by Joan Druett
Accordingly, Wiki followed the snake-loaded mule to the wharf. Then, the load of snake plus fat scientific being as much as the boat could bear, he stood with Forsythe at the fringe of the forest, waiting for the boat to come back.
Dark was falling fast. As always, Forsythe had his rifle slung over his shoulder, and Wiki could see his big left hand moving on the weapon as his eyes shifted about, checking out the river and the trees. The whine of insects had intensified. The air, which had been so hot and humid it was scarcely breathable, became cool, and Wiki felt the nape of his neck ruffle up with the breeze. Birds began to call eerily from the sugarcane fields, Whip, whip, whip, poor Willy, weep, Willy, weep, and Wiki remembered that someone had once told him that whippoorwills were the ghosts of dead slaves. He thought of the runaway cimarrons, and when he heard a rustling in the trees, he felt another chill.
It was a relief when the boat reappeared from the darkness, and he and Forsythe jumped into it. As they clambered onto the brig’s deck, the companionway door opened, throwing a shaft of lantern light into the area covered by the awning. It silhouetted the massive shape of Dr. Olliver, and the great snake heaped in a circle around him.
George emerged from the doorway. Over the past two days he had put the time to profit by surveying the river, and he now had a pen in his hand, and looked preoccupied and busy. He took one look at the anaconda, stepped back a smart pace, and said, “I am not taking that on board the brig.”
“But a pristine example of Eunectes murinus is a rare and wonderful find!” Dr. Olliver exclaimed.
“I don’t give a damn about that,” said George, who seldom resorted to strong language. “It’s too bloody big, for a start.”
“But this is a very small specimen,” the naturalist informed him. “I have read travelers’ accounts that have spoken reliably of one-hundred-forty-foot anacondas!—of anacondas which have crushed and engulfed grown men with their extensible jaws! So huge are they, the Indians believe they metamorphose into ships!”
“Well, I most certainly don’t want it on board this ship.”
“You’d like it overboard instead?” inquired Forsythe.
“Most certainly,” replied George, and with marvelous communion of spirit he and Forsythe bent, gripped, heaved the anaconda up, and returned it to its natural element by dropping it over the rail. Dr. Olliver gobbled incoherently. Wiki, fascinated, watched the snake disappear beneath the black ripples like a bit of old hawser—and a shot blasted out from the night.
Cimarrons! It happened so fast—first the flash, and then the roar, and then an abrupt crash and clatter as the awning collapsed. Wiki, fighting to fend off the descending weght, glimpsed Forsythe swinging up his rifle. He heard the sound of his shot, and another from the shore, and then he was engulfed in canvas.
There was a great deal of muffled shouting as everyone fought to get free, and then Wiki got his head out just in time to hear the sound of distant galloping. A confused moment later the last man struggled out of the stiff, heavy folds. A babble of questions followed, and then, as the canvas was shoved about, everyone realized that the cimarron’s first shot had snapped one of the ropes that held the awning up. It had been a shock when it came down, but it could well have saved their lives.
“I’m almost sure I winged one of the bastards,” said Forsythe, and jumped down into the boat, yelling for some oarsmen and a lantern.
Wiki went with him. On shore, the birds had been shocked into silence, but the insects still whined. He and Forsythe clambered onto the jetty, and kept low as they ran into the trees, though it was obvious the cimarrons had fled.
Forsythe headed unerringly for a small clearing. “They waited here,” he said, and pointed. The lantern light fell on hoofprints in the mud, which swelled and filled with water. Then his tone became puzzled as he said, “It looks like there was only one.”
“But why would one man attack so many?”
“I’d reckoned they planned to pick us off, one by one, and then take the brig,” Forsythe said. “But that would need a whole gang.” He paused, and Wiki could imagine him pursing his thick lips in and out. Then, he said slowly, “So what the hell did he think he was doing?”
Wiki had no answer. The whippoorwill birds started up again, and gooseflesh rose on his arms.
Twenty-two
Two days later, the brig worked her way up the Rio Macae, which—thank God, thought Wiki—was their last rendezvous. This was where the scientific party would meet up at Sir Patrick Palgrave’s fazenda, and then, after they had organized their notes and drawings, everyone would board the brig for the swift passage back to Rio.
The cautious upriver passage was very like the exploration of the San João river, except that the landscape about the banks was flatter and the forest was lower. Being more open to the long afternoon sunlight, the water was not so brown, being a pewter color. It was also a lot deeper. Beyond the margins of the river, dense jungle beckoned, rising over foothills to the mountains.
“Let’s have a haul on the starboard mainbrace,” said George to Constant Keith. The river was executing a wide bend. Then, as they made the turn, a small village came into sight, an assemblage of flimsy houses on stilts, painted bright colors, and with flat-sterned, high-prowed boats and log canoes drawn up on the mud beneath them. As the brig neared they could see another street beyond the waterfront, lined with more substantial buildings, including one flying the Brazilian flag. Another paved street led down to the river, with a wharf at the end. It was the most civilization the crew had seen in a week.
Sir Patrick Palgrave’s estate was high in the hills, some miles away, and, according to Wiki’s instructions, someone from the fazenda would come with a horse to take him there. Sure enough, only an hour after the brig had moored up to the jetty and furled her sails, a couple of horses arrived, one with a rider, and the other led by the rein. However, though both George and Wiki waited on deck expectantly, no one came on board. Instead, the horseman waited. In the end, with a shrug and an eyebrow lifted quizzically in George’s direction, Wiki vaulted down to the soggy planks of the wharf. Then he strode up to the pair of horses, looked up at the rider, and exclaimed, “Meu Deus!”
Manuela Josefa Ramalho Vieira de Castro de Roquefeuille twinkled down at him. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
She was riding astride, Wiki noticed, which was the reason he had assumed the rider was a man. He said, “How did you get here?”
“I’ve been at the fazenda for days—all alone save for servants. It has been very restful, but also very boring. Now I am your guide to our country estate, which used to be my father’s. Why aren’t you pleased to see me?”
“But I am,” Wiki assured her. “You are very much more beautiful than Lieutenant Forsythe, and more fun than the scientifics. But where are they? I thought they would be at the fazenda by now.”
“You’ll see them soon enough,” she promised.
Wiki went on board again, collected his kit bag, waved a hand to George in farewell, and jumped back to the wharf, while Madame patiently waited and all the villagers watched. As soon as he was aboard the second horse, she clicked her tongue, rattled the bridle, and led the way along the waterfront street to a narrow path, which wound past small fields, climbed a steep slope, and then plunged into the primeval jungle.
The air became thick with humidity. Great trees blotted out the sun. Spanish moss and woody lianas dripped and swayed, spectacular orchids clung to the branches that sprang from massive white tree trunks, great spiderwebs stretched from twig to twig, and the filtered light was green. The sweetish smell of leaf mold was overwhelming. The trail of hoofprints left by Josefa’s horse pooled with moisture and then swelled back to the original mud. Every now and then there was a bloodcurdling cry as an unseen monkey swung from branch to branch high above, and for some magical moments an enormous blue butterfly fluttered about the flicking ears of Wiki’s horse.
He called out, “I thought we were going to Sir Patrick�
�s estate.”
“Oh, he likes to pretend that it’s his,” she called back casually, and waved a dismissive hand.
“It’s yours?”
“It belongs to my family, yes, but he does the business.”
He wondered if she resented that, but couldn’t ask, so shouted instead, “What do you grow there?”
“Coffee, of course,” she shouted back. “What else?”
What else, indeed, Wiki mused; after all, he was in Brazil, the land of his favorite beverage. Then conversation lapsed, because Josefa, being a much lighter burden, was drawing farther ahead. The air had become filled with the thunder of an unseen waterfall, and was even wetter, and the potholes were full of water, which splashed up. The trees on either side were overhung with great ferns.
Then, just as Josefa disappeared about a bend, the path turned into a ribbon of pure mud, and Wiki’s horse, growing tired of his weight, staged a mutiny. It stopped dead, and refused to take another step. When Wiki kicked at its sides, it turned its head and delivered him a grin of baleful derision. Finally, he gave up and jumped to the ground, right in a hole where the mud was higher than the tops of his boots. While he was struggling to get out of the morass, the horse grabbed its chance to lash out with its hooves. Wiki dodged the kicks, but was liberally sprayed with mud from head to toe.
By the time he got to the turn in the path, Josefa was beyond the next bend, and well out of sight. Wiki trudged after her, knee-deep at times, hauling the horse along by the reins. The world was filled with the rush and crash of unseen water, and bright birds flickered in and out of the trees. It was as if he were alone in this lavishly primeval world—a daunting prospect, as dusk was fast descending.
Then the path widened until it was almost the width of a road, looking much more traveled, and a couple of bends later Wiki abruptly broke out of the trees. A mountainside that he hadn’t even suspected existed suddenly reared up before him, its aspect black because of the red sun setting behind it.
The last light glittered on a magnificent waterfall that hurtled down its side, rushing through lush vegetation and tumbling over rocks. Close to where Wiki stood, it widened into an artificial pool, walled with rocks and ferns, before disappearing into the forest. A surprisingly formal garden stretched beyond it, reminding him of Sir Patrick’s place at Praia Grande. The road he was following blazed through the first part of the garden to where a complex of low, well-maintained buildings surrounded a quadrangular courtyard. Their terra-cotta roofs were a warm color in the last light, surmounting white-plastered walls.
One big house dominated the scene, and was obviously where the Vieira de Castro family lived, when in residence. The stables were on the opposite side of the square from this, while the sides were taken up with servants’ quarters, kitchens, and storerooms. Beyond the compound, plantations swooped up to the highest foothills of the mountain—growing the coffee that Josefa had talked about, Wiki supposed.
A bell began to toll, the noise a rhythmic accompaniment to the clatter of hooves as he led the horse into the courtyard. Servants appeared from all directions, and formed a ragged line behind Josefa, who was giggling immoderately at his bedraggled appearance. The reason she had been able to ride astride, Wiki saw, was that her shortened skirt was divided into two. Beneath it, she was wearing shiny black boots that were scarcely muddy at all.
“Why are they ringing the bell?” he asked.
“Oh, in the old days they used to fire a cannon when someone arrived, but now they use a bell,” she replied. Waving a hand at the assembled servants, she went on, “Just as in the old days, they have come out to welcome you.”
Feeling hot, sweaty, and dirty, Wiki bowed to the assemblage, who smiled vaguely and then disappeared, save for a man who took away his horse. He noticed that the beast cast a triumphant look over its shoulder as it went.
Josefa said in a thoughtful kind of tone, “You won’t see the servants again for quite a while, as we don’t eat until ten.”
“I thought you said the scientifics would be here?”
“I didn’t say that—what I said is that you will see them soon enough. I thought perhaps they might be here, but they are not. Perhaps they will join us for supper, but I don’t think they like to travel in the dark.”
So Dr. Olliver had delayed them yet again, Wiki mused—which meant that he and Sir Patrick’s sister-in-law were alone for the night. When he looked at Josefa, she was watching him with a definitely wicked twinkle in her eyes.
She murmured, “So how would you like to fill in the time?”
“Swim,” Wiki said, and jerked his chin at the darkening pool.
“But it’s freezing, and the insects will eat you to pieces. The servants use it for laundry. Come inside, and see the bathing pool that my brother-in-law designed. There is glass in the roof, so the sun warms the water by day, and it is very pleasant and pretty. You will enjoy a swim there.”
Before following her inside, Wiki kicked off his boots and washed his muddy feet in the pool the servants used for laundry. As predicted, the mountain water was icy. Then he went barefoot into the building, stepping from the great entrance door straight into a reception room with white-plastered walls and black beams in the roof. Bizarrely, it was furnished with gilt chairs, tables, and settees in the current French mode.
There was a row of French doors, too, leading to an inner courtyard, which was floored with flagstones and tiles, and had baskets of plants hanging from the beams. As Josefa had said, a decorative pond rippled quietly in the middle of this. Panes of glass had been let into the roof, so that the sunset light reflected on the water, which was edged in places with ferns and tropical flowers. Fallen blossoms floated.
“It’s romantic, don’t you agree?” she said.
Wiki said sincerely, “Your brother-in-law is a very talented designer.”
On the three far sides of the courtyard, the doors that were open revealed bedrooms, a dining room, and an office. “Take what bedroom you like,” she said with a casual flip of her hand. “Help yourself to whatever you need.” Then she walked around the pool and disappeared through one of the doors, closing it behind her.
Wiki went inside the nearest bedroom, dropped his kit bag on the floor, stripped to the skin, and made a great splash as he executed a shallow dive into the pool. The water was like silk, just warm enough not to shock the breath out of his chest, but cool enough to be refreshing. It was deep enough to swim, and he stroked lazily to and fro a few times. Feeling clean at last, he floated with his eyes shut.
The soft step could have been a servant—or one of the survey party arriving—but Wiki thought he knew better. He heard the rustle of silk as the intruder perched on the edge of the pool, and then Josefa said in her challenging way, “I think perhaps you won’t let me wash your hair.”
Wiki smiled, still with his eyes shut. “Your rank is higher than mine.”
She laughed, and her hands gripped his shoulders and floated him closer. His hair was lashed into a ponytail, now very wet. He felt the tug as the yarn was pulled free, and then she dunked his head. He relaxed, and didn’t resist her. She pulled him up again, and poured a cold liquid onto his scalp. There was a smell of rosewater, and foaming noises as her fingers slid through his hair. She pushed him under again, and then repeated the process, massaging while he luxuriated.
A second rinse, and then she said, “Am I allowed to comb it, too?”
“There are no tohunga here.” He felt the comb teeth set in, pull, yank, and tug, and opened his eyes a fraction as he winced. Then the tangles and knots were sorted out, and he felt the comb run smoothly to the ends of his long, black hair. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of metal.
A knife! Wiki whipped around, grabbed, and jerked her into the water. Through the great splash, he heard the rattle and plink as something fell into the pool. Then, as the water stilled, he saw it through the ripples—not a knife, but scissors. “Damn it,” he exclaimed in English, and acc
used in Portuguese, “You were going to cut my hair!”
Josefa’s only reply was a giggle. She was wearing a blue gown which clung wetly, making it obvious that she had stripped completely when taking off her riding clothes, and was naked beneath the thin silk. She laughed up at him through the dripping strands of her drenched hair, which hung down to her waist. When he kissed her in the European fashion, she wound her arms around his neck, and pressed her taut, wet breasts against his chest.
“Mischievous little witch,” said Wiki, and she chuckled in his ear. Then, with a movement that was so abrupt it took him by surprise, she jerked out of his arms, leapt out of the pool with marvelous litheness, and ran like a gazelle into the bedroom he had chosen. By the time he caught up with her, the gown was lying in a puddle on the floor.
* * *
When Wiki woke for the second time, it was almost dawn. The graying light was what he noticed first. Then he thought about how quiet it was, with no servants moving about. While their mistress was otherwise occupied, they were taking things easy, he thought—and it also meant, thank God, that the survey party hadn’t arrived. There had been times in the night when he had listened for the warning clatter of hooves, and other times when he wouldn’t have cared—or even noticed—if the whole complement, including his father, had been crowded about the bed.
After that, he thought about the mistress of this establishment—the sister-in-law of his father’s good friend Sir Patrick Palgrave. He was sprawled over and around and beside Josefa, with his head nestled in the hollow of her shoulder. Slender white legs were entwined with his muscular brown ones. When he shifted, he realized she was awake—and, when he tried to sit up, he realized that Josefa had been busy.
“What the devil?” Wiki said, and felt and heard her giggle. He opened his eyes and tucked in his chin to look down at his chest, and saw she had braided their hair together. Her copper tresses merged with his snaky black hair, woven into a variegated plait that gleamed exotically in the light that slanted across the bed.