‘I see it,’ said Bob suddenly.
‘Where? What is it?’
Bob peered among the leaves.
‘It’s a rat,’ he said at length, in disgusted tones.
‘What sort of rat?’ I asked, a suspicion forming in my mind.
‘Oh, just an ordinary sort of rat.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ I said, moving round to his vantage point. I looked through the branches, and there, squatting under some leaves, was a large rusty-brown rat with a pale cream-coloured belly. As I caught sight of it the rat gave another one of its squeaking wails and rushed off through the undergrowth.
‘Quick, Bob!’ I yelped frenziedly. ‘It’s a soldier rat. It’s coming towards you! For heaven’s sake get it!’
I was especially excited because soldier rats have always seemed to me peculiarly fascinating. Up to that moment I knew the species only from skins I had seen in various museums. I had described it hopefully to every hunter I had met in Guiana, but none of them had known it, and I had resigned myself to going without a live specimen. Yet here was a real soldier rat rushing through the grass in the direction of Bob’s legs. He paused only to say ‘soldier rat?’ in a bewildered tone of voice, and then flung himself nobly on top of the flying beast.
‘Don’t lie on it,’ I pleaded agitatedly. ‘You’ll kill it.’
‘How else do you expect me to catch it?’ asked Bob irritably. ‘I’ve got it underneath me; now you come and get it out.’
He lay flat on his face among the bushes and gave us a testy running commentary on the rat’s movements, while we surrounded him with nets and bags.
‘It’s wriggling down towards my leg . . . no, it’s coming back again. Now it’s stopped under my chest. Do hurry up, can’t you? It’s working its way up towards my chin. I wish you’d hurry up. I can’t lie here all day. Do these wretched animals bite, by the way?’
‘It won’t be in any condition to bite after you’ve been rolling about on top of it,’ I said, with visions of my first soldier rat looking as though it had been flattened by a steamroller.
A curious expression came over Bob’s face.
‘I believe there are two of them. I could have sworn it was up by my chest, but now I can feel it down by my leg.’
‘Imagination,’ I said, crouching down beside him. ‘Now, which leg’s it under?’
‘My left one.’
I pushed my hand carefully under his thigh, until I felt the warm, furry body of the rat. Very carefully, so as not to get bitten, I clasped it in my hands and pulled it out. It lay limp in my hand, offering no resistance; and for a moment I thought it was hurt. I examined it carefully, but it seemed all right, so I placed it reverently in a cloth bag. Then I turned and found Bob still lying flat in the undergrowth.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘When you’ve quite finished gloating over that creature,’ he said patiently, ‘would you have the goodness to remove this other one from under my chest? I’m afraid to move in case it bites me.’
I groped around and to my astonishment found another rat under his chest. As I pulled it out it gave a loud despairing cry and then relapsed into silence, lying limp in my hand as the first one had done. Bob got to his feet and brushed leaf mould off his clothes.
‘What’s so special about these creatures?’ he asked. ‘Are they particularly rare or something?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’m just interested in them, that’s all. I’ve never seen a live one before,’ I replied, still gazing at the rat in my hands.
Bob looked at me indignantly.
‘D’you mean to say that I’ve risked getting tetanus to capture a rat that’s not even rare, just because you’re interested in it?’
‘Well, of course, it’s a very nice thing to have. Besides,’ I pointed out, ‘look at the method of capture: not many people can boast that they’ve caught two rats by lying on them, can they?’
‘That’s small comfort,’ said Bob coldly. ‘I thought I was capturing something that had never been Brought Back Alive before.’
‘No, nothing like that. But they are interesting. Come and look.’
Bob came over rather reluctantly and stared at the rat sitting in the palm of my hand. It was a fat creature with long, coarse fur which was a brindled mixture of ginger and chocolate hair. It had the usual thick, naked rat’s tail, small ears, large, dreamy black eyes, and a mass of white whiskers.
‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘I don’t see anything very interesting about it. It looks like any other rat to me.’
‘Look at this,’ I said.
I stroked the rat’s fur up the, wrong way with my forefinger, and as it fell back into place you could see that it was mixed with numerous long, dark spines. Looking at them closely you could see that they were flattened, pliable to touch and not particularly sharp; they somewhat resembled the spines of a porcupine. The exact use of these spines is doubtful: it seems unlikely that they have been developed for defence, since they are not sharp enough to do any damage, and they bend too easily. Later on I experimented with these rats, and I found that under no circumstances would they use these spines for defence or attack. They may possibly have some control over the spines, that is to say they may be able to erect them as a porcupine does, but I never saw them do so. They seemed the most philosophical of rodents, accepting captivity without any fuss. They never ran wildly around their cage when you cleaned it out, as other freshly caught rats do; they simply sat in a corner and stared at you with complete lack of interest. If you had to move them over, so that you could clean under them, they would take their time about shifting and stroll across the cage uttering their curious complaining wail. They developed a passion for eating anolis, and I thought it rather strange that they should have a taste for these lizards. Most of the forest rats will eat live grasshoppers and beetles, but I have never seen a species that will tackle anything as large as a lizard. This taste must have been a product of captivity, for I can’t see how such a heavy, slow-moving creature as a soldier rat can shin up and down the bushes that anolis frequent and catch these nimble lizards.
With the rats safely ensconced in a cloth bag we continued on our way. We crossed another sand reef, but it was quite a small one and not so exhausting as the first. On the other side we plunged into thick forest and almost immediately found ourselves in a large clearing among the trees. From its square shape we could see that the clearing had been made by man. It was obviously a native farm that had been abandoned, and now a riot of lush, low growth spread across it, thickly encrusted with flowers, and the still, hot air was full of butterflies. The last remnants of cultivation were a few stunted banana trees bearing bunches of small, undernourished fruit; they were almost hidden under a cloak of climbing plants which had used their thick trunks as a ladder in their climb towards the sun. Behind them, window deep in undergrowth, was the tattered wreck of a palm-leaf hut, with three small saplings growing up through its gaping and sagging roof. This had been the Arrierindian settlement, but, Cordai explained, they had now moved over to the far side of the lake. We crossed the derelict farm clearing waist-high in the thick moist tangle of plants and made our way into the forest on the opposite side, following a narrow, muddy path that got progressively wetter, until we rounded a corner and saw the lake stretched out before us.
I have never seen such a large expanse of water so still and lifeless: the trees and undergrowth round its shores were reflected in the water as clearly and exactly as in a mirror. No wind wrinkled the brown water, nor were there any dark rings caused by rising fish. The reed-beds that fringed the shore, the trees, even two little islands in the middle of the lake, all seemed devoid of life. The silence was so complete that it seemed unnatural. There was not even the usual faint undercurrent of insect noises.
Cordai explained that we should have to shout to the Amer
indians to come over and fetch us in canoes, so while Bob, Ivan, and I sat down to have a smoke he rolled up his trousers, displaying his thin and bandy legs, and waded out into the shallows. He cleared his throat several times, struck an attitude vaguely reminiscent of an operatic tenor and then let forth a shrill and hair-raising shriek. Even the usually imperturbable Ivan dropped his cigarette with shock as this frightful cry rolled out across the lake and echoed a thousand times among the reeds and the green blanket of forest, until it began to sound like a herd of pigs being slaughtered at the bottom of a well. I scanned the opposite shore with my field-glasses, but there was no sign of life. Cordai hitched up his trousers, took a deep breath and let forth another banshee wail, with the same result. As the fourth wail echoed round the lake and died away Bob began to groan.
‘I really can’t sit here and listen to that man yelling his lungs out,’ he protested. ‘Can’t we move further away where we won’t hear him, and then he can come and tell us when he’s finished?’
I thought this a good idea, so we went back through the trees until the intervening foliage dimmed Cordai’s voice, and there we sat down. For an hour he stood in the water, letting off a scream every five minutes, and at the end of that time his voice was hoarse and thin and our nerves were in shreds.
‘Even if there are any Amerindians,’ said Bob, his fingers in his ears, ‘I don’t believe they’d come in response to a voice like that.’
‘Let’s go and help him,’ I suggested.
‘Why?’ asked Bob. ‘Don’t you think he’s making enough noise?’
‘Well, if four of us yell it’ll make more noise than one.’
‘It sounds a rather doubtful advantage, but we can try, I suppose. Although if the Amerindians haven’t heard Cordai’s top notes they must be a tribe that’s deaf from birth.’
We walked back through the trees and joined Cordai in the lukewarm lake water. After our first combined effort we discovered the reason for Cordai’s shrill falsetto yelps: some strange acoustic property of the lake made ordinary shouting out of the question, for the sound was deadened. Only a shrill yodel could achieve the required echoing result. So we set up a chorus of screams that could quite easily have risen from the depths of Dante’s Inferno. All went well, and the lake was vibrating with echoes when I suddenly caught sight of Bob’s face as he was in the middle of a prolonged and carefully executed yodel, and I had to sit down on the bank to recover from my laughter. Bob joined me, and we sat and stared at the flat, shining expanse of water.
‘What about swimming across?’ suggested Bob.
I measured the distance suspiciously with my eyes.
‘It’s about half a mile, I should say. I don’t see why we shouldn’t, if we take it easy.’
‘Well, I’m willing to have a try. We’ve walked all this way to see the Amerindians, and I don’t see why we should go back until we’ve seen them,’ said Bob pugnaciously.
All right,’ I said, ‘we’ll have a shot at it.’
We removed our clothes and waded out naked into the lake.
‘What you going to do, Chief?’ said Cordai in alarm. ‘Swim across,’ I said airily.
‘But, Chief, it’s not a good place to swim.’
‘Why not?’ I inquired coldly. ‘You said that you’d swum across it many times.’
‘It’s too far for you, Chief,’ said Cordai feebly.
‘Nonsense, my good man. Why, this chief here has got several medals for swimming across lakes which in comparison to this would seem like the Atlantic.’
This successfully crushed Cordai, who was not at all sure what a medal was. We waded out, and by the time we had reached the edge of the reed-beds we were up to our necks in warm honey-coloured waters. We paused for a moment to survey the opposite bank and see which was the nearest point to head for, and I suddenly realised that neither Bob nor I had removed our hats. There was something so ludicrous about the sight of Bob splashing about in the dark waters, doggedly doing the breast-stroke, with an elegant green pork-pie hat set at a jaunty angle over one eye, that I got an attack of the giggles.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Bob.
I trod water and gasped for breath.
‘Intrepid Explorer Swims Lake In Hat,’ I spluttered. ‘You’ve got yours on too.’
‘That’s in case we meet any female Indians on the other side. Dammit, man, one must have a hat to raise to a lady. Where are your gentlemanly instincts?’
Elaborating this theme we became quite weak with laughter. We were floating on our backs to recover, when we heard a series of plops, and the water ahead of us was rippled by something beneath the surface. From the bank we heard Ivan and Cordai shouting:
‘Come back, Chief, they bad fish,’ came Cordai’s voice. ‘I think they’re piranhas, sir,’ came Ivan’s cultured accents. Bob and I glanced at each other, and at the ripples which were rapidly approaching, and then we both turned and swam back to shore at a speed that would certainly have won us a couple of medals in any swimming-pool. We emerged dripping and gasping but still wearing our ridiculous headgear.
‘Were they piranhas?’ I asked Ivan, as soon as I had recovered my breath.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied, ‘but it would not be safe to risk it in case they are.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ panted Bob.
It may be necessary to explain that the piranha is one of the most unpleasant freshwater fish known. It is a flat, corpulent, silver-coloured fish, with the lower jaw protruded, so that in profile it looks exactly like a bulldog. This mouth is armed with one of the most fearsome sets of teeth to be found in the fish world. They are triangular in shape and so arranged that when the fish closes its mouth they interlock with the precision of a cog-wheel. Piranhas live in schools in most of the tropical South American rivers, and they have earned for themselves a vivid reputation. They appear to have an ability to smell blood underwater for considerable distances, and at the first whiff of it, they all congregate with incredible speed at the spot and with their dreadful teeth proceed to tear the object to pieces. The thoroughness with which they can dismantle a living or dead body is illustrated by an experiment that was once carried out. A capybara, a large South American rodent that grows to the size of a big dog, was killed, and its corpse was hung in a river infested by piranhas. The Capybara weighed a hundred pounds, but its fat body had been stripped to a skeleton within fifty-five seconds. On examination of the skeleton it was found that some of the fish had bitten clean through the ribs in their frenzied efforts to tear off the flesh. Whether or not the fish in the lake had been piranhas I don’t know, but I think we did the wisest thing in coming out, for you can’t go swimming among hungry piranhas and live to profit by your mistake.
While Ivan and Cordai continued screaming across the lake Bob and I made our way through the trees until we came to the deserted farm-clearing, and here we wandered around naked in the sun to dry. While we were investigating the dilapidated hut we found a long plank lying on the ground, half hidden in the undergrowth. Now anyone who has done any animal collecting of any sort knows that you must turn over every log, plank, or stone you come across, for in this way you sometimes find a rare creature you would otherwise miss. This turning over of objects in your path becomes automatic after a bit, and so, on finding the plank, Bob and I bent down without hesitation and turned it over. Lying in the damp hollow beneath it was a long, slender and somewhat dangerous-looking snake. As we were clad only in hats and shoes the snake had a distinct advantage, of which, for some reason, it did not make use; it just lay there and looked at us, while we discussed its capture in whispers and without moving.
‘There’s a bit of string in my trousers pocket,’ said Bob, helpfully.
All right, I’ll nip back and fetch it. You keep an eye on the snake.’
I moved backwards slowly and car
efully so as not to disturb the snake, and then I ran to our pile of clothes. Having found the string I cut a stick and tied it on the end. Then I fashioned a noose in the loose end of the cord and ran back to Bob. The snake had not moved an inch, and it did not move until it felt the noose tighten round its neck. Then it curled up into a tight knot and hissed vigorously. It was one of those slim brown tree snakes that are quite common in Guiana and, we found later, are only very mildly poisonous. But this in no way destroyed our pleasure in the capture, and as we eased it into a cloth bag we felt very intrepid. Just as we were discussing the subtle difference between facing a snake when you had clothes on and facing one when you had nothing on, Ivan came panting through the trees to tell us that all the shouting had at last borne fruit: a canoe was coming across the lake.
The canoe grounded among the rushes at our feet, and its owner stepped out into the shallow water. He was an Amerindian youth of about eighteen, dressed in a pair of tattered trousers. He was short and stocky, with a skin that was a peculiar shade of warm yellow-bronze turning copper colour where the sun struck it. He had a broad nose, a wide and well-shaped mouth, high Mongolian cheekbones and large dark slanting eyes. His hair was fine and black, not the glossy, magpie black of the East Indian, with blue tints in it, but the soft smooth black of soot. He smiled at us shyly, while his expressionless black eyes flicked about our persons, absorbing every detail. Cordai talked with him in his own language, and he replied in a deep, husky voice. After some interrogation it turned out that most of the Amerindians had moved from across the lake to a more suitable camping ground a few miles away. Only this boy and his family were left. Did we, asked Cordai, want to go across and see them? We certainly did, so we piled ourselves into the leaky and precarious canoe, and the boy paddled us smoothly across the lake. By the time we reached the other side, however, our combined weights had pushed the craft low in the water, and an alarming amount was slopping over the sides. The youth nosed the canoe into the reeds, where it settled in the soft mud like a waterlogged banana skin, and then he led the way through the forest, flitting between the trees as silently as a butterfly. In a short time we entered a small clearing among the trees and saw a large well-made hut constructed of bamboo. Several dogs came forward, yapping excitedly at us, but they stopped at a word from the youth. Seated on the ground in front of the hut was an elderly Amerindian who was evidently the father. His wife and a daughter of about sixteen were at work stripping the golden grain from some corn husks. A number of Tounger children played about the clearing amidst the clucking fowls. They all came and shook hands with us, but they were shy and obviously ill at ease in our presence, and, though they kept smiling at us and answered our questions readily, it was plain that they did not altogether trust us.
Three Singles to Adventure Page 4