The Amazon Quest (House of Winslow Book #25)

by Gilbert, Morris

  She pointed, and Wes came quickly and saw a jaguar up in a tree, his paws dangling over a branch. He looked at them sleepily and without a great deal of interest. “I’d hate to meet him alone on his ground,” Wes grinned.

  They pulled into Santarém with only an hour’s daylight left. The owner of the boat helped them get their luggage ashore, and then after they had paid him, he hopped back in the boat, speaking to his crew of two.

  “Well, we’ve got to find the Pettigrews and quick. It’s getting dark.” The Pettigrews were the missionary couple whose names had been given to the Winslows by the pastor of their church. Emily had written to them several months earlier, and the Pettigrews were expecting them sometime during the month, but they couldn’t know exactly when the young people would arrive.

  Emily stopped a man who was walking along with a bundle on his head. “Pardon me,” she said. “Do you speak English?”

  The man stared at her and said something she did not understand. Emily said, “Pettigrew . . . Pettigrew.”

  Enlightenment came to the man, and he motioned, saying something to them.

  “He wants us to follow him,” Emily said quickly. “We’ll have to carry this luggage ourselves.”

  “There’s no telling how far it is, but we can make it,” Wes answered.

  They followed the short, muscular native into the center of the village. It was not so much a village as a collection of houses built of heavy reeds with thatch roofs. Finally they came to a building that had been built of lumber and was painted white. There was a cross on top, and the Indian smiled and pointed at the building and said, “Jesus. Jesus.”

  “That’s right. Jesus.” Emily smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  The two moved toward the white building, but they noticed that a house was hidden behind it. “That must be where the missionaries live,” Wes said.

  “Let’s try the church first,” Emily suggested. The door of the church was open, so they went inside. It was a simple, bare building with benches having no backs and a pulpit of sorts in the front. “Nobody here. Let’s go to the house,” Emily said.

  They left the church and walked around beside it, and as they did so, a man stepped outside. He came toward them, a smile on his face and said, “Good evening. My name is Pettigrew.”

  “Oh, Reverend Pettigrew,” Emily said with relief. “I’m Emily Winslow, and this is my brother, Wes. We’re so glad to find you!”

  “Well, we’ve been expecting you two. Do come inside. These mosquitoes will carry you off. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

  In truth Emily had been fighting the mosquitoes, as had Wes. The pests seemed immune to the antimosquito lotion they had been using, and both Emily and Wes were glad to step inside. There was no electricity, but kerosene lamps lit the interior of the small, plain dwelling. Pettigrew called out, “Hazel, we have guests.” He waited until a short woman with glasses came from another room. She was wearing an apron and wiped her hands on it as her husband made the introductions. “This is Miss Emily Winslow and her brother, Wes. This is my wife, Hazel.”

  Emily shook hands and then said, “We’re so grateful for your invitation. We don’t know what we would have done without your hospitality.”

  “Think nothing of it!” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “We’re delighted to have visitors from the States. We don’t get many, you know. You’re just in time for supper.” Hazel turned to her husband and said, “Roger, could you please show our guests where they can wash up?” Then to Emily and Wes, she said, “You can leave your things right over there in that room.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Roger Pettigrew said, “we’d be happy for you to stay with us during your whole time here. There are no inns or hotels here in the jungle, you know.”

  “Oh, but that would be an imposition,” Wes protested.

  “Nonsense. It’s what the room was built for,” Pettigrew said cheerfully. He had a round face and a pair of merry blue eyes and a mustache of which he seemed inordinately fond, for he stroked it almost continually. “Come, I’ll show you where to wash up, and as soon as you’re ready, we’ll sit down and have a fine meal. My wife’s a wonderful cook.”

  Indeed Hazel Pettigrew was a wonderful cook. After the two visitors had washed up and sat down at the table, Roger Pettigrew asked a quick blessing, then waved his fork. “Now, you’d better eat all you can.”

  The meal was simple, a meat stew with some strange-tasting potatoes that neither Wes nor Emily recognized but found very good. Other items Mrs. Pettigrew had to identify for them.

  After they had eaten, they sat back drinking tea, and Emily set out to explain their project. The Pettigrews listened with interest, but when Emily finally ended, he shook his head. “My dear, I think you’d better change your plan.”

  “Why’s that, Reverend Pettigrew?”

  “The Guapi people are too dangerous. Even the traders don’t go into their area.”

  Emily had expected opposition, and she began at once to explain that the Guapi were just exactly the type of tribe that she had to write about and get pictures of. “You see, Geographic is interested in doing an article on a very primitive tribe as untouched by civilization as possible.”

  “Well, Emily, you’ll certainly find them untouched,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, smiling grimly. “When the traders won’t go into an area, you can be sure there’s a great deal of difficulty.”

  The four sat there talking for over two hours. Pettigrew got out maps and showed the location of the Guapi people, and both he and his wife argued firmly that it was not a wise move for the two visitors to try to go into their territory. But Emily and Wes would not be dissuaded.

  “Well, who would take you in?” Reverend Pettigrew asked, spreading his hands wide. “You have to have a guide.”

  “Surely we can hire someone,” Wes said.

  “I’m not sure you could.” The minister shook his head. “You just haven’t been listening. People around here are afraid of those natives.”

  “It really might be better for you to find another tribe,” Hazel said. “Now, there’s a tribe not far from here that might do admirably.” Mrs. Pettigrew went on to urge the two to stay with them and go out only during the daylight hours. “It’s not over five miles from here,” she urged. “And you wouldn’t have to sleep outdoors. That in itself is dangerous.”

  “We expected danger,” Emily said. “But—”

  “There are jaguars that even come into this village—and snakes. Oh, my word!” Pettigrew threw his hands up. “There’s a snake here called the fer-de-lance. It’s one of the deadliest snakes in the world. It delivers more venom in a single bite than any other snake, I do believe. The Indians in their language call it the ‘five-stepper.’ ”

  “Why do they call it that?” Wes asked.

  “Because after one bites you, you’ve got about five steps to get help. After that it’s too late.”

  Emily shivered at the thought. “I never heard of poison acting that quickly.” Emily saw that they were getting nowhere, and soon she said, “I’m very tired. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we went to bed early.”

  “Of course not. The beds are all made. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow,” Pettigrew said.

  The two went to the guest room, which had been divided by a curtain hanging on a wire with a bed on either side. “These beds are better than what we had in Belém. It’s very comfortable here,” Emily said.

  “The Pettigrews don’t think we can make it out there in the jungle,” Wes remarked.

  “We’ve got to, Wes,” Emily said fiercely. “We’ve just got to.”

  ****

  “It looks pretty hopeless, Emily,” Wes said.

  The two were walking slowly along the main street of Santarém, and both were perspiring from the oppressive heat and slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed around them wherever they went. “We’ve tried everything I can think of.”

  Emily removed a handkerchief, which had become standard gear, f
rom her pocket and mopped at her face. During their two days at the Pettigrews’ she had bathed every day, but ten minutes after her bath she would find herself soaked with sweat. The heat was like a blanket pressing down, and now as she walked along, it almost seemed difficult to breathe, the day was so hot. Wes’s comments caused her to shake her head violently. “We’re going to do it, Wes. I don’t know how,” she said, gritting her teeth, “but we’re going to get to the Guapi somehow.”

  The two of them had spent two days searching desperately for someone to guide them into the Guapi territory. The Pettigrews had done all they could, but they had had no luck whatsoever. Even the natives of other tribes refused to go, and in any case, as Pettigrew pointed out, “You can’t put yourself in the hands of natives. They just don’t understand the problems the white person has with this country.”

  Now as they approached the missionaries’ residence, Wes said suddenly, “It looks like the Pettigrews have company.” A vehicle was parked out front. “Probably a visiting missionary,” Wes commented.

  When the two entered the house, they were introduced at once by Roger Pettigrew to his guest. “This is Mr. Carl Schultz. Carl, may I introduce Wesley and Emily Winslow.”

  “I am happy to meet you.” Schultz was a burly man with a broad sunburned face and a pair of light blue eyes that took the pair in carefully. His hair was blond, and he appeared to be somewhere in his late forties. He spoke with a thick German accent. “We were just speaking of you and your problem.”

  “Yes, Mr. Schultz,” Emily said eagerly. “We’re desperate for a guide.”

  “I’ve tried to persuade Carl to take you, but he’s headed for the coast on urgent business.”

  “Perhaps when you come back,” Emily said.

  “That will not be for at least three weeks,” the German replied. He saw the disappointment in the faces of the two young Americans and shook his head. “Reverend Pettigrew has told you about the dangers. I’m not sure you are aware of them.”

  “Well, of course, we don’t know the country,” Emily said, “but we’re desperate to go. Could you suggest anyone who could go with us?”

  Schultz ran his thick fingers through his hair and thought deeply. Finally he shrugged. “There’s always Marlowe.”

  “Nonsense! That won’t do at all!” Pettigrew said sharply.

  “Who is Marlowe?” Wes demanded eagerly.

  “He will not do,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Schultz shrugged his burly shoulders. “Well, I can’t think of anyone else, but I will ask around when I get to the coast. I know a great many traders. None of them that I know of has ever entered Guapi country, but if they were well enough paid, it might be possible.”

  Schultz left soon after that, and Emily and Wes went in to have tea with the Pettigrews.

  Mrs. Pettigrew served the tea and then sat down and said sympathetically, “I know you’re discouraged. It seems like a closed door to me and to Roger.”

  “I think it is,” her husband agreed. “Missionaries find out about closed doors. We see something that desperately needs doing, and we start out”—he sighed and shrugged his shoulders—”and then we find out it’s impossible. So we have to make other plans.”

  “Really, there are tribes you could have easy access to,” Hazel Pettigrew urged. She had become quite fond of the young people in a short time and was genuinely concerned about their safety. “Why don’t you consider it?”

  Emily hesitated. She was headstrong, and once she started a project, she hated to give it up. Still, she could see the difficulty was enormous. “Who is this Marlowe?” she asked quickly. “Is he a trader?”

  “Marlowe,” Hazel said. “You’re not talking about Ian Marlowe?”

  “Oh, Schultz brought his name up as a possible guide, but I don’t think that would work out,” Roger said, shaking his head firmly.

  “No, I don’t think he would,” Hazel agreed.

  “But who is he?” Emily insisted.

  “Oh, he calls himself a missionary.” Roger Pettigrew shook his head.

  Emily at once sensed the disapproving attitude in her host. Curiosity drove her to ask, “What sort of a missionary? What denomination is he?”

  “Oh, he’s nothing that I know of. That is, he’s not sponsored by any denomination.”

  “What sort of a man is he?” Wes asked, leaning forward and putting his eyes on Pettigrew. “I have the feeling you don’t approve of him.”

  “I think he’s a foolhardy man. I don’t say anything against his morals, you understand, but when he first came here, everyone tried to talk him out of going into the interior alone.”

  “Is that what he did?” Emily asked. “All by himself? Did he speak the language?”

  “Certainly not. He just arrived one day and announced that he was going into the interior to preach the gospel to the natives,” Hazel said. “I rather liked him, but he can’t last.”

  “Has he gone to the Guapi tribe?” Emily wanted to know.

  “Yes, I have heard that he has,” Roger admitted. “He lives with an old man named Adriano Rey and his granddaughter on the edge of the Guapi country. Rey is a Christian man getting along in years now. We don’t see much of him, but I know what Marlowe is doing is very dangerous.”

  Emily saw that Roger Pettigrew and his wife were clearly against using the man as a guide, so she said no more about it. However, that night when she and Wes were alone just before bedtime, she said, “Wes, we’ve got to look into this man Marlowe.”

  “I don’t know. The Pettigrews are dead set against it.”

  “I know they are, but right now he’s our only chance. Look, Wes, they talked about a door being closed and it has been. But what if God wants Marlowe to lead us to these people? Maybe that’s the door that will be open.”

  “Maybe you’re right, sis. At least we could talk to him.”

  “Let’s pray about it and ask God to open the door. If He wants to use this man, then that’s fine with me.”

  The two prayed together and then later Emily lay awake. She was grateful for the mosquito net that gave her some relief from their constant presence, and for a long time she lay seeking God’s will. She went to sleep as she was praying, Oh, God, give us a way to open the door!

  ****

  “I’m very sorry to hear of your decision,” Roger Pettigrew said rather sadly. He and his wife had listened at breakfast as Emily told him that both she and Wes had prayed, and they wanted to at least talk to Marlowe. “I will take you to Adriano’s house,” Roger said.

  “Oh, couldn’t you just hire a native to take us? We hate to take you away from your work.”

  “Well, I think that might be possible. We have one fine man who knows the country well and is very trustworthy. He would charge you very little.”

  “Fine,” Emily said. “When can we leave?”

  “I’ll see to it, but I think tomorrow morning might be possible.”

  ****

  The guide’s name was Samuel, which was not his birth name but one that the missionaries had given to him. He was a well-built, wide-eyed, and alert individual with jet black hair and liquid brown eyes. He spoke English fairly well and had been willing to take the two to the house of Adriano Rey.

  As he paddled their large dugout downstream, piled high with their tents and photographic equipment and gear, Samuel spoke incessantly of Jesus. He was a relatively new convert and would sing lustily the hymns that he had learned from the missionaries. His favorite was “Amazing Grace,” and he made the jungles echo as he steered the dugout down the twisting, curving tributary.

  “We got a good guide, I think,” Wes smiled. “He sure is enthusiastic.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s such a fine man.” Emily smiled as Samuel’s voice continued to boom, sending “Amazing Grace” up into the rain forest canopy. The river wound underneath trees so thickly woven together that they could not see the sky at times. Except for the gurgling of the river itself,
there was mostly silence, broken once by a terrible scream the native identified as a monkey.

  The trip was pleasant, for the canoe moved swiftly enough to avoid most of the bugs. Both Emily and Wes had smeared their faces with an ointment, which seemed to do a good job of driving the bugs away. The heat was quite oppressive, and yet with the gurgling of the river water, it did not seem so bad.

  Finally Samuel pointed and said, “There is house. Adriano Rey.”

  Eagerly Emily looked forward and saw a house built on poles. It was made of what seemed to be bamboo or large reeds and had a thatch roof, as most native houses used. As soon as Samuel drove the prow of the dugout up on the bank, Wes leaped out, grabbed the rope, and pulled it half up over the bank. Emily scrambled out and turned to say, “Samuel, would you unload our things?”

  “Yes. Praise God. Blessed be Jesus.”

  Emily hid her smile, for she had developed an affection for the man. “If American Christians were as excited as he is,” she whispered to Wes, “we’d see the world evangelized quickly.”

  Even as they were unloading, a man and a young woman stepped out of the house on the small balcony and, after looking at them, came down the steps. The man was small but seemed strong and active. His hair was white, as was his mustache, and his eyes were black as ink. His face was smooth, and it was almost impossible to guess his age. He spoke to them in English, saying, “Welcome.”

  “Senhor Rey?”

  “Yes. I am Adriano Rey. This is my granddaughter, Sarita.”

  Sarita was a full-figured beauty with olive skin and violet eyes such as Emily had not seen in any of the natives. “I’m sorry to intrude on you. My name is Emily Winslow. This is my brother, Wesley.”

  “You are welcome.” Adriano looked up and said, “Hello, Samuel.”

  “Praise God and the Lamb forever,” Samuel called out loudly. “Going to heaven.”

  “Yes. Going to heaven, Samuel. You must come in. We will have something to drink, and perhaps you’re hungry.”