by Annis Bell
Dear Sir Frederick,
I could not in good conscience even tell you what today’s date is. I am hardly in any condition to write and can only hope that these lines do indeed reach you. Our ascent into the cordilleras was steep and arduous, but everyone made it back down the other side in one piece. Maracaibo Lake seemed to be waiting for us in all its botanical plenitude.
Our route to the mysterious flowers so sacred to the Motilones proved more difficult than anticipated. Not only did it turn out that Rudbeck was still there, but the Indians were preparing for one of their most important religious rituals. Disturbing such a ceremony would have been indefensible. Death would have been the least we could have expected.
So we descended the steep path and were happy that we had gotten our mules across the mountains healthy and unhurt. Farther below, we saw a long procession of Indians dressed in colorful garments, moving silently along narrow mountain trails toward a dense forest. It was a sight at once uplifting and frightening, for the men were armed with bows and spears. The cool mountain regions lay above us, and it was fascinating to watch the way the rainforest rose from the plains and swallowed up the colorful figures, one by one.
“Señor, we must not disturb them. The Motilones perform their ritual at a secret place, a holy place. It is a great event. It is rumored they have a store of gold hidden in the jungle. Look there, señor, it is the zipa—the high priest. He will lead the rites,” José whispered reverently beside me.
“They can’t hear us,” I said, wanting to ease his mind. “You can speak normally.”
“Oh, no, señor. You don’t know what they can hear. No one does. If we speak badly of them, they will take their revenge. They have ears everywhere. A cousin of mine found that out for himself, and it was terrible to see!” José’s dark-skinned face had turned pale, and his jaw trembled. The man was truly afraid.
Dennis joined us. “What was it, José? What did you hear?”
“Shh, señor, not so loud!” José glanced nervously around, especially in the direction of the bearers, who were crouching with their usual inscrutability beside their trunks and sacks, rolling leaves to smoke.
“Oh, José is just talking more cock and bull . . . Come on, let’s go. We can’t stand around here all day!” I said. The path on which we had stopped was only a few feet across, and I am not one of those nimble goats that likes to stand around on mountainsides.
The bearers seemed unaffected by all this, but a sense of foreboding overcame me when I saw them talking among themselves right afterward, gazing upon the colorful procession disappearing into the rainforest.
I nodded to José. “Tell them they have to come as far as the Motilone camp if they want to get paid. That was the deal.”
“Derek, look! There’s a white man with the priest!” Dennis exclaimed.
I saw a man in light, tropical attire walking behind the zipa. He turned his head in our direction. “It’s Rudbeck.”
“Who else?” Dennis laughed. “It would be strange to find another white man here, wouldn’t it? Though I guess you can never know. You and I are both here, after all.”
“But why would a white man be allowed to attend their sacred ceremony?” I asked José, who knew the customs of the Motilones better than we did.
José finished shaking hands with one of the bearers. “They will come down to the edge of the village but no farther. Then they will turn back. They won’t cross the plain to the sea.”
“Good enough, but now tell me, how is it possible that Rudbeck is with them?” We had started moving again, descending carefully. We were still several hundred meters above the edge of the forest, along the perimeter of which we would find the village. The Motilones had long been aware of our presence, but there was no sign of them approaching us, preoccupied as they were with their sacred ceremony.
“They will not take Rudbeck all the way. The ritual happens at a crater, at a lake in the forest. I cannot say exactly how it involves the gold. No outsider has ever seen the ceremony itself. No one who has lived to tell, at least.”
Would Rudbeck really be stupid enough to believe he could uncover the secret of the Motilones’ gold? Assuming they actually had any gold, of course. It was certainly possible, and we knew that precious stones are indeed mined in these mountains, but until today, I had only ever heard of the Motilones in relation to the Sobralia mystica.
“The Sobralia, perhaps?” I said, struck by a sudden thought. “Is that the gold of the Motilones? Is it to be found there, at the lake?”
José balanced himself against a boulder as he slid down a patch of scree. “As far as I know, the ritual has nothing to do with the orchid. Señor, would it not be a good idea to go to the village immediately? There will only be women, children, and a few old men there. Maybe one of them will be able to tell us where the zipa goes to get their miraculous flower.”
I agreed. Let Rudbeck look for gold. We were on the right path, I could feel it. My esteemed Sir Frederick, if I am good for anything, it is for tracking down orchids, and I give you my word, that morning, there in the cordilleras, I could feel my scalp tingling with anticipation. The flower was practically in my grasp. I could feel it!
Nothing and no one would be able to keep me away from the Sobralia mystica today. We might have let the old man’s black orchid slip through our fingers, but that just made me all the more determined to be successful with this venture. I won’t bore you further with all the details. Suffice to say, the village women were busy preparing the feast for after the ceremony. Although they met us not with hostility but with indifference, it was clear that we were not welcome. From what I understood of the ritual, it involved an initiation for the young men of the tribe, and for that reason only the old, toothless men remained in the village. But those old, toothless men could still wield a blowpipe, which did not appeal to me, nor did I want a horde of crazed Motilone women snapping at my heels.
Thus, for a time, we stood in front of the village, which stretched for quite a distance along the edge of the rainforest. The Motilones do not like to live close together, and they are known for fighting one another. We were out of sight of where the women were cooking. A boy approached us, a curious adolescent. “José, ask the boy about the flower and show him this.” I took from my pocket a string with a little silver pipe on it, with which I could imitate bird calls.
The pipe was dear to me, and expensive, but the preferred prize had to be appealing enough for the boy to overcome his fear of the zipa. I blew into it for a few moments, demonstrating how one could create different sounds. The boy’s eyes grew wider and wider, and he reached out his hand for the rare toy.
Jose explained what we were looking for. The boy, who wore no more than a cloth around his loins and shoulders and carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, had eyes only for the pipe. He nodded.
Our bearers were grumbling, but I exhorted them to stay with us as we had not actually entered the village. Secretly, I hoped that we would be able to find the flower and leave again immediately. The Motilones’ ceremony was a gift from the gods, a perfect opportunity. How else would we have found an opportunity to seek out the holy site without being drilled through with poison arrows?
I hung the pipe around the boy’s neck, and we followed him. It is strange how naïve and trusting these savages become when they want something. They then seem to me like small dogs or children promised sugar if they are obedient. Perhaps it was pure luck that this young lad had no fear of the priest and wanted the pipe more than he wanted salvation.
Turning to Dennis, I asked him whether we still had petroleum along with the ointment we used to keep gnats at bay. “We should slather ourselves in the stuff. The Sobralia is protected by aggressive insects.” We pushed our way into the forest. Looking ahead, we could see that the path first led downhill before climbing again. With every step, the vegetation grew denser, and the green canopy quickly formed an impenetrable roof overhead. The jungle is all-consuming.
I p
romised our bearers double their pay if they stayed with us. They quickly discussed this and decided in my favor. We had not entered the village, after all, and we wanted to move on that same day. For an hour, we marched through that hilly terrain. The rainforest was interrupted time and again by enormous rocky outcrops that formed clearings or fell away into canyons.
The Indian boy grew uneasy. In a patchwork of Spanish and local dialect, he told José that we needed to go to a specific rock in the next canyon. José looked at me.
“He should show us exactly where the flowers are, or at least exactly which rock we’re looking for.” In that dense undergrowth, and without precise directions, we would have been lost in minutes.
Somewhere in the jungle we heard the roar of a big cat, maybe a jaguar. Those elegant hunters stalk these forests and can spell doom for a solo wanderer.
“The boy says we should have the bearers wait here with the mules and the baggage. The way from here is very difficult,” José translated for the boy, who was gesticulating wildly.
Indeed, the way was all but impassable, blocked by numerous fallen trees, boulders, and pools of water, but eventually, bathed in sweat, we reached a gap in the rock walls. Only a slim man could fit through it. But through the gap I saw one isolated, overgrown pinnacle, thrusting upward like a druidic stone, pressing its tip against the canopy of leaves above. And as forewarned, I also saw those aggressive, buzzing insects, swarming around the rock like a horde of watchmen. Taking the pipe and its string from around my neck, I handed it to our adolescent guide, who held it wide-eyed and reverently in his hands. One final look back, then he disappeared into the jungle.
With a huge grin on his face, José handed me our crucible of foul-smelling ointment to ward off the insects. Dennis and I smeared it on every inch of exposed skin, and even José, confronted by those uncommonly large insects, slathered himself with the stuff. Then, each of us carrying a basket, we squeezed through the slot in the rock wall. I turned my eyes upward. Immediately, I saw fine roots, and above them shimmered the magnificent blooms of white and yellow; even from there, I could make out a delicate sprinkling of red!
My heart beat faster. I was so close to the flowers I had coveted for so long! Such a wealth of glory and achievement awaited us on that pinnacle of rock, beneath the canopy. We found a tree that was easy enough to climb, and I was certain the zipas used exactly that tree to reach their holy flowers. And then, my God, there we were, within reach of the most priceless treasures of the orchid kingdom, so long yearned for. The dream of every orchid collector was about to be fulfilled—by me. I would be the first to take the holy flower of the Motilones and show it to the rest of the world!
Was it the right thing to do? Was it, perhaps, a sin? In that moment, I did not think about it. I simply closed my eyes as the furious insects descended on me. They resembled enormous hornets, but the oily, stinking substance kept them at bay, at least initially. In all my joy and euphoria, I briefly forgot how sensitive those plants are. If I harbored any ambition to get them back to England, I would have to act with caution.
Gently, I pushed my fingers into the thin layer of humus in which the orchids grew. Slowly, carefully, I extracted a dozen of the small plants, placing them in the basket I carried on my back. With the stinging or biting insects now coming perilously close, I was just about to take another plant when I heard a cry.
“Derek!” The fearful voice was that of our young botanist.
As fast as possible, I half-slid and half-fell back down the tree, tearing my skin on the rock but ignoring the pain because I heard José cursing and Dennis crying out. With one hand, I drew my revolver from my belt, and with the other I broke my fall on a large branch, tumbling to the ground and stumbling over Dennis’s body. My hand landed in a pool of blood. “Dennis?”
But the young man did not move. I heard a suppressed cry, a groan, and in the weak, shimmering light that penetrated the canopy, I saw two human bodies entangled in a deadly battle. José and Mungo Rudbeck!
José seemed to have suffered a head wound, for he had blood running over one eye. If I did not want to lose a second friend that day, I had to act immediately. When the two men briefly separated and Mungo glared at me with bared teeth, I did not hesitate. I fired. Mungo’s eyes opened wide, and his hand flew to his breast. He stumbled backward against the rock and slid to the ground.
José groaned. “Gracias, señor. You saved my life!”
“Dennis?” I went back to the traveling companion who had become such a dear friend, but I was unable to do more than confirm his death.
Furiously, I turned on Mungo, slumped against the rock. “Why did you have to kill him? He was not a competitor, only a young man, an idealist.”
Mungo, a muscular young man with dark skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes—I believe his mother was mixed-race—spat at me. “You always were too soft, Derek. There’s no place for that in our line of business. Only the strongest survive. As it turns out, you had the better nose, at least this time.”
He coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. I handed him a handkerchief, but he waved it aside. “When you leave, give me my revolver. I don’t want the Motilones to catch me.”
“Why not? I thought you were friendly with them. Weren’t you walking with the zipa just now?”
“He didn’t want to leave me alone with the women. That’s the only reason he took me along with them. Besides, I promised him a barrel of rum. That good old zipa loves the stuff.” Mungo let out an abrupt laugh. “But then I saw that you had moved on, and the wheels in my brain started to turn. I told the zipa that I would follow you and keep my eye on you. He’s not stupid. He realized long ago that orchid hunters like us would rather slit each other’s throats than hold hands.”
Crouching beside him, I waved José over. “Do you have any cachaça left?”
José had wound a scrap of cloth around his head injury. He withdrew a small flask from the bag he carried over his shoulder. “Guarro!” he spat. “Pig!” But he still handed me the bottle.
Mungo greedily drank a mouthful, staring at me with burning eyes. “Now show me those goddamned miracle orchids! That’s why you’re here. I saw the roots. White . . . are they white or yellow?”
Close to death, the fanatical flower hunter had eyes only for his quarry. To be honest, I would hardly have acted any differently had I been in his position. I took the basket from my back and carefully took out one of the plants. I held it out to him almost tenderly. “They are radiant, as if lit from inside. See the tiny red spots?”
His eyes locked on the ornate flowers. For men like us, they were worth more than a mountain of gold bars. Lifting his blood-smeared hand, he reached for the flower, but I pulled it back.
His mouth twisted mockingly. “You won’t live to enjoy it.” He coughed, then laughed.
I quickly returned the orchid alongside the others in the basket. “José, come, we should leave this place.”
“The shot, Derek. Have you forgotten the sound of the gunshot? The Motilones are sure to be on their way, a swarm of angry wasps wielding poison arrows with which to impale you. But you won’t die. You’ll only be paralyzed, and then the bloodthirsty monsters will take you back to their village. They’ll torture you and torment you for what you’ve done . . . how you’ve defiled their holiest of holies!”
Mungo could hardly get the words out. He coughed and spat blood, and his face was a twisted mask of hate and pain. The surrounding rainforest felt like a living thing, and those dreadful insects buzzed louder and closed in around us. Our ointment seemed to be becoming less efficacious. One of the filthy beasts landed on Mungo’s cheek, and the man bellowed in pain.
José hurled a volley of curses at him in Spanish. He had little sympathy for Mungo’s plight.
“Leave him, but we should take Dennis out of here.” We picked up our dead friend, but before we departed from that fateful place, I picked up Mungo’s revolver from the ground. Emptying the cylinder
and removing all but one bullet, I threw him the gun. He managed to pick it up then pointed it at me, trembling.
“One bullet, Mungo. That’s all you have. Adieu!”
His curses and the shot that followed still reverberate in my ears, like the rustling and hissing of the jungle that deepened all around us.
I very much hope that these valuable flowers reach you undamaged.
Your faithful servant,
Derek Tomkins
22.
Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
“I can’t say a word to Alison! Promise me she won’t hear a breath of it, Hettie. She would get too worked up, and then I’m afraid she might lose the baby,” Jane implored her maid, who was busy pinning up Jane’s hair before dinner.
“I’ll have a word with Nora soon, ma’am. She should make sure the other maids don’t go spreading silly rumors.” Hettie clipped the last comb in place. “Lady Alison is going to have her baby soon, isn’t she?”
With a sigh, Jane stood. She had chosen a plain, chestnut-colored dress for dinner. She could have eaten with Alison in her room, but her friend’s curiosity was too great. Jane knew that if she wanted to help Charlotte, then she would have to find out what was going on in the house. “I’m afraid so. The only consolation in all of this is the presence of Dr. Cribb.”
Hettie fetched a scarf from the cupboard. “It’s chilly in here. This house is like a sieve. Please take this along, ma’am.” She wrapped the scarf around Jane’s shoulders, then gazed at Jane, a worried look on her face. “I really don’t know if the doctor’s to be trusted. Poor Lady Charlotte.”
“We don’t know what truly happened. I hope I can find out more during dinner.” The house had grown very still; even from the children’s room, there was not the faintest voice or laugh to be heard.
On her way downstairs, Jane listened for any sound at all from the family’s wing, but everything remained silent. With a heavy heart, she went down to dinner. The long table was set for three, and the dark room seemed even more oppressive than usual. Jane found Dr. Cribb and the master of the house deep in conversation by the fireplace.