Amazonia: a novel

by James Rollins

  “How’s that possible?” Zane asked.

  Kouwe answered, “This place is isolated, a pocket in time. Anything could have sheltered here for eons.”

  “And geologically this region dates back to the Paleozoic era,” Nate added, excited. “The Amazon basin was once a freshwater inland sea before changes in tectonics opened the sea to the greater ocean and drained it away. What we have here is a little peek at that ancient past. It’s amazing!”

  Kelly spoke up from beside the stretcher. “Amazing or not, I need to get Frank somewhere safe.”

  Her words drew Nate back to the present, back to their situation. He nodded, embarrassed at his distraction in the face of their predicament.

  Kostos cleared his throat. “Let’s push on.”

  The group followed his lead.

  Fascinated by the forest, Nate hung back. His eyes studied the foliage around him, no longer peering at the shadows, but fixed on the jungle itself. As a trained botanist, he gaped in disbelief at the riotous flora: stalked horsetails the size of organ pipes, ferns that dwarfed modern-day palms, massive primitive conifers with cones the size of VW bugs. The mix of the ancient and the new was simply astounding, a merged ecosystem unlike any seen before.

  Professor Kouwe walked beside him now. “What do you think about all this?”

  Nate shook his head. “I don’t know. Other prehistoric groves have been discovered in the past. In China, a forest of dawn redwoods was discovered in the eighties. In Africa, a grotto of rare ferns. And most recently, in Australia, an entire stand of prehistoric trees, long thought extinct, was found in a remote rain forest.” Nate glanced to Kouwe for emphasis. “So considering how little of the Amazon has been explored, it’s actually more surprising that we’ve not found such a grove before.”

  “The jungle hides its secrets well,” Kouwe said.

  As they walked, the canopy overhead grew denser, the forest taller. The morning sunlight dwindled to a green glow. It was as if they were walking back into twilight.

  Further conversation died as everyone watched the forest. By now, even nonbotanists could tell this jungle was unusual. The number of prehistoric plants began to outnumber the modern-day counterparts. Trees grew huge, ferns towered, strange twisted forms wound among the mix. They passed a spiky bromeliad as large as a small cottage. Massive flowers, as large as pumpkins, grew from vines and scented the air thickly.

  It was a greenhouse of amazing proportion.

  Kostos suddenly stopped ahead, freezing in place, eyes on the trail, weapon raised and ready. He then slowly motioned them to get down.

  The group crouched. Nate shifted his shotgun. Only then did he notice what had startled the Ranger.

  Nate stared off to the left, the right, even behind them. It was like one of those computerized pictures that appeared at first to be just a blur of random dots, but when stared at cross-eyed, from a certain angle, a 3-D image suddenly and startlingly appeared.

  Nate suddenly and startlingly saw the jungle in a new light.

  High in the trees, mounted among the thick branches, platforms had been built, with small dwellings atop them. The roofs of many were woven from the living leaves and branches, offering natural camouflage. These half-living structures blended perfectly with their host trees.

  As Nate looked closer, what had appeared to be vines and stranglers crisscrossing between the trees and draping to the ground were in fact natural bridges and ladders. One of these ladders was only a few yards to Nate’s right. Flowers grew along its length. It was alive, too.

  As he stared around, it was hard to say where man-made structure ended and living began. Half artificial, half growing plant. The blend was so astounding, the camouflage so perfect.

  Without them even knowing it, they had already entered the Ban-ali village.

  Ahead, larger dwellings climbed even taller trees, multilevel with terraces and patios. But even these were well camouflaged with bark, vine, and leaf, making them difficult to discern.

  As they stared, no one in their party moved. One question was on all their faces: Where were the inhabitants of these treetop homes?

  Tor-tor growled a deep warning.

  Then like the village itself, Nate suddenly saw them. They had been there all along, unmoving, silent, all around. Bits of living shadow. With their bodies painted black, they had melded into the darkness between the trees and under bushes.

  One of the tribesmen stepped from his concealing gloom and onto the path. He seemed undaunted by the weapons in their hands.

  Nate was certain it was their earlier guide. The one who had led them here. His black hair was braided with bits of leaf and flower in it, adding to the natural camouflage. As he stepped forth, his hands were empty of any weapons. In fact, the tribesman was naked, except for a simple loincloth. He stared at the group, his face hard and unreadable.

  Then without a word, he turned and walked down the path.

  “He must want us to follow him again,” Professor Kouwe said, climbing to his feet. The others slowly stood.

  In the woods, more tribesmen remained silent sentinels, bathed in shadows.

  Kostos hesitated.

  “If they had wanted to kill us,” Professor Kouwe added, “we’d be dead already.”

  Kostos frowned, but the Ranger reluctantly continued on after the tribesman.

  As they walked, Nate continued to study the village and its silent inhabitants. He caught occasional glimpses of smaller faces in windows, children and women. Nate glanced to the men half hidden in the forest. Tribal warriors or scouts, he guessed.

  Their painted faces bore the familiar Amerindian bone structure, slightly Asiatic, a genetic tie to their ancestors who had first crossed the Bering Strait from Asia into Alaska some fifty thousand years ago and settled the Americas. But who were they? How did they get here? Where did their roots trace? Despite the danger and silent threat, Nate was dying to learn more about these people and their history—especially since it was tied to his own.

  He stared around the forest. Had his father walked this same path? Considering this possibility, Nate found his lungs tightening, old emotions surfacing. He was so close to discovering the truth about his father.

  As they continued, it soon became apparent that the team was being led toward a sunnier clearing in the distance.

  The forest around the thin track opened to either side as they reached the clearing. A ring of giant cycads and primitive conifers circled the open glade. A shallow-banked stream meandered through the sunny space, sparkling and gurgling.

  Their guide continued ahead, but the team stopped at the threshold, shocked.

  In the center of the clearing, practically filling the entire space, stood a massive tree, a specimen Nate had never seen before. It had to tower at least thirty stories high, its white-barked trunk ten yards in diameter. Thick roots knobbed out of the dark soil like pale knees. A few even spanned the stream beside it before disappearing back into the loam.

  Overhead, the tree’s branches spread in distinct terraces, not unlike giant redwoods. But instead of needles, this specimen sported wide palmate green leaves, fluttering gently to reveal silver undersides and clusters of husked seed pods, similar to coconuts.

  Nate stared, dumbstruck. He didn’t even know where to begin classifying this specimen. Maybe a new species of primitive gymnospore, but he was far from sure. The nuts did look a bit like those found on a modern cat’s claw plant, but this was a much more ancient specimen.

  As he studied the giant, he realized one other thing about the tree. Even this towering hardwood bore signs of habitation. Small clusters of hutlike dwellings rested atop thicker branches or nestled against the trunk. Constructed to mimic the tree’s seed pods, Nate realized, amazed.

  Across the way, their tribal guide slipped between two gnarled roots and disappeared into shadow. Stepping to the side for a better look, Nate realized the shadow was in fact an arched opening into the tree’s base, a doorway. Nate stared up at th
e clustered dwellings. There were no vine ladders here. So how did one reach the dwellings? Was there a tunnel winding through the trunk? Nate began to step forward to investigate.

  But Manny grabbed his arm. “Look.” The biologist pointed off to the side.

  Nate glanced over. Distracted by the white-barked giant, he had failed to notice a squat log cabin across the clearing. It was boxy, but sturdily constructed of logs and a thatched roof. It seemed out of place here, the only structure built on the ground.

  “Are those solar cells on its roof?” Manny asked.

  Nate squinted and raised his binoculars. Atop the cabin, two small flat black panels glinted in the morning sunshine. They indeed appeared to be solar panels. Intrigued, Nate examined the cabin more thoroughly through his binoculars. The structure was windowless, its door just a flap of woven palm leaves.

  Nate’s attention caught on something beside the door, a familiar object, bright in the sunshine. It was a tall snakewood staff, polished from years of hard use, crowned by hoko feathers.

  Nate felt the ground shift under his feet.

  It was his father’s walking stick.

  Dropping his binoculars, Nate stumbled toward the cabin.

  “Rand!” Kostos barked at him.

  But he was beyond listening. His feet began to run. The others followed him, keeping the group together. Zane and Olin grunted as they struggled with the stretcher.

  Nate hurried to the cabin and then skidded to a stop, his breath caught. His mouth grew dry as he stared at the walking stick. Initials were carved in the wood: C.R.

  Carl Rand.

  Tears rose in Nate’s eyes. At the time of his father’s disappearance, Nate had refused to fathom the man could be dead. He had needed to cling to hope, lest despair cripple him, leaving him unable to pursue the yearlong search. Even when his financial resources had run dry and he was forced to concede his father was gone, he hadn’t cried. Over such a prolonged time, sorrow had devolved into a black depression, a pit that consumed his life these past four years.

  But now, with a tangible bit of evidence that his father had been here, tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

  Nate did not entertain the possibility that his father was still alive. Such miracles were relegated to novels. The structure here bore evidence of long disuse. Dead leaves, blown from the forest, lay windswept into a pile against the cabin’s front, undisturbed by any footprints.

  Nate stepped forward and pushed open the woven flap. It was dark inside. Grabbing the flashlight from his field jacket, Nate clicked it on. A tailless rat, a paca, skittered from a hiding place and dashed through a crack in the far wall. Dust lay thick, tracked with little paw prints, along with rodent droppings.

  Nate shone his light around.

  Inside, near the back wall, four hammocks lay strung from the raftered ceiling, empty and untouched. Closer still, a small wooden bench had been constructed. Atop it was spread a collection of lab equipment, including a laptop computer.

  Like the wooden staff on the porch, Nate recognized the tiny microscope and specimen jars. They were his father’s equipment. He stepped into the dark space and opened the laptop. It whirred to electronic life, startling Nate. He stumbled backward.

  “The solar cells,” Manny said from the doorway. “Still giving it juice.”

  Nate wiped spiderwebs from his hands. “My father was here,” he mumbled, numb. “This is his equipment.”

  Kouwe spoke a few steps back. “The Indian is returning…with company.”

  Nate stared at the computer for a second more. Dust motes floated in the air, sparkling bright in the morning sunlight streaming through the open flap. The room was aromatic with wood oils and dried palm thatch. But underlying it was an odor of ashes and age. No one had been here for at least half a year.

  What had happened to them?

  Wiping his eyes, Nate turned to the doorway. Across the glade, he watched the black-painted tribesman march toward the cabin. At his side strode a smaller man, a tiny Indian. He could be no more than four feet tall. His burnished skin was unpainted, except for a prominent design in red on his belly and the familiar blue palm print centered just above the navel.

  Stepping back into the sunlight, Nate joined the others.

  The newcomer had pierced ears from which hung feathers, not unlike the typical decorations of the Yanomamo. But he also bore a headband with a prominent beetle decoration in the center. Its black carapace glistened brightly. It was one of the carnivorous locusts that had killed Corporal Jorgensen.

  Professor Kouwe glanced over at Nate. His friend had noticed the odd bit of decoration, too. Here was further evidence that the attack truly had originated from this place.

  Like a knife through his gut, Nate felt a surge of anger. Not only had this tribe been instrumental in the deaths of half their party, they had held the survivors of his father’s expedition prisoner for four years. Fury and pain swelled through him.

  Kouwe must have sensed Nate’s emotion. “Remain quiet, Nate. Let us see how this plays out.”

  Their guide led the newcomer to them, then stepped aside, in clear deference to the smaller man.

  The tiny Indian glanced at the group, studying each of them, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Tor-tor. Finally he pointed to the stretcher, then jabbed at Olin and Zane. “Bring the hurt man,” the Indian said in stilted English, then waved an arm at everyone else. “Others stay here.”

  With these simple commands, the diminutive man turned and headed back to the huge white-barked tree again.

  Stunned, no one moved. The shock of hearing spoken English cut through Nate’s anger.

  Olin and Zane remained standing, not budging.

  The taller Indian guide waved an arm angrily, indicating they should follow his fellow tribesman.

  “No one’s going anywhere,” Sergeant Kostos said. Private Carrera moved forward, too. Both had their weapons ready. “We’re not splitting up the group.”

  The tribesman scowled. He pointed at the retreating tiny figure. “Healer,” the man said, struggling with the words. “Good healer.”

  Again the spoken English gave them pause.

  “They must have learned the language from your father’s expedition,” Anna Fong mumbled.

  Or from my father himself, Nate thought.

  Kouwe turned to Kelly. “I think we should obey. I don’t think they mean Frank any harm. But just in case, I can go with the stretcher.”

  “I’m not leaving my brother’s side,” Kelly said, stepping closer to the stretcher.

  Zane argued, too. “And I’m not going at all. I’m staying where the guns are.”

  “Don’t worry,” the professor said. “I’ll take your place. It’s my turn anyway.”

  Zane was only too happy to be unburdened of the stretcher. Once free, he quickly scooted into the shadow of Sergeant Kostos, who wore a perpetual scowl.

  Kelly moved to Olin at the head of the stretcher. “I’ll take the other end.” The Russian started to object but was cut off. “You get the GPS working,” she ordered. “You’re the only one who can get the damned thing fixed.”

  He reluctantly nodded and let her take the bamboo poles of the stretcher. She struggled with the weight for a moment, then with a heave, got her legs under her.

  Nate shifted forward, going to her aid. “I can take Frank,” he offered. “You can follow.”

  “No,” she said harshly, teeth clenched. She tossed her head back toward the cabin. “See if you can find out what happened here.”

  Before any other objections could be raised, Kelly lurched forward. Kouwe followed at his end of the stretcher.

  The tribesman looked relieved at their cooperation and hurried ahead, leading them toward the giant tree.

  From the dirt porch of the cabin, Nate glanced again at the clusters of dwellings nestled high up the white-barked tree, realizing it was a view his father must have seen. As Nate stood, he sought some connection to his dead father. He remained
standing until Kelly and Kouwe disappeared into the tree tunnel.

  As the other team members began unhooking packs, Nate returned his attention to the empty cabin. Through the doorway, the laptop’s screen shone with a ghostly glow in the dark room. A lonely, empty light.

  Nate sighed, wondering again what had happened to the others.

  Struggling under the weight of her twin brother, Kelly entered the dark opening in the massive trunk of the tree. Her focus remained divided between Frank’s weakening state and the strangeness before her.

  By now, Frank’s bandages were fully soaked with blood. Flies swarmed and crawled through the gore, an easy meal. He needed a transfusion as soon as possible. In her head, she ran through the additional care needed: a new IV line, fresh pressure bandages, more morphine and antibiotics. Frank had to survive until the rescue helicopter could get here.