Da Silva nodded in satisfaction and began sawing at the rope holding the dinghy to the winch. The dinghy snapped loose, swinging. Wilson waited until the wild swaying had ceased and then eased off his rope until the small boat was pointing downward, the bow almost in the water. “All right. Cut the other one and let it fall. She won’t capsize now.”
Da Silva brought the blade across the second rope; there was a sharp report as the rope parted and the dinghy fell with a loud splash into the water of the cove. Wilson eased off on his bight until the dinghy was floating free and then tied his end of the rope to the rail. He turned to Da Silva, making one last plea.
“This is ridiculous, Zé! It’s night, and we don’t know the place.…”
“Nobody knows the place,” Da Silva said shortly. He turned away. “Let’s get our stuff together and down into the boat. They have some water canteens in the galley; we’d better take some of those along. And the lantern, of course.…” He went to the locker where Luis had thrown his things, picked up the paper-wrapped package, and brought it back. Wilson had gone to the galley and returned with several metal water jugs. Da Silva checked the automatic in his belt, put it on safety, and stuffed it once again into his waistband. “I’ll go down and you hand the stuff to me.”
There was a sound behind them; Jorge was coming out of his coma, moaning softly. Wilson looked at Da Silva. “Do you think we ought to gag him?”
“Why? Let him yell. Who’s going to hear him out here?”
“I am,” Wilson said simply.
“Right,” Da Silva said. He went over and brutally ripped the collar from Jorge’s sweater, forced it between the lax jaws, and bound it tightly behind. “Don’t go away,” he said to the dazed eyes staring up at him. “We’ll be right back.”
He walked swiftly back to Wilson. “All right, let’s go.” And he slid over the rail.
Wilson handed down the package, the water containers, the Coleman lantern, and finally the bottle of pinga. “Careful with that,” Da Silva warned, and grinned cheerfully. Wilson slid over the side, dropping into the boat with a thump. He untied the rope from the anchor eyebolt while Da Silva used an oar to shove them away from the launch. A moment later he was seated in the center of the small boat, rowing easily toward the shore.
“Zé,” Wilson said desperately, “this is really crazy. At night …”
“Save it,” Da Silva said shortly. “I’m not waiting. Anybody wants to get out and walk can do so.”
He rowed in until he was about ten yards from the shore and then laid aside the oars and picked up the Coleman lantern, playing the concentrated white beam slowly across the shore. The foliage was solid, running down almost to the minute strip of sand that bordered the water’s edge beneath the trees. The solid mass of leaves stretched to either side endlessly.
“No channel here …” He set the lantern beneath his feet, reaching for the oars.
“We can’t row around the whole island,” Wilson objected.
Da Silva pulled steadily. “We won’t have to. The entrance to that lagoon was on the south side of the island—this side,” he said. “And they dropped Armando off in the dinghy from the same cove the launch is anchored in now. It has to be near; it can’t be far away.” Wilson lapsed into sullen silence.
Four times in the next fifteen minutes Da Silva paused and surveyed the shore through the piercing beam of the Coleman. His dirty brown shirt was stuck to his back; his powerful arms shone with sweat. And each time he would silently set the Coleman back and bend resolutely to his task. The fifth time he grunted in satisfaction. The tiny strip of beach had disappeared; the low waves of the sea ran up and into the thick wall of leaves. He rowed closer, placed the lantern straight ahead and bent low, peering intently under the low-hanging trees. Beneath the mass of foliage a wide path of water could be seen; the moonlight glistened from the still waters of the lagoon beyond. Da Silva pulled the boat even closer, a broad smile of triumph on his face. He rested on the oars just a few yards from the green barrier.
“There it is,” he said, and looked at the channel opening again. “If we lie low there’s just room to squeeze underneath.” He lifted the lantern for a last check of their path. “We’ll have to duck under those low branches, or maybe I can push them up with an oar.…” One of the branches swung slowly down as he spoke; two eyes glittered dangerously in the white light of the lantern; a mouth opened gapingly, swaying closer, fangs curved and shining.
“Yow!” Da Silva pushed frantically against the oars; the dinghy lurched away. The huge serpent swung about hesitatingly for a moment, seeking its escaped target, and then curled itself slowly back into the trees. The other branches rustled and rearranged themselves behind the leaves. Da Silva wiped sweat from his brow; Wilson swallowed.
“Zé, for heaven’s sake …!”
Da Silva turned. His face was white but his jaw was hard. “Don’t say it. We’re going in there. Hand me that package!”
He took the paper-wrapped bundle from Wilson and tore it open. Taking out two small cylinders, he fitted them together and slipped the accompanying flexible tube into an opening in one of the cylinders, locking it with a half turn.
Despite his fright, Wilson was curious. “What’s that?”
“Luis thought it was a snorkel,” Da Silva said, checking the arrangement of the components. “Actually it’s a small flame thrower. Latest model. I got it at the São Paulo Armory yesterday. Together with ten minutes of instruction.” He leaned forward, placing the tanks in the bow of the dinghy and balancing the nozzle lightly in his hand. “It’s portable …”
“All flame throwers are portable,” Wilson said.
“All pianos are portable, too,” Da Silva answered, and grinned. “This one is portable where a man can carry it.” He opened a valve and stroked the nozzle. “Well, it works on men; let’s see if it works on snakes. You take the oars.”
He stepped over the narrow seat, wedging himself into the bow of the dinghy, the cylinders between his knees. Wilson came forward and picked up the oars. He looked over his shoulder at the tall figure holding the nozzle. “All right,” Da Silva said evenly. “Bring it in a bit closer.”
The thick leafy wall seemed to sway gently, undulating. Da Silva pointed the nozzle of his weapon at the center, at the point where the giant jararaca had given him his fright. He clamped his jaw and pulled the release.
A sudden whoosh and a blinding, bucking stream of fire tore out, a rippling, twisting blaze that ripped at the solid foliage, consuming it. There was a sudden wild thrashing, communicating itself to the trees on either side; in the eerie light cast by the reflected blaze huge writhing forms roiled and fell. Da Silva played the flame higher, bringing down other serpents that had fled for the safety of the upper branches; these fell, twisting in the air like rope, flaring up in flame as they turned, sizzling out in the calm waters of the channel. The small sand beach bordering the channel became a madhouse choked with snakes of all sizes fighting insanely to escape that probing, torturing flame. Sparks showered down from the burning trees above; the maddened mass squirmed and rolled wildly across the sand, struggling for the refuge of the brush at one side. A cloud of gray smoke drifted upward toward the cold moon.
The stream of flame stopped. “Back,” Da Silva said tightly, and laid down the flame thrower with trembling arms. His nerves were taut; sweat poured from his haggard face. The inferno ahead was burning itself out; charred, smoking skeletons of tree limbs lay blackened and bare against the moonlit background of the calm lagoon, now plainly visible. Da Silva reached for the pinga.
Wilson sat silently, leaning on the oars, his heart beating rapidly. He took several deep breaths one after the other, shaking his head at memory of the frightening scene. Da Silva passed him the bottle; he raised his head and drank deeply. They sat in silent recovery, staring at the last little glimmering pin points of fire flicker out one by one, watching the smoke waver upward in the stillness. The writhing mass on the sand was still; t
hose able to escape had fled to the cool darkness. An occasional convulsion marked the dying spasm of one of the huge snakes; the charred trees leaned quietly over the terrifying sight. A small puff of breeze came to them from the shore, carrying a stench that was sickening. Wilson shuddered.
Da Silva heaved a deep breath. “It works!” he said almost with surprise and looked at Wilson wryly. “Man! I’d hate to do this sort of thing for a living!” The dinghy rocked softly. “Well, let’s get it over with. I’ll take the oars.”
Wilson stared at him wordlessly and then silently clambered in back. Da Silva seated himself, took one last deep breath, and slowly began to pull the boat for the open channel that now lay clear before them in the moonlight. He paused for one second at the opening and then, with a powerful heave of his shoulders, sent the light dinghy shooting through the opening. Above them the charred branches hissed and crackled. Another sound suddenly came from above; he pulled faster, desperately willing the boat to clear the channel. A charred form twisted in the air above them, bounced from the side of the small boat and then, after clinging for one second to the side just inches from the thwart, slid away into the water. The smell was nauseating. Da Silva found himself holding his breath, pulling with all his strength, his heart pounding fiercely. And then suddenly they were through and floating calmly on the even waters of the lagoon, the horror all behind them.
Da Silva laid down the oars and wiped his face. Wilson was pale. Da Silva smiled shakily. “Well, what do you know!” he said. “We made it!”
Wilson leaned forward slowly. “Da Silva,” he said softly, chillingly, “hear this. This is the last time I ever want to do anything with you. Ever. Once I get back to Rio de Janeiro I never want to see you again. And I am serious.”
Da Silva grinned. Out in the clear water of the lagoon, far from the terror of the receding shore, he was rapidly recovering his spirits. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “The least I can do, however, is help you get back to Rio de Janeiro. And in order to do that …” His face became serious with thought. “The second inlet counterclockwise, wasn’t it?” He bent to the oars. Wilson reached for the almost-empty bottle and lifted it to his lips.
The second inlet was easily discerned in the bright night; it curved eastward, the wide entrance sparkling under the moon. Apparently Armando, called upon to select a hiding place for his treasure, had also elected to avoid snakes as much as possible. Da Silva stroked steadily into the opening, holding firmly to the center as far from the leafy edges as possible. Wilson was muttering to himself.
Da Silva rested on his oars, breathing heavily. “What?”
“I said, how in hell did Armando ever make it through that channel?”
“Maybe he knew how to handle them better than we do. It was his profession. And he came in the daytime, remember,” Da Silva said. “These things sleep during the day. Like hat-check girls,” he added, and bent once more to the oars.
The inlet narrowed, but at all times they found themselves well away from the rustling sounds of restlessness along the wooded shore. Every now and then Da Silva would pause and send the white beam of the Coleman lantern probing along the narrow beach, seeking the landmark of the large tree, and each time the beams would pick out huge curled forms wrapped around tree limbs or slithering over the rocks that dotted the sand beach of the inlet. Heads would sway upward, curious, and then undulate nearer, red mouths open. A constant movement of leaves marked their passage.
Wilson cleared his throat. “Zé, how far up this inlet do you think we’ve come?”
Da Silva shrugged. “Miles,” he said. “At least a hundred miles.” He rubbed his chafed hands on his greasy trousers and bent again to the oars. The moonlight was fading, the shadows in the inlet getting deeper. He suddenly realized it must be close to dawn. What a miserable way to spend a night!
“Zé!”
Da Silva looked up wearily. “Now what?”
“There!” Wilson was pointing excitedly. Against the lowering sky a black silhouette rose starkly, towering above the surrounding mato. Da Silva laid aside the oars gratefully and picked up the Coleman, playing the light steadily against the giant tree. The beam moved upward, illuminating the slashed trunk. The bit torn by lightning still hung by a wedge of jagged timber, the bare branches barely sweeping the ground. The bare limbs of the dead tree were swarming with snakes of every description; they rippled sinuously under the eye of the lantern. The beam moved abruptly downward, seeking the roots of the tree; they lay in the water, tangled in rocks. And wedged in the rocks at the base of the tree the light picked up the reflection of metal. The two sweating men in the boat peered closer; there it was! It was a large twenty-five-gallon milk can; and guarding it hungrily, curled around it possessively, were a family of jararaca, each fully six feet in length and as thick as a man’s forearm. In the light of the lantern they moved restlessly, sliding over one another, winding themselves about the cool metal of the can. Da Silva laid aside the oars slowly and crept to the prow of the dinghy. His hand caressed the flame thrower as he picked it up.
“Back to work,” he said softly, and sighted along the nozzle.
“Zé!” Wilson’s hand gripped the damp shoulder. “The flame … it might ruin …”
Da Silva paused, laying the nozzle of the flame thrower in his lap. The dinghy rocked lightly in the water; the two men were silent. Da Silva flashed the lantern on the tree roots once more. Several of the large snakes had slipped from the low-hanging branches of the tree and were sliding over the can, down to the water’s edge, in investigation. “So what do we do?” Da Silva asked quietly. “Do you want to wade in and bring it back?”
Wilson was fumbling under the rear seat of the dinghy. “This anchor,” he said. “It’s a pronged affair. Maybe we can manage to snake it out from under them.…” His choice of words broke the tension; they both grinned.
“It’s a grappling hook,” Da Silva said. “Hand it over and we’ll try. But if any of those monsters try to walk up the rope, son, I’m dropping it like a hot potato!”
“They only climb ropes in India,” Wilson said. “Everybody knows that.” He fished the length of rope free; it seemed to be long enough. “Let’s tie the end of this thing up front and give ourselves more room. As a matter of fact,” he added, “we could even tie it to the end of an oar.”
“Let’s try it this way first,” Da Silva suggested. “I’d hate to have one of those creatures take an oar away from me. That water looks cool for swimming.”
He refastened the long rope to the eyebolt at the prow and then, standing up precariously in front, cast evenly for the shore. There was a scurrying as the snakes slid back from this new invasion. “Closer,” Da Silva said, withdrawing the rope for another throw. Wilson pushed the boat nearer. Da Silva pulled back his arm and flung the pronged hook once more over the rocks; it slid back, catching one of the handles of the wedged can. One of the snakes, trapped beneath the heavy rope, wriggled free, wrapping himself about the cord. “If that …” Da Silva said, and pulled with strength on the rope.
The can dislodged itself, bumping on the rocks; the snake wound itself more tightly about the rope. Da Silva pulled harder, his back muscles taut, his breath catching in his throat. The can suddenly turned, rolling, and dropped into the water. “An oar!” Da Silva cried. “Get ready with an oar!” But the rope that emerged dripping from the black water of the inlet was clean; the large serpent had unwound itself and disappeared into the murky depths. Da Silva took up the rope; the can came bobbing gracefully to the side of the dinghy. Da Silva made no attempt to pull it in; instead he fell back into the dinghy, panting.
“God!” he said. “There must be an easier way to pick up milk cans!”
Wilson clambered forward, bending down. “Let’s get it in and get out of here,” he said. “I’ve just about had this Ilha das Cobras!”
Da Silva sighed and leaned over, helping Wilson. Between the two of them they wrestled the can into the dinghy; despite its b
uoyancy in the water it was heavy and awkward. The dinghy tilted dangerously; the heavy can tumbled onto one of the seats and settled lopsidedly in the bottom of the boat. They both fell down on their seats and stared at it.
It was an ordinary milk can, soldered neatly at the seams. Da Silva ran his finger about the sealed edge; it would require tools to break the cover off. “We’ll open it in the launch,” he said, sitting up. “You drive awhile; my hands are sore.”
Wilson took up the oars and sent them down the inlet. As he bent down and straightened up with each stroke he could see the split tree fading into the darkness and could also see in his mind’s eye the loathsome tangle of serpents on the rocks below. He shuddered. He was exhausted and irritable, and still an hour to go until they reached the launch! Damn this maniac Da Silva!
Da Silva was still caressing the smooth metal of the milk can, his eyes bright with triumph. “Any bets on what’s inside?” he asked gently.
Wilson snorted. “I’ve got all the bets with you I ever want, Da Silva,” he said grimly. “From now on I only bet with gamblers!”
Dawn broke as they were approaching the channel outlet to the narrow lagoon. It came with tropical suddenness, tinting one edge of the sky for one brief moment and then sending a flood of clear light arcing over them the next. The shores on either side sprang into dazzling view; there was nothing in the idyllic tropical scene to give warning of the terror that lay there for the unwary visitor. Wilson pulled steadily; the charred trees marking their exit drew closer. And in that instant they heard the low grumbling roar of marine engines. Da Silva sat up suddenly.
“That’s the Valente!” he said in a tense half-whisper. “Jorge! He’s gotten loose!”
Wilson leaned on the oars, peering wearily in the direction of the sound. “That’s done it!”
They stared at each other, instantly assessing the danger to their position. “He’ll wait outside until we come out,” Da Silva said softly. “We won’t have a chance. He’ll run us down as soon as we come out. And if we don’t come out …” His eyes flickered about the tree-lined lagoon, remembering.
Isle of the Snakes Page 16