman, but everyone knew the story.
When Edward stood up to go, the Negress carried the monkey back to the music box and retied the leash. Edward paid the bartender and put a piece of bread in the monkey’s dish on his way out. The little creature’s eyes brightened and it immediately began turning the crank with one hand while it ate the bread.
Sleep was impossible in the small steamy cabin, so Edward joined the others and hung his hammock and mosquito netting on the deck outside his cabin beside the crewmen and the others. The decks were lined with smoldering pots of a fragrant jungle wood to keep away the mosquitoes and bloodsucking insects. The hurdy-gurdy music, the sounds of laughter, and occasional screams and arguments filtered through the constant low hum of the jungle: the rustle of countless serpents, the squeaks and groans of dying prey, with the whir of giant winged beetles and the flutter of great moths at the lanterns. The riverboat deck, draped in netting with hammocks full of sleeping men, reminded Edward of a spider’s prey, bound and stored in the web.
One night two weeks after their arrival in Portal, the sound of gunshots woke Edward. Heart pounding, he held his breath and listened for more gunfire and for the sounds he imagined at the massacre and burning of old Portal; but he heard only the hum of the jungle. The next morning the cantina and stores were strangely deserted and the hurdy-gurdy was silent. The little monkey was gone. When Edward reached the riverbank, the canoes were gone and the Indians nowhere to be seen; none of the equipment or day’s supply of water and provisions were loaded either. Mr. Eliot paced up and down the riverbank, cursing the Indians and the Frenchman. Just then the Frenchman came, panting and red faced, followed by Mr. Vicks, who appeared calm. The Frenchman carried the little monkey tucked under his arm like a parcel as he gesticulated wildly with his free arm and hand. Nothing to fear, nothing to fear, the Frenchman repeated. The hundreds of rubber tree seedlings already collected were safe in their temporary nursery on the riverbank. A gang of thugs sent by the Frenchman’s enemies raided the cantina and stores the night before to disrupt his business. Bullet holes in the hull caused the Louis XIII to leak a bit, but no one was wounded. The Indians who worked for him fled into the jungle because they feared a raid like the one that destroyed the old village.
Presently two young mestizo men appeared; they loaded the supplies and the machetes and shovels into the canoes. His sons, the Frenchman said proudly, would come along to help complete the collection of Hevea seedlings. The Frenchman lifted the monkey into the canoe with Edward and Mr. Eliot.
“Here is your assistant,” he said, grinning broadly as he tied the leash inside the canoe. Point out the plant desired, and the monkey climbed to it and carefully scooped up the orchid bulb, roots and all, in tree moss.
Mr. Eliot laughed but Edward was not amused.
“I can’t very well show the monkey the orchid I want when I can’t see the tops of trees,” Edward said in an indignant tone.
Clearly the Frenchman thought the Hevea seedlings of Mr. Vicks and the prestigious Kew Gardens more worthy of his attention than the orchids. His suggestion that a monkey could gather the orchids was quite insulting really. Fortunately he and Vicks had only four orchid species yet to gather, and of the four, only the Laelia cinnabarina specimens were required in any number.
“But you have last week’s plants, the Cattleya, non?” The Frenchman claimed it was only necessary to show the monkey an orchid of the same species and the little creature would bring back all the orchids he could find. That was nonsense, of course, but Edward knew the only way to quiet the Frenchman was to do as he said. While they finished loading the canoes, Edward returned to his cabin to fetch specimens of Cattleya and Laelia; these, combined with the field handbook with color plates of wild orchids, would be enough to show to the Frenchman’s sons, who might be persuaded to climb the immense trees if they were paid handsomely.
Once he showed Vicks and the boys the rubber tree seedlings to dig from a wild grove, the Frenchman, with the monkey on his arm, joined Mr. Eliot and Edward in a clearing.
“Show him what you want!” The Frenchman nodded at the two specimens Edward brought out of the knapsack. The monkey examined
each plant closely, carefully fingering the waxy flowers and leathery leaves of the pseudobulbs with the tips of his fingers. Then suddenly the little creature darted off and scampered across a mossy log and up a tree fern, where he disappeared into the jungle canopy.
The monkey was gone for nearly an hour; the Frenchman and Mr. Eliot sat in the canoe sipping rum from a bottle while Edward brought out the orchid field guide with the tinted lithographs to refresh his memory of the rare orchid specimens that remained to be gathered after the Laelia cinnnabarina. The monkey returned from the opposite direction he departed, with two fine orchid plants in his arms. Edward was dubious, but the little creature extracted the plants without damage except for a flower or two lost from the trailing spikes of blossoms. The Frenchman gave the monkey shelled walnuts each time he brought back orchids.
Once the monkey located the orchids high in the treetops, he moved much faster than any man. A number of the orchids the monkey collected were not needed and as cargo space was limited, those orchid plants were tossed aside. Edward had to admit the monkey did the work of two men. By midafternoon, all that remained to be collected was the small, rare orchids and the Laelia cinnabarina, which grew in the same habitat. Vicks collected the last orchid specimens he needed, and the following day, while Vicks and others finished packing the seedlings in burlap, the Frenchman took Mr. Eliot and Edward farther up the river to precipitous granite ridges cut by the river and bathed in the sunshine that gave the Laelia cinnabarina her rich colors.
The pale granite cliff with its cascades of wild orchid blossoms above the river mist was so lovely Edward knew he must photograph it. He brought along his tripod and camera despite the bulk for just this sort of location. The dimness of the light under the jungle canopy had precluded photography up until then.
Edward noticed his companions also were preoccupied these last days of the expedition. Mr. Vicks spent much of his time at the temporary nursery where the rubber tree seedlings in their burlap sacks were being carefully concealed inside rolls of woven straw matting for the long voyage. There were reasons for making haste. The Frenchman claimed to receive tips on plots against him by his enemies; he said very soon these criminals might force him to untie his barges and boats and relocate the town downriver. His spies reported growing suspicion among government officials in Belém, who heard rumors of foreigners in possession of Hevea seedlings.
On the last morning they went to collect the Laelia cinnabarina, Mr. Eliot was late and they were forced to wait for him in the canoe. The Frenchman brought along the monkey for any orchids they might find on inaccessible rock ledges. Fortunately the weather continued to be dry so the mosquitoes were scarce while they waited for their colleague. How odd that Mr. Eliot should be late on the morning they set out for the Laelia cinnabarina. Mr. Eliot showed little knowledge or interest in orchids except for the Laelia cinnabarina. He seemed to be aware of the latest developments by orchid hybridizers who sought to create a fragrant bright red orchid to rival the English rose.
What could be the delay? When Eliot came, he was sweating and short of breath from the burden of the bulging knapsack’s contents. As Eliot set it on the floor of the canoe, Edward felt the craft list with the weight of the knapsack and he heard the clink of glass bottles against one another inside the knapsack. Bottles of rum, Edward assumed, though he learned later Mr. Eliot brought along something more volatile than rum.
The monkey was not as fleet gathering the Laelia cinnabarina from the granite crags and ledges, so the Frenchman helped Mr. Eliot and Edward gather specimens of cinnabarina all morning, and by three o’clock they had more than the two hundred robust specimens requested by the consortium of orchid hybridizers. While the monkey watched them carefully wrap the specimens in damp moss and burlap, Edward hiked up the ridge with his camera.
Edward had a clear view of the river and riverbank for a mile in either direction as he climbed. He carried his camera case and tripod up the ledges and over the boulders to make photographs of the amazing granite hillside where hundreds of Cattleya and Laelia sent out long pendulous flower spikes. Because of the steep incline and the weight of his equipment he stopped periodically to catch his breath and to survey the endless expanses of jungle and the great Pará River as it snaked to the sea.
He stopped and attached the close-up lens so he could photograph a particularly profuse spike of red-orange blossoms of a Laelia cinnabarina that appeared to grow out of solid granite on the side of the ridge. He was glad the monkey had not found this specimen. As he viewed the orchid flower through the close-up lens, he savored the sublime, luminous glow from the profuse orange-red blossoms that resembled shooting stars. He made exposures of each subject, careful to double-check the lens setting for perfect photographs.
They had agreed they must start back at five; Edward checked his watch and glanced back down at his companions, white specks far below. He had another hour to make photographs and he wanted to make the most of the opportunity because he had not made as many photographs of the wild orchids as he originally hoped. Here the light was lovely, but the steep terrain required numerous adjustments to each leg of the tripod before the camera was level. After the exposure he carefully repacked each glass plate in its padded slot in the camera box. He was so immersed in making photographs he lost sight of the antlike figures of his companions on the riverbank.
He was near the top of the granite ledge with the river hundreds of yards below when he stopped to change lenses for a wide-angle view of the granite cliff face with hundreds of wild orchids in flower. The subtle fragrance of hundreds of orchid blossoms wafted in the cool air rising off the mist from the river. As he attempted to focus the image on the camera’s ground glass, he noticed the first gray feather of smoke, followed by another and another. He stepped back from the camera, unable to believe what he saw, when suddenly a greasy black ball of smoke rolled into the sky followed by spidery blossoms of red-orange flame.
This was the dry season, but the forest floor and the lianas and mosses were still moist and green. How could a wildfire break out? He felt the hair on his neck bristle as the plumes of smoke rose higher. Where were Eliot and the Frenchman? Edward quickly removed the lens board and film holder; he shut the camera and replaced it in its box. He slipped the carrying strap over his right shoulder and carried the folded tripod over his left shoulder. He made his way down the slope as quickly as he could. He still did not see his companions, but he saw the canoe safe on the riverbank.
The fire spread quickly and he could hear the birds and parrots screech out alarms. He was beginning to feel winded but he pushed himself on because he feared the flames might cut off his path to the canoe. He regretted the bulk of the camera box and the tripod on the steep slope of rotting granite where the footing was treacherous. The ridge was formed by folds of rock that made terraces and ledges, so the path down to the river, though steep, was not difficult to follow. He stopped again to search, in vain, for a glimpse of his companions.
Edward made his way down the granite ridge cautiously despite his fear of the fire. He was more than two-thirds of the way down the slope when he paused to catch his breath and adjust the camera box and tripod. It was then he saw a strange sight: Mr. Eliot was running madly along the riverbank with his knapsack in one hand, spilling the contents of a bottle over the shrubbery with the other hand. When one bottle was emptied he threw it down and reached into the knapsack for another. For an instant, Edward was confused; he thought Eliot was dumping his precious rum; but when he saw the greasy black flames rise into the trees behind his companion, Edward realized the liquid Eliot splashed over the ground and shrubs was lamp oil, not rum.
Edward began to shout at Eliot, who was too far away to hear; the flames were spreading, and Edward realized the fire had cut off his only path to the canoe. He shouted, but the roar of the fire drowned out everything; he gamely held on to the camera box and used the tripod as a walking stick, but suddenly he lost his footing and fell. He did not los
e consciousness during the fall, and he never forgot the odd sensation of weightlessness as he fell—quite strange but not unpleasant. He might have escaped this misadventure with only minor cuts and bruises, but the camera box fell against the leg on the rock with a terrible crunching sound. Shattered bone pierced the skin; blood soaked the leg of his trousers, but he felt only the great weight of the numb limb pulling him down as he leaned on the camera box to call out again and again for Eliot and for the Frenchman. Surely they would come to find him when he did not return to the canoe.
Now the fire, fueled by the natural oils of the jungle trees and shrubs, exploded ahead of the flames and sent geysers of fire into the sky. He managed to drag himself into a rock cranny between two boulders just before the wall of flames flashed up the ridge.
The pain woke him from a dream that his leg was burning; in the fading darkness before dawn, bright orange coals still glowed and occasionally flames flared behind the thin veils of white smoke that rose from the legions of blackened tree trunks and the gray skeletons of tree ferns and shrubs. He listened for some sound that might indicate his companions were nearby. He called out their names again and again until the pain in his leg made him feel nauseous and faint.
Gardens in the Dunes Page 17