by Peter Ponzo
PART ONE
Chapter 1
The river looked like a giant septic system, a familiar shade of brown. I stood at the grassy edge, peered through the morning haze and watched the beast standing stiff-legged on the far shore, rocking from foot to foot, its great square head swaying low to the ground. Charles wasn't frightened, not exactly, but the jaguar was enormous.
"Don't worry Miss Fleetsmith," he whispered confidently, his hand shading his eyes from the hot sun, "it won't cross the river. Cats don't like water."
I knew better, having spent months in the university library studying the flora and fauna of the Amazon, the most diversified ecosystem on the face of the earth. Nine hundred species of birds filled the skies. Two thousand species of fish swam among the tree branches during the six month rainy season when the Amazon Basin was under as much as fifty feet of water, the Amazon flooding its banks thirty miles to either side of the river. This gargantuan river, named Amazonas by a Spanish explorer (when they thought they saw a band of female warriors), began its 3900 mile journey to the Atlantic from the Andes mountains of Peru, through six countries, draining a basin almost the size of the United States.
Yes, I felt I knew the jungle like the back of my hand. I gazed at the back of my hand. The scar seemed larger than yesterday.
When I looked up, the jaguar had leaped into the river. So much for Charlie's assurances.
Charles turned and ran, then slowed, then looked back, waiting anxiously. He looked a pitiful sight, shifting from one foot to the other, his hands fluttering by his side. I ambled at a leisurely pace into the shadows of the jungle and the jaguar went his own way, paying little attention to the two ardent explorers shuffling through the underbrush.
I was disappointed. It was not a lack of interest of the beautiful spotted cat, but because of the loss of our boat. I had wanted to follow the river for another mile or two, drifting, staring in awe at the lush vegetation that lined the edges of the great river. No matter. We'd never find the boat anyway. The guide we hired had appeared uneasy for days. When we awoke that morning, he was gone. I was sure the bastard had taken the boat; that's how he’d get back to the Holana settlement. For me and Charles it meant a long and arduous trek back through the jungle. Ah well, it would be a few days before we reached our destination and by then we would have thought of some other way back to the settlement. The rewards would justify the inconvenience. Rewards for me … and for humanity. That, at least, was my belief.
By noon we had reached the foothills of the Pellita Mountains and rested. Charles neatly layed out our packs, collapsed onto the mossy ground then fell asleep immediately. I wandered about the site for nearly an hour. Eventually I pulled the flynet across Charles, crept under, and slept. I hadn't realized how tired I was. When I awoke it was evening so I just rolled over and went back to sleep. This was no picnic. We needed to rest, often.
The sun rose swift as a cannon ball, and hot, and we had a short breakfast of cold, cooked rice and hot coffee, then continued along the base of Pellita until we reached the creek, following it for most of the day, then camped early, exhausted.
I had heard of this trip so often that it seemed almost familiar. I had gone over it in my mind for months. It was to be a great and rewarding adventure. Who could resist the rain forest, the exotic birds, the clear and bubbling waters, green everywhere, blue skies—paradise. But the bloody insects; they sucked, they chewed, they buzzed. Perhaps the worst creatures in the jungle were not the wild boars or jaguars, but those bloody insects.
It was dark now and the moon hung low over the jungle canopy like some great white eyeball.
"May I see the map?" Charles said. I pulled the worn document from my shirt. "We are here." Charles pointed confidently with a thin finger, holding the map up to the light of the small fire. "At the end of Moon Creek, at the base of Pellita and inside the border."
I wasn't listening; I knew exactly where we were. We were in Chokli country, and that meant trouble. Although there was, as yet, no sign of the natives, we both knew that this was their part of the jungle. It was surely that knowledge that had frightened our guide. He had burbled for days, waving his arms and grumbling "Chockla, Chockla". Had I not known better I'd have given him a Mars bar.
The Chokli had resisted the white man's encroachment very effectively. Men went in and never came out. Well, that wasn't exactly true. One had come out: Dr. Lloyd Francis Fleetsmith, my father. When he left the Chokli and wandered into the Holana settlement, several days down river from the Chokli village, he was emaciated, delirious and naked. He was flown back to Toronto where he spoke of the Chokli and the miracle weed with such awe that I made the vow even as the good doctor lay dying in St. Francis Hospital. I would finish my degree: Fran Debra Fleetsmith, PhD, microbiology. Then I'd make the trip to the jungles of Brazil, find the tribe, collect the weed and return to lay the weed before the medical community—and make my fortune in the bargain. Not that I wasn't reasonably wealthy. Pops had made a fortune in herbal medicines and I had lived very comfortably, thank you. But my father wouldn't die in vain. I would continue his pursuit of this wonder weed. When I eventually headed south, in August after the Amazon floods had subsided, Charles Clayton Curran accompanied me; he wasn't going to let me go it alone.
I was looking absentmindedly at the scar on the back of my hand, again. It had been an accident, that first day in Brazil. A crate had slipped from the rack at the loading dock and I had been scratched by the baling wire. Normally, I would have taken the tetanus shot, bandaged the wound and ignored it, but it was to be a test of the miracle weed. I would let it fester, if it had a mind to, and I'd be cured by the weed. Never once had I doubted the stories told by my father, or my ability to find the weed in the jungles of the Amazon. Charles had fussed over my scratch, waving the medical kit, alarmed at the dire consequences of leaving the wound unattended, but had dutifully taken pictures at my request – before we lost the camera in a swamp while sidestepping what had seemed to be an alligator but, in fact, was a rather large scaly fish. The picture would be rather meagre proof of the efficacy of the weed, but I found the tale delightful: young woman wanders through the jungle with a wounded hand, finds a miracle weed and watches the wound heal before her very eyes.
But somehow the scar was getting larger and more ugly. That shouldn't happen. I ran my finger slowly across the bruise. I'd better find that weed, soon.
When morning came, the natives came. They were small and dark-skinned and bald with great white painted circles about their sombre black, oval eyes. And their teeth were sharpened to points. I was awake and watched with surprisingly little unease. They encircled our campfire, now quite dead, and moved in slowly, waiting, short spears poised, hunched forward, curious. It was to be expected. Pops had written of a tribe which he felt were somehow related to the Chokli and he had indicated, on a map, where they might be found. Nevertheless, these natives seemed not to make use of any miracle weed so he had little interest in them. Pops had smiled, bowed, presented them with gifts and moved on in search of the Chokli whose existence he had gathered from the natives at the Holana settlement while on an earlier expedition in search of herbal medicines. The Chokli came to the Portuguese settlement several times each year with giant fish for the market, trading for knives and other metal instruments, then they would vanish once again into the jungle.
I closed one eye, squinted with the other and gazed warily as the natives gathered about. Slowly, I pulled the Smith and Wesson from my jeans. The first native came forward and waved his spear tentatively, then poked at Charles who continued to sleep soundly. It always amazed me how that man could sleep. I pushed the revolver out from under the flynet, extended my arm until the barrel was next to the native's temple, pulled back the hammer
, thought about it for a moment, then pointed to miss. I wouldn't blow his head off, but I'd give him one hell of a scare.
The native saw me, cocked his head, winked curiously and fell back as the gun went off with a roar. Charles awoke, startled, saw the native scrambling to his feet and put his hand to his mouth.
"Good heavens Miss Fleetsmith, what have you done! They will surely attack and we will be unable to defend against them!"
The other natives vanished into the shadows.
"It was my humble intention, Miss Fleetsmith, to protect you," Charles said.
"Let's go," I said.
It was nearly noon when we stopped to eat. I let the pack slip from my back, imagining deep canyons in my shoulders where the straps had been. Charles started a small fire. I glanced at my watch. It was one o'clock and we had finished the thin strips of dried beef and half a loaf of dark bread. Oh for a plate of Pasta Carbonara, Chianti Classico and Zaballone to top it off. After our sumptuous victuals I took the lead, again along the creek bed, now merely a trickle of slimy brown water. This was certainly not the mighty Amazon, but merely a tributary. It was hard to imagine: this creek drained into the Amazon as did thousands of other such waterways. The total volume of water which the Amazon ushered to the Atlantic ocean each day was sufficient to provide the entire North American continent with fresh water for perhaps four months. I stopped to look again at the muddy creek. Fresh water? No thanks. I couldn't imagine anyone drinking that stuff.
We camped that evening without a fire; we were within a day of our destination, the Chokli village. No need to attract them with a rising ribbon of smoke.
Charles had plucked a small red flower from a mossy stump and held it to the light of the fire.
"Miss Fleetsmith, are you familar with this plant?" he asked.
He invariably prefixed his comments with 'Miss Fleetsmith'. When he didn't, it often meant he was hiding something, or momentarily confused ... or he had simply lapsed into the more comfortable relationship that I had encouraged for years.
"Calladria forensis," I mumbled, smiling. He seemed impressed and tore a piece of moss from the stump.
"And this?" he asked.
"Mosstoforo amazonia," I responded.
I could see the amazed expression on his face. He jumped up and walked to a great gnarled tree, inspecting the bark. It was quite dark but he managed to find a small black beetle and returned to the fire.
"And this?" he said.
I bent over, pretending to inspect the beetle, then said: "Bethalonus cracinus."
"Bethalonus cracinus," he repeated. "My, my, Miss Fleetsmith. You certainly have studied the flora and fauna of the Amazon. I am really quite impressed. I expect to receive quite an education before this trip has ended." He was about to leave again, to find another specimen, when I pointed to his place by the fire.
"Have a seat, Charlie. I just made up those names. I haven't the foggiest—"
"Are you saying that you are not familiar with these plants and animals?"
"Right on, Charlie boy. Never seen them before. Just made up a few latin-sounding names."
"Then why did you—"
"Have you ever noticed," I said, leaning back against a thick stump, "that people are desperate to know the names of plants and animals? It doesn't matter that they know nothing of their habits, lifestyles, environment, reproductive skills, enemies, evolutionary history. You give them a name—any name—and they're happy. They think they've learned something. They will point to a beetle, proudly say Oompapa bangbang and that's enough. That's all they need to know. A name. Their curiosity is put to rest."
I paused and stared absentmindedly into the fire.
"People are funny, don't you think?" I whispered.
Charles was frowning. "Miss Fleetsmith? Is it really worth putting ourselves at risk? I mean, coming here to the Amazon."
"It's worth it." I was inspecting my scar by the light of a full moon. Normally the jungle canopy prevented any sight of the moon, but we were in a small clearing and the moon was quite bright.
"It is meritorious to give it to the world," Charles said, and gestured dramatically. "We just about died in the process, but here it is, the miracle weed. Cures all ills." He bowed his head. "Thank you kindly, but keep your money. Your respect is all I want, all I need." Charles grinned, leaned against a rock and lit his pipe, pleased with his performance. He had this knack for turning everything into a movie scene. Come to think of it, I may have picked up some of that knack myself. Somehow it seemed to put things into a certain satisfying perspective if you stood back and imagined your situation as a scene from a play. But he was wrong about my motives for coming to the Amazon jungle.
"Keep your money? I never said that."
I stared intently at Charles, a thin and swarthy man with his wispy hair, oversized and rather bony nose and white clay pipe which often protruded from his face, though I rarely saw him smoke. I suspect it was primarily for show since he seemed to cultivate this look of sophistication. He was wearing blue jeans and a light tan shirt neatly tucked in at the waist—not his usual attire, but he was determined to look the part. He had washed and dried this shirt at least four times since we began our trek. I sniffed involuntarily at my armpits; washing was not my favourite pastime.
Although he had spent much of his life entombed in father's residence, back in Burlington, Charles had the parchment skin of a sailor. He had been Pop's handyman, my father's chauffeur, gardener, chef and best buddy. When Pops died and I graduated and began studying the geography of the Amazon basin—and my father's notes on the Chokli, including the map which I held in my shirt, between my boobs—Charles had already begun packing. When I announced that I'd be gone for several months, he had already paid all the bills until the end of the year, hired a live-in gardener, cancelled paper and magazine subscriptions and asked the police to check the house periodically. I had really intended to go alone, but didn't argue. In fact, although I never said so—not in so many words—I was pleased to have him as companion. We had left town immediately, flying to Brazil, buying supplies and hiring a rather flimsy motorized craft and boating nearly four hundred miles up the Amazon to a small settlement where we hired a guide and bought a small boat for the remaining journey. The guide had disappeared yesterday, as soon as we had entered Chokli country, and he took the small boat with him. That was no surprise. It had happened to Pops.
It rained that night, but we could still hear the howler monkeys roaring throughout the downpour. Although the thin plastic sheet kept us about as dry as a Caesar salad, the creek was a torrent by morning. Nevertheless we had to follow the soggy shoreline, as indicated on the map. By noon we had reached the jungle clearing, surrounded by red-stemmed bushes covered in tiny green and purple-veined leaves. The clearing was on the map: a clearing with red-stemmed bushes and statuary it said. My heart was pounding. It was as though the past few weeks had never happened and we had simply been transported to this place of magic on wings of—well ... that's pretty corny. I ran into the clearing and eagerly looked about for the statuary. I couldn't hear myself breath. I was holding my breath. Were these bushes the weed my father had spoken of? The miracle weed that cured all ills?
In the centre of the clearing was a very tall stone statue of a naked woman carrying a child, and arrayed in a semicircle before the statue were several smaller stone figures lying prostrate, grovelling. Whereas the statues of woman and child were skillfully done with every detail embossed on the stone, the prostrate figures were little more than smooth blobs of rock, bearing only vague resemblance to a human form. Indeed, the lack of detail seemed to be intentional. I spent a half hour just running my hand over the smooth stone. The sweat was pouring down my cheek. My hands were trembling. We were almost there—finally. Finally.
At Charles' insistence I eventually sat on a recumbent stone figure and ate a small lunch of salami and cheese. It was quite remarkable how varied were our snacks. To Charl
es, food was a major source of pleasure and the knapsack was filled with a host of small, tasty bundles.
Charles sat on the ground in deference to the religious significance of the statuary. He had seen them before. Pops had sent him photos of these curious statues, admitting that their significance had eluded him.
"Why the difference, Charlie?" I said.
"Beg pardon, Miss Fleetsmith?"
"The statues. Smooth blobs on the ground, detailed carvings on the woman and child over there. Why the difference in technique?"
"I suspect that the figures on the ground have been abused." He looked uncomfortably at me, sitting on one such blob of stone. "They get walked over, kicked and ... and sat upon."
I grunted. "Hmm, look at this one. It hasn't been worn smooth by constant use. It's been scraped smooth, as though there was once considerable detail. Now, it's not even clear if it represents a male or female."
"Your father was at a loss to explain the statues and he spent some time studying them, as you will recall. I rather doubt that a cursory investigation will reveal their true nature."
"Hmm."
We were now very close to the village. Indeed, if we waited, the Chokli would undoubtedly show up. It had happened in just that manner to my father. So we waited, and ate, and the Chokli arrived before dessert. I didn't argue with them. Being dragged to the Chokli village was not the elaborate entrance I had imagined, but it would do. That's where I wanted to be.
There were perhaps a hundred short and stocky natives in the village, mostly men, with straight black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes circled with white paint, and pointed teeth and naked except for bushy, diaper-like skins wrapped about their waist. The similarity to the natives we had met earlier was evident, but these natives weren't bald. They did, however, look equally fierce. I tried to smile continuously. Only when we were pushed into a small mud hut did I drop the smile. My jaw was sore.
"Congratulations, Miss Fleetsmith. We're here," Charles said, with less than frothy enthusiasm.
"That's success, I guess. But I don't intend to stay long. Grab some weed, smile brightly, say goodbye, head home."
"I suspect that it will take more than a smile to—"
I held out the back of my hand. "Look at this scar. It's larger than yesterday." I sniffed the scar. "Looks like some kind of yeast, feeding on my skin. It's turned a nasty shade of purple. I assume that these Chokli have this miracle weed. I also assume that they use it for just such wounds. Let's see."
I crawled to the door, the Lilliputian ceiling being much too low to stand, and thrust my hand out, wound-side up, expecting some tribal voodoo doctor to come running with his black satchel filled with weed. Instead, I was immediately and unceremoniously hauled from the hut and dragged to the far end of the village until I stood before a stone statue of a naked woman holding a child, similar to, though smaller than the one we had seen earlier in the jungle clearing. About the base of the statue, a ring of white fluffy substance, much like a soapy foam which had hardened and shredded. Except for this fluff the area was clear of any vegetation; no grass, no weeds.
I heard a shout and saw Charles dragged from the hut to stand beside me. The natives began to chant and jog about, the skins about their waist sporting bushy tails which swayed in concert with their dance. The sun was low and the sky blood-red and quite dark, but the white circles about the Chokli eyes seemed to glow.
"The natives are restless," muttered Charles.
Suddenly a stubby native leaped forward and tore the shirt from Charles' chest. Then two others raised their spears and began poking him and he backed against the statue, holding the cold feet of the tall stone lady. Immediately, there was a hoarse cry and a dozen natives leaped forward and pulled him to the ground, tore off his clothes and tied him to a post. He hung naked and streaked with blood. It was a pitiful sight. I struggled to free myself from the hands of the fiery little Chokli, but there was little I could do.
Now I'm a tall woman, five foot eleven in bare feet, and I towered over the short natives like a giant. They held me tightly, comically, about the waist, their tails swaying violently. I squinted to see Charles, white and naked, his penis erect and clearly visible in the failing light.
"Excited?" I asked incredulously.
Then, with a scream, the natives began reaching up and tearing my shirt down to my waist. One withered little bastard was especially enthusiastic, a single yellow tooth hanging over his lower lip.
"Hold on buster. This'll cost you a few sheckels." I punched him in the nose.
As suddenly as the screaming started, it stopped. The natives backed into the shadows, gasping. Slowly they came forward again and fell to their knees, then lay face down, their bushy tails rising behind them. If they weren't so unpredictable, they'd be funny.
I looked over my shoulder, saw the tall stone lady and backed to it, leaning heavily against the base. The Chokli were lying flat, grovelling. I looked up once more, stepped away from the statue and scanned the entire stony torso.
Tall and a bit thick about the hips, firm but heavy tits, a short neck, shoulder muscles like Tarzan. The similarity was unexpected.
"Miss Fleetsmith?" whispered Charles. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm."
"Can't see much in the dark, but the screaming and chanting seems to have stopped," Charles said.
"Goddess," I whispered.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm a goddess," I repeated. Then I turned, grabbed the cold boobs—one in each hand—and climbed the statue, hanging my arms about the neck of the stone woman, sitting on the back of the stone child. I pointed in the general direction of Charles. It was too dark now to see him.
"Release that man!" I ordered in my most imperative voice. It was a lousy script, but what the hell.
There was a murmur from the crowd, but no apparent movement.
"Shit. Should've enrolled in Chokli 101."
I felt a hand on my leg and kicked out blindly. Must be that energetic little bastard with the yellow tooth.
"Miss Fleetsmith, it is I, Charles. Come down. They are all immobile it seems. Lying face down, torpid and mute."
I slid into Charles' arms and he began to carry me out of the village, with what seemed like seventeen arms encircling my tits. Charlie was rather sparsely constructed, especially evident in his current attire of skin and bones, and I was built like the notorious concrete turd house, so it wasn't easy for the poor chap. But I went along with this heroic gesture until we came to the jungle's edge.
"Worshipping," I whispered in his ear, then tried to disentangle myself from his myriad arms. He seemed reluctant to let me go, standing naked at the edge of the bush, holding me tightly to his chest as I struggled.
"Charles Clayton Curran," I growled, "I appreciate your rising to the occasion, but if you don't drop me, I'll bust you in the crotch." He dropped, I dropped, and the natives began to chant, rising from the ground and circling.
"Worshipping?" Charles whispered.
"What?"
"Miss Fleetsmith, you said 'worshipping'."
"Mmm, yes. Watch." I trotted to the stone Madonna with child. Charles was obviously shocked by my bravado, but I knew exactly what I was doing. The natives fell immediately to their knees before me, moaning softly.
"Any resemblance?" I said, placing my arm about the stone lady, my bare breasts next to hers.
"I see," Charles said, peering into the darkness, one hand covering his privates, the other arched over his brow. "Miss Fleetsmith, a goddess."