Dance of the Dwarfs

by Geoffrey Household

  “How much of this have you told to the señorita Chucha?”

  “I? Nothing! A wise man does not mention such things. But she is often with Teresa, and how should I know what women speak of?”

  That means, of course, that all along Chucha has known much more of the disappearance of Cisneros than I ever did. When she told me that with me she was afraid of nothing, she was already convinced that there was a nasty something to be afraid of. I wish I were not her god. What have I ever done except to show a lost child that her individuality is as precious to me as her body?

  Cisneros. Yes. He had to protect his livelihood and get his llaneros back. I don’t know if he too had anything particularly valued in the estancia itself. At any rate he was confident that stout doors and shuttered windows were enough.

  Since the rains and a full, roaring creek cannot be much more than a week away, I should perhaps be content to leave the forest to itself and to accept that blank spot which haunted me for so long. But I am not content. Damn it, I am a scientist of a sort! It is my business to add to knowledge.

  I rule out any form of anthropoid ape and any Lost World stuff. I do not yet rule out pygmies, remembering stories of Leopard Men. I think they went on all fours to kill. Even if I am wrong in that, there is no form of ritual killing which human beings haven’t indulged in. War, after all, is at bottom a ritual with ever more obscene ways of giving death.

  Nor do I entirely rule out a whole series of coincidences : that Pedro was in fact executed by guerrilleros; that the jaguar was killed by a combination of a fall and a bullock horn which had nearly but not quite severed the spinal cord; that among the score of species of monkeys there is one which will come down from the trees and on to the llano at night. Time in this emptiness is still geological. No Colombian or Brazilian who has traveled the forests would lay it down dogmatically that the giant sloth no longer exists. And what about the mastodon, thought to be extinct before man crossed from Asia? Yet there is now some evidence that it was in fact tamed and used by the Mayas.

  So I shall go ahead with an open mind. At the moment research in tropical agriculture is about as useful as it would be in the middle of the Sahara; amateur research in zoology might as well take its place. I am convinced that the ridge holds the key. It is far from a unique formation, but reasonably rare. The cover and shelter of those overgrown rocks with long glade below, parkland to the north and more parkland lower down the creek, all supporting game, make an excellent base for a carnivore.

  [ May 3, Tuesday ]

  I had to take a horse — since my little world would have asked too many questions if I started out on foot — so I rode Pichón till I was near the edge of the forest and out of sight of the estancia. Then I hobbled him and left him well out on the llano where he would be safe till evening.

  My original passage under the caju tree offered a much quicker route to the glades and the ridge than the blazed trail further south leading to Pedro’s body. I forced a new way into the well glade without much difficulty and slashed down the ferns so that I should be able to recognize it on my return. Once I had passed from the well glade into the long glade I was much slower on foot than riding, but I lost less than half an hour in all and avoided the responsibility of looking after a horse as well as myself.

  I made myself comfortable on top of the low cliff at the western end of the glade. Since I had learned that anything white catches the eye in the forest, I kept my face well under cover of leaves, picking off enough to give me a view of most of the glade on one side and the flat rock on the other. I did not expect to see a “dwarf.” I might have to wait weeks for a clue to how and where they can be observed in daylight. But I did hope that the movements of game would give me a line, although I know far more about the trees themselves than what lives in or under them.

  I had the Lee-Enfield with me — only as a precaution, for I did not want to shoot at all if it could be helped. Since range and accuracy were not of much value among trees, I loaded with a clip of dumdums. What I might need was stopping power at close quarters. The .303 bullet has little, unless perfectly placed. So I filed off the points of a whole clip, trusting that a dumdum would hit harder than a jaguar. I believe I must be right, but am still astonished at my train of thought.

  The forest was very still: a few isolated bird calls, some small rustlings at the foot of my cliff, an old tree rumbling like a distant train as it crashed to the ground miles away. At twelve forty, when I had been in position a couple of hours, I heard the call which puzzled me the first time I was on the ridge, bearing south-southwest. It still sounded to me like sea gull or hawk, but of greater volume. It could be a jaguar cub’s mew — I haven’t the faintest notion what noise they make, if any — or just possibly a thin blast from a man-made instrument.

  Half an hour later I had a fleeting glimpse of the black back of a tapir crossing the glade. Tapir do not move much during the day and hardly ever into sunlight, so it was a fair bet that he had been disturbed. But nothing followed him.

  I gave up nature watching and came down from my perch. Then I worked round the end of the cliff and made my way along the northwest slope of the escarpment on much the same line that I had taken with Tesoro. I admitted to myself that if I felt the same incipient panic as the first time on that desolate, ant-ridden, overgrown tumble of rocks I was not going on.

  In fact I felt nothing but growing curiosity. When I was on the north side before, I was always looking ahead of and around me. This time I had my eyes on the ground and soon spotted that the ridge was not entirely lifeless. There were narrow, beaten strips which, with a bit-of imagination, one could call paths, but so often they led to bare rock or lost themselves among holes, pinnacles and thorny scrub that I was not dead certain until I came across a dried dropping. It closely resembled the puma/dog dropping on the llano. All I could tell from it was that the animal was carnivorous and that it ate little or no bone. It could be human. Tracking was hopeless over leaves and rock. The sharp slot of deer or peccary would have been distinguishable, but not a spread foot or paw — at least not to me. Joaquín, I am sure, could have told how his duendes walked and on what.

  I made a circuit in the general direction of the flat rock, picking my way among the creeper-covered holes and clefts where I ought to have put up or at least heard some small creatures — armadillo, rabbit, lizards. But there was no sign of life except the skeleton of some kind of viper, of course picked clean by ants. Well rooted in the silt at the end of a shallow ravine were a few dwarf trees, among them a very fine flowering mimosa. While I was working out a possible route to it I came upon the remains of another snake — this time a biggish boa about sixteen feet long. The back of the skull was pierced and partly crushed.

  So that was the reason why there were no reptiles among rocks which ought to have been swarming with them. How difficult is it to kill a boa by clamping the jaws on the back of the neck and hanging on? I think any fast little carnivore could do it and that there is no need to postulate a heavy and powerful beast. This suggests that the killer could belong to the family of the Viverridae. Some of them do sit up on their haunches. But I don’t see any sort of mongoose or civet cat tackling Pedro.

  The rock was far away. I could make out my pitiable nylon still on top of it, plus a long, solid streak of bird dropping. One of the carrion hawks had probably come down in the hope of more dried fish and expressed his opinion when there wasn’t any. Time was now running short and I had found out all I could; so I scrambled down to the forest, still seeing nothing but insect life. It is obvious that any creature unwise enough to live on the home ground of the duendes does not live very long.

  I had left myself three hours to return to the llano before dusk, which was cutting it fine. Round the edge of the ridge and down the long glade was all plain sailing, but when I was under the big timber on my way to the well glade I walked fast and carelessly and bore a little too far to the right. Finding that the borderline vegetation did not appe
ar where it should, I checked my course by compass and discovered that I was heading east all right, but that I had missed the well glade entirely. I should have been wiser to make a sharp turn to the north and pick it up. That, however, would have meant cutting still another way in — since I could not expect to hit upon the fallen tree where both Pedro and I had crossed from glade to forest — or making a difficult detour without any certainty that I would recover my quick route to the llano. So I kept going.

  I must have passed fairly close to Pedro’s body. At any rate I was somewhere to the south of the cathedral aisle, for I was looking out for it and never saw it. I did not for a moment feel lost, but unless I arrived at one of the holes in the wall — a needle-in-the-haystack chance — I could still be cutting my way out to the llano long after dark. I had little fear for myself either in the thick stuff or the open, and it is significant that at this point I had complete confidence.

  But to leave Pichón, hobbled and helpless, out on the llano was asking for trouble — let alone little Chucha’s anxiety when I did not return before dusk — so I hurried on, bearing half left in the hope of catching sight of one of my blazed trees or any other familiar landmark. All I recognized was the narrow path, a bit of which I had crossed on the day I found Pedro. Then I was not sure that it was a path. Now, after trying to trace the same, vague beaten lines on the ridge, I had no doubt. It seemed to choose a winding but purposeful route between the trunks. A compass bearing showed that it was running more or less in the direction of the estancia and that it could well lead to the liana thicket. Once up against the impassable rush basket I could easily follow the edge of it to the caju tree and so out to catch Pichón.

  I was soon sure what had made this faint ribbon of a track. Twice I came on the familiar dropping among the leaves. It then occurred to me very vividly that this was the path which Pedro had crossed just before he was killed. I must now try to analyze my odd and disgraceful behavior.

  When I was up in the fork of the caju tree and found myself under observation I was afraid of a missile — more apprehensive, I think, of curare than of that improbably powerful arrow. It was a sane and logical caution exactly equivalent to that of some infantryman who finds his cover not so good as he thought it was and makes a dash for dead ground.

  There was nothing logical, however, in my reaction to the mewing call when I heard it not very far away — possibly from near the edge of the well glade. It broke my nerve and I started to run. I put it that way because running was what the subconscious commanded. Physically, I did not do more than a jog trot. I told myself that I must be getting along, that the sun would set in half an hour. And I said out loud and firmly that the call was a bird’s.

  The jog trot was quite enough to lose the faint path, which could only be followed by keeping the eyes steadily ahead and on the ground. If the forest had been completely open, I might be trotting still. As it was, I was halted by a dense stand of second growth and thorn. Covered with sweat, I took out the compass and had to put it on the ground because I could not hold it steady. I found to my horror that I had run in a half circle.

  The shame of this — thank God for the higher centers! — pulled me together and I started off northeast: a course which had to bring me up against the rush basket, whether or not I ever recovered the game track. I hurried on, sometimes involuntarily running but always succeeding in checking and disciplining myself by a glance at the wretchedly wavering compass needle.

  The only thing upon which I could congratulate myself was that I worked the bolt of the Lee-Enfield, ejected two rounds, examined them and reloaded. And I suspect that even that was not the cool precaution of a big-game hunter but merely another manifestation of panic. I had decided that the filing of the points might upset the spring and cause a jam. God only knows how it could!

  There was no definite sign at all that I was being followed, beyond an imagined pattering over leaves which seemed to keep level with me far out to the left. So I started walking backwards until I perceived that it would not do me the hell of a lot of good. If I were going to be attacked from behind, my behind was wherever I chose to put it. Thereafter I made myself walk on normally, jumping round from time to time, until at last I came up against the wall of lianas.

  I hit this at least a quarter of a mile further north than I should have done, but it was now easy to retrace my steps. My left flank was safe. Something might conceivably crawl under the rush basket, but nothing could charge or spring from it; so I had only a half circle to my right which had to be watched. I was still hearing soft paws, still pouring sweat, still stumbling about with the safety catch off and my left hand at the point of balance when the caju tree came into sight and I woke up from the nightmare. It was really like that. Woke is what I felt when I came out on to the blessed llano still lit, beyond the formidably long shadow of the forest, by the red light of sunset. Pichón was browsing peacefully on leaves not far away. He was listening with his great donkey ears, which meant little. His nose did not confirm my alarm. There was not even a ghost of a breeze to carry scent.

  Now, what am I to make of this? If I were an Indian who had lost his head in this way, I should not only accept Joaquín’s duendes but be certain I had seen them. Here in the green darkness, green whiskers. Among the myrtles of Greece, goat hooves and shaggy legs, Pan. Panic. Grendel in the Hall of the Sleepers. Which reminds me that I must double-check the hall of the horses.

  As regards zoological research, am I now immunized against panic or am I unfit to be left alone in the forest without someone to hold my hand? Immunized, I believe. Let’s not forget the snap shot which brought down that swamp deer. If I can keep my wits about me and have fifty feet of warning I am the quickest and surest giver of death in the forest. Singing in the dark? Well, my woodcraft may be lousy but I do know that my shooting is good.

  Chucha has been communing with her sapling again. She notices everything. She might have seen Pichón out on the llano. It is also possible that her curiosity about No. 2 shot was not wholly disinterested.

  She accepts, of course, that there must be mysteries. My past, my work, my relations with the outer world are beyond her sharing. But I think it likely that she knows from my eyes and expression when she has taken second place — momentarily — in my present life. Then, since she has nothing else but me, the sapling-teddy-bear has to be implored.

  Never mind! Tomorrow I shall spend all day with my golden child. After that we’ll see. I might ride into Santa Eulalia and buy a bullock.

  [ May 5, Thursday ]

  I spent a profitable day at Santa Eulalia — if it works out. I found that the Government Canoe had come and gone days before, and that there were letters for me with the blacksmith. Pedro would have sent someone out to warn me that the canoe was expected. Not that it matters. I have no urgent wants.

  The smith, Arnoldo — what names they have, going right back to medieval Spain! — has taken Pedro’s place by tacit consent as head of the community. He is slow and of dull intelligence. He cannot send out orders by the canoe because he can’t write, has never more than a week’s money and anyway is appalled by the thought of shopkeeping. He has an immense store of old and rusty iron, some of which may have been on the spot since the first smith of the Conquerors crossed the plains and could go no farther. So he can keep our horses shod indefinitely. Saddlery and ropes, however, will run short. Pedro kept a small stock, together with bits, straps, buckles and silver decorations for the headstalls; and two or three of the llaneros who were clever with their hands could make up whatever simple tack was required — usually of rawhide, and often with some individual touch of craftsmanship.

  Tesoro’s hind shoes had worn paper thin in the last weeks of drought, so I left him with Arnoldo while I read my letters. He is a very vain horse, always holding up his head as if he carried a king, and Arnoldo tells him that it is an honor to shoe him. So they get on well.

  It is still difficult to adjust myself to the erratic mail. The Di
rector was acknowledging and commenting on reports which I sent up to Bogotá with Valera over six weeks ago. Valera had, I gather, delivered my stuff in person and given a somewhat too romantic picture of my life as a llanero-agronomist. He had promised all the help that the army could give. That must have sounded as if the sky was going to be full of helicopters. What he meant — for his private amusement — was Chucha.

  Another letter was only fifteen days old. The Director was anxious because nobody could communcate with Santa Eulalia. Remembering Pedro’s unintelligible messages, he told me that if I merely transmitted the word AVION he would arrange for a plane to call and fly me up to Bogotá. Well, the canoe will have reported that Pedro’s store has been burned down and that I, according to Santa Eulalia gossip, was in the best of health and very satisfied.

  The Director also mentioned a mysterious and complimentary letter from headquarters of the National Liberation Army informing the Mission that I had nothing to fear and could continue my work in peace. Military Intelligence had confirmed that the letter was genuine and was furious at such impertinence. I was warned that the insurgents were killers first, foremost and all the time, and that I should trust them no more than mad dogs.

  Bogotá! I am glad that I have no way of summoning that plane. I cannot leave Chucha here alone, and if I took her along what would she make of a Bogotá hotel? And what would friends and colleagues make of her? Not that I give a damn! Valera or some other dissolute scamp would undoubtedly advise me how to handle a situation which cannot be unfamiliar. But, whatever I did, the coarse and the comic or the degradingly secret would be emphasized at the cost of all our delicious simplicity. The only pretense which could come close to our real relationship would be to pass her off as an adopted daughter. But that would mean laying off the child — which I can’t.

  No, I shall not go up to Bogotá till I have to. It occurs to me that I am very happy. Is the secret of happiness a mixture of passionate fornication and somewhat chancy hunting? If so, we human beings have been continually frustrated by urban life ever since we were fools enough to invent it. It’s little wonder that some of us rush off to war with a sense of relief.