by Angel Wedge
I made small talk, thinking maybe if he was focused on the things that interested him, he might help me without realising. I pointed to the set of symbols traced faintly below the English text on the sign over the door, and he explained that they were indeed the language of several of the local tribes. He pointed to the keypad too, sparing me the need to ask.
“It’s an abbreviation, really. They don’t have any system of numbers as such, but in a language of fifty-six glyphs, only ten are permitted to begin a word, so the codes to the high security rooms are the initial letters of memorable phrases. I’m amazed the way Professor Faulkner managed to get into the head of the locals, after so many years of them keeping away from anything remotely civilised. They’d talk to him before me, and he doesn’t even have an anthropology background. Of course, he has a natural advantage…” he seemed to realise he was rambling as he reached down to key in the code. “Anyway, I’m afraid I can’t let you past here, and I have work to be attending to, vitally important work would you believe, some kind of close-down paperwork over the conclusion of my research. So you’d best get off to your presentation or whatever.”
He always babbled, I’d seen that when he was lecturing us all about the native culture and the changes to the traditional brwance and magitopo since they’d come into contact with the outside world. But when he was nervous, his sentences started running on so far that you couldn’t even see the end in the distance, and he had to interrupt himself to say something else. From the panic in his eyes, I knew he was a true scientist, driven by the desire to uncover and to share knowledge, and lying had never come naturally to him. I could also see him glancing from side to side, trying to find any inspiration to cover up his transparent deception. I really didn’t care what his secret was, as long as it didn’t bring security down here, so I was willing to help him regain his peace of mind.
“Okay doc. I’ll let you get back to your paperwork, better not keep her waiting,” I allowed a little smirk as I half turned away from the door and saw the tension in his shoulders drop away. A secretive tryst was a much better excuse for being out past midnight than paperwork, and would also explain his lying. And from the open book of his body language, I’d been right in guessing he’d rather have me believe that than look into whatever he was really doing.
“Wait!” he called when I was nearly out of sight. I turned back, and he tossed a key towards me. “You seem a nice gentleman, discreet and honest, not like the rest of those paparazzis. Before you go demonising the Professor, you should know what really happened to Lucretia, maybe then you’ll understand why he came here.” I nodded. You could easily recognise the scientists who’d been here when Faulkner was still in charge, because they called him Professor with the respect normally reserved for a royal title. “Her room’s not been touched, it’s clean and everything where she left it, and I got Jìng to put the girls’ diary in there. We didn’t want the new Committee to find it after… Look, you can’t tell anyone what’s in there, promise me that much, but you should at least know when you’re writing your story.”
He turned away, embarrassed, or maybe realising just how dramatically trusting a journalist might backfire. He punched the keys on the pad quickly. A soft beep, I could see from behind that his arm moved upwards before the second tone, then another pause and two beeps in quick succession, and a longer pause before the fifth and final sound. I pretended not to notice, but that was enough information to cut the number of combinations down dramatically. His hand had been at the bottom right of the pad when he told me he couldn’t let me in, so the first number was on the bottom row, or was in the ‘zero’ position if the pad had been a numeric one; the second digit was at the top, and the third and fourth were probably the same somewhere in the middle. So although the combination was five digits, rather than the four I’d seen in other places, I had enough knowledge to cut 99999 possibilities down to 558.
I started mentally constructing a list of codes to try, so I could solve the problem quickly as soon as Corliss was gone. But I couldn’t help wondering just what his secret might be. When he’d led our tours outside the Lucretia Falls complex, he’d given the impression that he used this place only as a base of operations, and his interest was entirely in the jungle itself. So I had no idea what he might be hiding in the most secure of the laboratories.
* * *
Dr Corliss had been introduced to us along with all the other members of the UN’s new Lucretia Falls Oversight Committee, but his speciality was pretty much a mystery. I’d not had any reason to investigate him, so all I knew was that he was a social scientist. It was only later that I learned he’d been exploring the jungles here before the lab was built, or that he’d helped Faulkner to organise local labour for the construction. That must have been a mammoth undertaking in itself, one more thing that was so much easier to understand once you were there in person.
The complex was enormous, though a good deal of the space in the middle wasn’t occupied, where the staff quarters were carved into the cliff face and there could be yards of solid rock between one apartment and its neighbour. There were so many different spaces within the building; from the massive observation room at the top – gleaming glass crusted with dust and always sealed off – through the hotel-like building we were staying at on the cliff top, all the way down through tunnels and elevators to the secret labs in the cliff base, the lake below the waterfall, and a small compound where some crops were grown around it. It was larger than the main hospital in Sante Benedicté, which served the whole area, but still smaller than some shopping malls I’d seen back in the States. After five whole days of getting shown the same parts of the complex, and being lectured by different specialists in the same couple of conference rooms, many of our group were starting to get cabin fever, and we asked to see something different.
A British photographer, who probably thought he was being clever, said he was worried about the impact a place like this would have on the culture of the natives and on the wildlife. After a comment like that there was no way they could keep us cooped up in the building for another day. But when they had a tour ready for us the next day, it was clear they’d already planned this. Dr Corliss wanted to show off the inroads he’d made towards understanding the tribal culture, and the Committee needed to show that they’d cooperated with the requests of the reporters and delegates. Dr Leuvens even made a point of how upset he was that the change in plans made us miss his presentation – though his preparation had consisted entirely of lounging around in the cafeteria and suggesting poker games with any of the guests who underestimated his quick fingers.
We were to travel in what Corliss referred to as “the bus”. It turned out to be a battered vehicle running on a pair of tracks. I could only assume it had been a military personnel carrier at some point in its past, which would explain the tiny slits for windows. Inside the iron box was like an oven, as if the metal could concentrate the heat and humidity to make it even more intense.
“How are we all going to fit?” one of the others, a Brit named Waltham, looked at the vehicle in surprise. He had the courage to say what everyone was clearly thinking.
“We’ll have a half size group for this expedition,” Corliss answered smoothly, coming up behind the group, “You won’t be taking photographers due to the beliefs of the native tribes, and as it seems many of you have somehow acquired boasźevhe retainers,” he looked around at everyone. It was true, there were as many nut-brown faces as white in the crowd today. The locals from Sante Benedicté had been contracted to escort each group of reporters and politicians out to the Lucretia Falls compound, but more than a few of them had stayed around. It was a poor country, and they seemed to guess there would be a lot of perks to being a gopher for some rich foreign diplomat, quite apart from the way most of the politicos had got confused over the exchange rate. Even Marcos had stayed around, saying that someone needed to protect me and watch me for any sign of subversive activity as long as I was
in their country.
I felt the shift in the atmosphere immediately; Marcos stiffened beside me, and I could see more than a few clenched fists. He leaned forward to explain, but I’d guessed in an instant. There were two groups of natives in this country: the descendants of the early settlers, and the ebony men whose ancestors had never been anywhere else. There was a constant low-level feud between the two over who were the true natives, and it was a testament to someone’s skills of persuasion that there had been only a few scuffles between the representatives of both sides who worked at Lucretia Falls. The unified intake of breath told me immediately that ‘boasźevhe’ must be an offensive, racist epithet rather that a term for a manservant as I’d first assumed.
While everyone clamoured over each other in heated argument, I took a step back. Dr Corliss had used the wrong word, but probably hadn’t meant anything by it. I’d seen him a few times sharing meals with the guests and senior staff, and already formed the opinion that he didn’t pay much attention to the affairs of everyone who wasn’t a jungle nomad. He might not even realise that the word was contentious, or think about what it meant to anyone other than the tribes he had immersed himself in. Regardless of his language, the man had a point in that if we were going to visit the men of the jungle, the presence of boasźevhe in the group would be seen as an act of aggression, a further invasion of what tribal lands they had retained. While everyone else angrily restated their own culture’s viewpoint on racism, I pulled Marcos aside.
“Look, they’re not going to let you go with us, that much is clear. But if you really want to see me report the truth, maybe there’s a way you can help me.” I looked around furtively. The bus and its garage were on the lowest level, at the valley bottom. It was the first time we’d been down there, and given the amount of rusted ironwork around the place, I gathered it wasn’t something they made a habit of showing off to tourists. “Once we’re gone they’ll probably send you back up to the guest quarters. But with the journalists and foreigners out of sight, maybe they won’t be paying quite so much attention. See if you can get lost in between elevators, get a map of the building or at least directions to anything that my readers would like to see.” He nodded, and I hoped that was a sign he was actually on my side. It was hard to be sure, when I didn’t have a clear picture of his motives, and no idea what Paul had promised these people.
It didn’t matter in the end. As the group divided, many still staring daggers at Corliss, he waved in my general direction. “Your soldier friend will be welcome, I’m sure. If he doesn’t make any hostile actions, or take a weapon outside the bus.”
“Why?” I furrowed my brow in surprise, but judging the expressions I saw around me at least a few of the city-natives knew the answer. I’d just wait, and hope that it became clear in time.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see,” the scientist just gave an enigmatic smile before he dropped through the hatch into the vehicle.
The tough tracks made easy work of the jungle terrain, though I think it would have had a lot more trouble if regular use hadn’t kept back the foliage along a narrow path. As it was, the mud would have made it tough going for a less adapted vehicle. I wasn’t sure how far we travelled, but it took around an hour to get there. We couldn’t even talk along the way, because or the rumbling of the engine echoing back and forth inside a vehicle that felt like nothing more than an oversized tin can. Every branch striking the outside made it ring like a bell, and the back was packed tightly even with most of the native attendants, dogsbodys, and bodyguards left back at Lucretia Falls. I’m sure that when we arrived, we were all glad to get back outside.
There were half a dozen tribesmen in the clearing. Their huts could be seen, built around the base of trees some distance away. I had to assume the men meeting us were some kind of warrior caste, as they all had the same solid build and skin like mahogany. They gave what was probably some kind of salute or greeting, clasping their hands behind their backs as they saw us. To Marcos, though, they actually bowed. I couldn’t understand how they could treat someone so differently. If anything, he was the most different from them in appearance. The tribesmen had skin the colour of mahogany, they were practically giants and exposed rippling muscle over their entire bodies. Marcos though had a wiry build, and his genetic legacy had left him with skin that didn’t show the faintest hint of a tan.
“They revere albinos?” I hadn’t realised I’d said it out loud, but once I’d seen it I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long.
“Indeed,” I could tell Corliss had a huge grin on his face behind me. “Maybe even worship, in the right contexts. Pink or white eyes are seen as a sign of divinity, of being touched by the White Lady, who is one of the Imatribi, the divine trinity who rule over the whole of the jungle. For generations, the tribe have taken their political lead from the strongest warriors, but their spiritual guidance comes from nomadic priests who move from one tribe to another. The priests have their own community, their own rules, and it is my belief that their skin colour is due to generations, even centuries, of inbreeding. Maybe the palest of the tribes were chosen as the prophets of the White Lady, or maybe the priests got control somehow and then the results of inbreeding changed them, and it became seen as –”
He stopped abruptly, and dashed off at the sound of shouting from one side of the group. I later heard that a young reporter had been bitten by a snake. The warriors had immediately decided to take him to their doctor, but had trouble expressing this because only one among them had a somewhat-shaky grasp of the English language. While Corliss tried to defuse the misunderstanding, I found an opportunity to speak to one of the other tribesmen. I was a little surprised to find that Marcos and this man could mostly understand each other in their own languages, which shared an awful lot of grammar and pronunciation rules. The main difference was that the language spoken in the city had been influenced by a couple of European languages, borrowing whole words, while the tribes didn’t use any of the more recent additions. When we were allowed into the village, I learned that the big difference was that the tribes had their own writing system, which had been developed in this land before foreigners ever came, and had (as far as Dr Corliss’s enthusiastic babbling could be understood) never been shared with outsiders before.
The tribesmen accepted us, which was a big load off our minds. They were guarded, and didn’t trust us still, but they were willing to let us be in their village. Corliss, meanwhile, didn’t seem to see the tension. He was like a kid in a candy store, running back and forth, pointing out a woman repairing some of their culture’s traditional clothes, or the distinctive way this tribe had of producing charcoal for cooking, or the way a warrior’s son first demonstrated his balance and dexterity by drawing his father’s brwance knife backwards across a whetstone. The doctor was so enthusiastic, I couldn’t help liking him. I remembered feeling like that when I was learning a new language, when everything suddenly shifts and you can see the culture and the way the words people use is shaped by their worldview and culture. I’d always been too cautious about what other people might think, and I’d never really allowed myself to show the kind of joy he was experiencing. I wondered for a moment if I might be able to get as much pleasure, if I’d been the one these mysterious people chose to share their world with.
But it wasn’t actually Corliss, I realised. Though he’d spoken to them, and respected them in ways no outsider had done before, it wasn’t anything he’d done that had earned their trust. My mind went back to a sad, white haired man in a home video on the news.
“Faulkner was chosen by the White Lady,” I muttered as I understood. One of the smaller men of the village, presumably a scholar of some kind compared to the muscular giants, nodded and replied in broken English.
“You see more clearly than many,” he grinned, showing tattoos on toothless gums, “Maybe you are a friend to the jungle. I will whisper it into the ground, and maybe the tiger will look past you.” The words were a little c
onfusing, maybe, but I could take that as a wish for good luck. While the rest of the group were snapping photos of a man with a snake bite and whatever medical practices the natives used, I went with Marcos and Amba into his hut, and we talked about the shaky relationship between Faulkner and this tribe.
It was hard at first, the language a barrier. But Amba could manage some explanation in English, and Marcos could translate until I started to pick up a bit more of the basics myself. We were in the camp for a whole afternoon, while Corliss had planned to show us all the different crafts. In a way, I think he was trying to prove that they weren’t some kind of barbarians. But he didn’t mind me wandering away from the group, and I think he was glad to see someone actually interested in the tribe’s culture.
“We are between the three gods,” Amba explained – with some delay while we collaborated to translate the more difficult concepts – when I asked if the three were equally important, “They all rule over this land, but we lie between them. We are the tipping point, the referee to mediate their influences over the land. We must obey each of the gods absolutely when we encounter them in the forest, but when two are in conflict we use our judgement to restore the balance.” I nodded. I wasn’t here to study the religion of these people, but I felt that understanding their culture and values would make it easier to understand what it meant for them to have pledged their allegiance to Faulkner, and maybe if I could talk to the tribesmen who’d tried to defend the lab when the marines first came to arrest Faulkner, it would be easier to find out what was really going on. Dr Corliss’s support might be useful as well, though at that point I doubted he would know what was really going on around him at the lab. He was too immersed in his own work to learn much about others’.
We missed most of the craft demonstrations. We missed seeing the warriors compete in spear throwing – which Amba informed me could be quite amusing, as most of them were much more skilled with knives and clubs. But I learned a lot about the tribesmen, and the world as they saw it. To them, the jungle was the world. They’d been told that there were places elsewhere that had no trees; they’d heard about oceans and deserts, but the concept was entirely alien and many of them didn’t really believe it. The jungle was their world, and also the place where their three gods interacted. That was an idea I’d never come across before, and I wondered if it happened in other religions I’d never heard of.