I did not like the idea of carrying a gun, but I decided that I should. There was another idea that I liked considerably less …
IV
I spent the next three days in Ushuaia.
It gave me the opportunity to observe these primitive people, as I’d wanted, but my interest in this pursuit had greatly waned. I regarded it now as something that had been done by others before me, interesting enough but hardly a challenge, compared to the possibilities of a new discovery. The tales I had heard from Gregorio and, to a lesser extent, MacPherson, had inflamed my imagination. I had never been a man to draw easy conclusions from incomplete data, and yet the same idea that had seemed absurd when Smyth presented it to me in his quiet, dark office, and the same statements I had passed over lightly in the objective reports that reached the museum, took on a new reality now, just as the clouded sky cast a new light over this land.
I was consumed by an impetuous urge to proceed with my investigations, and frustrated by the need to wait. But the first essential was still to locate Hodson. That was why Smyth had sent me, and it would have been foolish to follow another line of research until I’d seen him, and settled my mind one way or the other on that account. And it seemed there was no way to find Hodson until his man arrived for supplies.
I went to Graham’s every morning to inquire, and be disappointed. Graham had prepared a knapsack and saddlebags for me, and arranged with the stables down the street to have a horse ready to be hired at any time. The knapsack contained a portable stove and foodstuffs in lightweight plastic containers, along with other articles which surprised me, but which Graham thought might possibly prove handy if not essential in traversing that rugged land: a small hatchet, a folding knife, several lengths of rope and cord—things of potential value in survival, rather than in comfort. There was also a sleeping bag and groundsheet. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be spending a night in the open, and I was grateful for Graham’s foresight, although not so pleased by several tales he told me of men who had been lost in the mountains. With his guidance, I purchased a suitable outfit of clothing for the trek, heavy whipcord trousers, wool plaid shirt, quilted windbreaker with hood attached, and sturdy, treble-soled boots equally suited to riding and walking over broken land. I felt a certain satisfaction in being so well prepared which somewhat mollified my impatience.
In the meanwhile, I spent the days walking miles into the country on all sides. I wore my new clothing, getting accustomed to the freedom of this new manner of dress at the same time as I felt myself becoming acquainted with the land. I made no particular effort at observation, and made no entries in my notebook. Whatever I learned was simply absorbed without conscious effort, coming through the senses while my mind turned over manifold plans and possibilities. I didn’t attempt to restrict my thoughts to what I knew, or could be proved. It was out of character for me, but I was out of the world I knew, and anxious to enter the world of which Gregorio had spoken.
There were aspects of his story that fascinated me, that had the solid ring of truth, fantastic as that truth might be. These were not the things that seemed to have affected Gregorio most, however. He had seemed most impressed by the creature’s eyes, but I passed this over. Many animals have eyes that seem almost human in their intelligence, often the most loathsome creatures, rats and moray eels for instance. Gregorio could easily have been misled in this. But he claimed it had teeth, not fangs, and referred to its foreward or upper limbs as arms, not the legs he would have attributed to most animals—small points he had not pressed unduly, but which convinced me. And, more than anything else, there was the action he’d described—the raising of a non-existent tail. I have often wondered why mankind emotionally resents the tail that his forebears carried; why that is so frequently the point chosen when a man without knowledge scorns the process of evolution. For the same reason that he portrays the devil with a tail, perhaps? A feeling of superiority for the misguided reason that man has lost a useful and functional part of his anatomy. Surely a man like Gregorio would have given a tail to a figment of his imagination, or added one to a trick of light upon a superstitious nature. The tail is an integral part of bestial evil, and it seemed reasonable to assume that he would have. But he hadn’t. The thing had no tail, and moved as if it had.
My mind danced back through the aeons, obscuring fact with fancy and the present with the past, jamming two dimensions into one space, in my readiness to believe almost anything. I built fantasies of unbelievable intricacy and detail, and was content not to hinder the construction of this fragile architecture of the imagination. And, in this structure, there was the cornerstone of truth. For somewhere, sometime there had existed a creature which was less than man, and in many ways less than an ape, at some point where the distant line forked and began to pursue constantly diverging trails. It had happened once, at some point in time, and evolution has a pattern we have not yet mapped, a stamp that surely may be repeated in different places, when the time of those places is right. I had always believed in the likeliness of simultaneous evolution, finding it far more plausible than since-sunken land bridges and fantastic ocean emigrations on crude rafts, to account for the presence of mankind in the New World and the islands. The only new concept was the timing, and this problem did not seem insurmountable now that I was at a place like this, a land untouched by change as the world aged around it. Could the old pattern have begun again, working here along the same old lines that had populated the rest of the world in forgotten ages? The same evolution, a million years behind?
My wild musings surprised me, as I realized what I had been considering. And yet I didn’t scoff at the thought.
On the evening of the third day I walked out beyond the new Italian colony and turned from the path to ascend a rocky incline. The stones were soft beneath the heavy soles of my boots, and I carried a stout walking stick, using it as a third leg against gravity. Some small creature scurried unseen through the brush as I scrambled on to the flattened top of the hillock. A solitary beech tree twisted up from the undergrowth, and an owl hooted from the line of trees fringing a ridge to the north. It was raining lightly, and the wind was drifting higher than usual. I stood beneath the tortured limbs of the tree and lit a cigarette, looking out towards the west. I could not see far in the darkening mist, but I knew that somewhere out there were the mountains and canyons, the unmarked Chilean frontier and, somewhere beyond that, the place where I would find Hodson. I wondered what chance I would have of finding him if I were to set off myself, and the thought tempted my impatience. But it would have been more than hopeless. I had to wait.
Presently, aided by my stick, I clambered back down the incline and walked back to town through the soft, dark rain.
I encountered Jones on the stairs the next morning, and we descended together. I had intended to go to the breakfastroom, but I saw that it was occupied by three widowed tourists who had arrived the day before amidst cackling disorder. They were calling for separate bills and debating over who had devoured the extra doughnut. I believe they were from Milwaukee. I turned into the bar with Jones.
We sat at the bar. Jones had Pernod with his black coffee.
“Women like that make me ashamed to be a tourist,” he said. The nasal tones still reached us, although we felt quite sure the ladies wouldn’t come into the bar. “That’s the trouble with tourists. They get some place and then, instead of relaxing and enjoying themselves they rush about trying to see everything. Laden with guidebooks and preconceived ideas of what they must look at. Now me, first thing I do is find a nice sociable bar and have a drink. Get to meet some of the people. That’s the way to be a tourist.” He poured some water into his Pernod and admired the silicone effect as it clouded. “Course, you’re lucky. You can travel without being a tourist. Gardiner was telling me how you were a famous scientist.”
“Hardly famous.”
“What’s your line?”
“Anthropology. I’m on a field trip for the museum.”
“You don’t work on atom bombs and things, huh?”
He looked vaguely disappointed.
“Decidedly not. My work lies towards discovering where mankind came from, before it is gone.”
Jones nodded thoughtfully.
“Yeah, Still, I guess we got to have those atom bombs and things since the commies got ’em. Better if no one had ’em. You work for a museum, huh? I like museums, myself. Been in all the big museums all over the States and Europe. Not ’cause I think I got to, though. Just ’cause I like ’em. We got some fine museums in the States, you know. Ever thought of joining that brain drain? A scientist gets lots better money back home than you get over in England.”
“I hadn’t considered it, no.”
“Ought to. I mean, science and all is fine, and that England’s a great little island, but a guy’s got to earn a decent living for himself, too. That’s right, isn’t it? You got to look after yourself first, before you can look after the rest of the world. That holds for science and politics and charity and everything.”
“You have a point.”
“Want something with that coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“I don’t usually drink much at home, myself. But when I’m traveling, a little drink relaxes me. I like drinking in your country. Those pubs are fine things, ’cept they’re never open when a guy’s thirsty.”
The barman refilled our cups, and poured Jones another Pernod.
“What you doing here, anyway?” Jones asked me.
I almost launched into a detailed explanation, but caught myself in time.
“Studying the natives, more or less,” I said.
“That so? Ain’t much to study, is there? I mean, they’re sort of primitive.”
“That’s why I’m studying them.”
“Oh,” said Jones.
A boy was standing in the doorway, blinking. It was the boy from Graham’s trading company. I raised a hand and he saw me and came down the bar.
“Mister Graham sent me over. Said to tell you that Hodson’s man is here.”
“I’ll come with you,” I told him.
“Want a drink before you go?” Jones asked.
“Sorry. I don’t have time.”
“Sure. Business before pleasure, huh?”
I left Jones at the bar and followed the boy out to the street. It was a bright morning, unusually warm. Half a dozen hawks were circling against the sun. I felt stimulated as we walked toward Graham’s. This was what I’d been waiting for.
There were three horses tied in front of the trading post, and Graham was busily gathering the various supplies, referring to a handwritten list. He glanced up as I entered, and nodded toward the back of the room.
“There’s your man,” he said.
It was dark in the shadow of crates and shelves, and for a moment I didn’t see him. Then, gradually, the outline took shape, and I believe my mouth may have gaped open. I don’t know what I’d expected, but certainly not a man of such ferocious and terrifying aspect. He was gigantic. He must have stood closer to seven feet than six, a massive column of splendidly proportioned muscle and sinew, wearing a caterino over chest and back, leaving shoulders, arms and sides bare. He was standing completely motionless, huge arms crossed over his massive chest, and even in this relaxed position the definition of his muscles cleaved darkly against the brown skin. The man’s countenance was in accord with his body, his features carved from mahogany with a blunt chisel. A dark rag was knotted across his wide forehead, just above the eyes, the ends of the knot hanging loose and frayed and his hair a ragged coil over the edge.
Graham was grinning. “Quite a lad, eh?”
“Rather impressive. Any idea what tribe he could belong to? He doesn’t look like any of the Indians I’ve seen around the town.”
“No. I heard somewhere that Hodson brought him down from up north. The Amazon, I think. As his personal servant. Can’t see why he’d want something like that around the house, though.”
“And he can’t speak, you say?”
“I never heard him make a sound. Dumb, I reckon. Brings a list of supplies and waits while I get it packed and loaded, then he’s off again. Brings a cheque on Hodson’s bank every few months to settle the account, but I don’t think he knows what it is.”
“Can you communicate with him?”
Graham shrugged.
“Sure. Sign language, same’s I talk to any of them that can’t understand English. Simple enough. Universal.”
“Could you ask if I may accompany him?”
Graham frowned.
“Well, I can tell him you’re going. Don’t really know how I’d ask. No sense in it, anyway. He’s got nothing to say about it. Can’t tell you where you can go, and it wouldn’t do to give him the idea he could. I’ll just let him know you’re going with him, and you’ll have to do the rest. Keep up with him, I mean. Not that he might try to lose you, but I wouldn’t be willing to bet he’d wait for you if you dropped behind. Probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“I see.”
“You shouldn’t have to worry about keeping up, since he’s got two animals to lead. Can’t go too fast. But he’ll probably just keep right on going until he gets there, so it may be a long haul in the saddle.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Sure. No worries.”
Graham finished gathering the supplies into a pile by the door. The Indian paid no attention to either of us. He hadn’t moved since I’d entered. I noticed that he carried a machete in his waistband and wore nothing on his feet. He fascinated me, and I could hardly take my eyes away from him.
“You can start loading these on the horse,” Graham said to the boy. Then he held his hand up. “Wait. You better get Mister Brookes’ horse over from the stables first. Get it saddled and ready to go before you load the pack horses.” The boy went out. Graham went behind the counter and brought out my saddlebags and knapsack.
“Now we’ll see what we can get across to him, eh?” he said. I followed him to the back of the room. The nearer I got, the bigger the Indian looked. I didn’t actually get too near. Graham began making hand signs, simple symbols that I could have done as well myself. He pointed at me, at the Indian, and then out toward the horses. Then he made a few subtler movements. The Indian watched it all with absolutely no change of expression, no comprehension but also no disagreement, and it was impossible to know how much he understood.
“That’s about all I can do,” Graham said.
“Does he get the idea?”
“God knows.”
“Should I offer him money?”
Graham frowned.
“I don’t suppose he uses it. Probably doesn’t know what it is. You might offer him something else, a present of some sort. Damned if I know what, though.”
I rejected that idea as being too much like baubles and beads for the savages. Graham and I went back to the door. The Indian still hadn’t moved. I looked out and saw the boy leading my horse around the side of the building. The animal wasn’t too large and didn’t appear frisky, walking with its head down. It had high withers and a long, arched neck.
“Not much to look at,” Graham said. “You don’t want a spirited animal on a trip like this. This one is placid and surefooted, it should be just the thing.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said, wondering if Gardiner might have influenced the decision. The horse stood with wide spread legs and drooping back while the boy saddled it, but it looked sturdy enough—more bored than aged or tired.
I put my knapsack on. It felt comfortable. The boy began carrying Hodson’s supplies out to the pack animals and loading them with quick efficiency, while Graham and I watched from the doorway. I lighted a cigarette, feeling a nervous energy tightening in my belly, a core of anxiety wrapped in the spirit of adventure.
Graham motioned to the Indian. The horses were ready. The Indian moved past us and over us, and went down the steps. He tested the straps
and balance of the packs, his biceps ballooning as he tugged. Then he gathered the leads into one and moved to his mount. There was a blanket over the horse’s back, but no saddle, and the Indian was so tall that he virtually stepped on to the animal. He arched his back and the horse moved off at a walk, the pack animals following.
I mounted and settled. Graham came down the steps. “Good luck,” he said.
The anxiety was gone now. I felt fine. I felt like thundering out of town in a swirl of dust. But I heeled gently and we moved off at a walk, behind the pack animals, which was much more sensible.
V
The Indian paid no attention to me as I rode behind him. He seemed totally unaware of my presence, an eerie feeling once Ushuaia was behind us, and we were the only two people in sight. We went at a moderate pace and I kept about ten yards behind the pack horses, realizing again how much energy it takes to ride a horse over broken ground, even at such a slow gait. The Indian, however, seemed to use no energy. He rode with an easy grace, his long body relaxed and shifting to the horse’s motion, a technique well suited to a long journey, functional rather than stylistic. Although his horse was of a good size, it looked more like a burro beneath this vast man, and his feet almost brushed the ground.
The sun was abnormally bright and I began to sweat in my heavy clothing, and down my temples. After a while I shrugged out of the knapsack and balanced it on the pommel while I took the quilted windbreaker off and stuffed it in the saddlebags and slid into the knapsack again. During these gyrations I dropped farther behind, and had to urge the horse into a trot to catch up. The ground was firm and the gait jarred me. I knew I was going to be stiff and sore in a short time, but discomfort earned in such a genuine way didn’t bother me; the slight ache of bones and joints lends a certain awareness of one’s body and of being alive. It would be a dull existence without pain.
The landscape changed gradually.
We had passed the farthest point of my walks, and I observed this new terrain with interest. The contours were lunar. Large, smooth boulders loomed on all sides and our path wound around and between them. There were few marks of civilization here. Indeed, few signs of life. A few stunted trees grew between and above the rocks, dull moss covered the stony surface, the odd wild sheep peered at us from impossible perches, an ostrich raised its curious head and turned its long neck until it resembled one of the twisted trees. I had had some idea of making a rough map of our journey, but gave the idea up without attempting it. The landmarks were all of a sameness that made recognition difficult—impossible, with my limited knowledge of cartography and compass reading. I knew only that we were heading westward, but not directly. The trail, where there was a trail, curved and zigzagged, following the broken face of the land. We were climbing steadily, the land rising and falling in changing pattern, but always drawing higher in the end. The sun pursued us until it drew level to the north of us, following its eternal path over the equator, and our truncated shadows shifted away from it. The light caught blinding points in the rocks. Time lost objective meaning for me, I was dulled by the heat and the motion and the unchanging contours, and did not even refer to my wristwatch. I’d had no breakfast, and my stomach was empty, but the effort of opening my pack and eating in the saddle was too great. My throat was parched, but I did not raise the waterbag. I slumped in the high Spanish saddle and rode on.
In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus Page 69