Forcing down her fear, Katharine advanced a few more steps, round to the side of her house where the front door was. And then she stopped again, so abruptly she almost fell over her own feet. Bile rose in her mouth and she vomited, the contents of her stomach splattering onto the ground.
In front of the door, deliberately placed to obstruct the entrance, two dead bodies lay face down in the dirt. Already, they had been attacked by ants and beetles, and one was missing an arm and leg, so a jaguar must have got to them, too. Fat, pallid maggots crawled clumsily over their open wounds.
The men were rubber tappers, two of Katharine’s longest serving employees, left to putrefy in the sun and decay like so much rotten, discarded vegetation. But they were not the only dead. On top of their bodies, carefully positioned across their backs, lay a skeleton, neck broken and turned grotesquely back on itself in a bizarre and macabre contortion, a few feathers still loosely attached.
Po-Po.
The faithful bird, her special pet, who had been by Katharine’s side since that day in Manaus when his arrival had seemed like a promise, an answer to her prayer for a friend, was dead.
Murdered.
The whole ghastly scene bore all the hallmarks of a sacrificial offering.
Or a warning.
Katharine stumbled backwards, falling upon the scorched house wall, her legs unable to support her own weight. Her fingers scrabbled against the wood to try to get a hold upon it, upon something solid, upon what was happening. When she took her hands away, she saw that her fingertips were blackened with soot and, half crazed with despair, she ran them down her face, imagining the long dark streaks they would leave, the marks of her madness, her anguish. But then, after perhaps another five minutes wandering around, dazed, surveying the devastation, Katharine suddenly felt angry.
A furious, incandescent rage filled her being from her crown to her toes.
How dare someone come here and slaughter her people and her pet? Did they think that, because she was a woman, she was weak, enfeebled, unable to stand up for herself? Did they think their annihilation of what she had built, of all she held dear, would destroy her, make her give up? Because if they did, then they were wrong.
So very, very wrong.
She ran back towards the river to check on Antonio. He was sitting bleakly by the water’s edge. The Indians were cowering in the boat and she shouted to them to pull themselves together, to get out and come and help her.
Then, still crazy with anger, Katharine stormed back up the beach, noticing for the first time that it was dotted with bolachas. Whoever had come here must have rolled all the rubber into the river and let it be washed away in the gushing currents. They had not even stolen it, had not wanted it for themselves, just wanted her not to have it. They had simply disposed of it so that she would lose all her money, her livelihood.
She strode to the store huts and found their doors hanging off, their floors damaged and all Rosabel’s carefully curated supplies either gone or ruined, farinha sacks, tins and bottles slashed open or broken, the contents spilt and spoilt.
Whoever had done all of this didn’t just want to cause her financial loss and frighten her – they wanted to make it impossible for her to live here by starving her, and all who lived and worked with her, to death. In a heartbeat, the fire left her belly and her resolve failed her.
Demoralised and despondent, she sank to her knees. Just then, it felt like her attackers had succeeded.
Chapter Seventeen
It was two days before the Indians started to emerge from the forest. First to return were Jonathan and Santiago. Katharine, having got to know them so well over the years, could see that underneath their usual inscrutable expressions lay a veneer of fear – and also apology.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
There was a pause and then Jonathan spoke.
‘A hostile tribe came,’ he said, ‘with many men, and guns, poisoned arrows, knives, fire. We were not ready – they had surrounded us before we could even get to our own weapons.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Katharine lowered her eyes and blinked back tears. She didn’t want them to see her cry. She needed to be strong, to show them that she was invincible. If they didn’t believe that, they’d melt away again, shrinking back into the enveloping vegetation. She couldn’t exist here without them.
‘But,’ she added, looking Jonathan in the eye, ‘no tribe has ever attacked before. Do you know who they were? Did you recognise them? Did something happen to provoke them?’
As she looked from one to the other she saw the two men exchange a quick glance.
‘What?’ she questioned sharply. ‘What is it?’
Jonathan shook his head and Santiago shrugged.
‘Nothing, Mother,’ they said in unison. ‘We know nothing.’
Gradually, the other Indians who lived on the compound also returned, slinking out from the canopy, going to their huts and quietly getting on with the repair work. Many decided to tear down the damaged, burnt structures and start again, and the newly built buildings looked so pretty, with their green palm fronds and intricate weaving patterns.
But nothing could take away the stench of death and fear that hung over them all. They buried the bodies and tided everything up but the fact remained that the intention had been to finish Norwood, to scare Katharine and all those who lived with her away and ensure they never came back.
As someone who had never threatened the tribes living around her, had not indulged in the Amazonian scourge of forced labour but had sought to work with the local people and to help them where she could, Katharine couldn’t understand why they had targeted her. For being white? For being a woman? Just for being here? All were good reaons, she supposed. But none seemed enough – especially when there were so many others who had avoided such retribution, even though they may well have deserved it more.
Recognising that dwelling on it would only embed her bitterness further, she tried to move on from what seemed unfathomable, setting to work clearing and cleaning the house. Laure helped her, though Katharine couldn’t help but notice that her efforts were half-hearted, even with her and Charles’ living quarters. It was as if she couldn’t be bothered any more.
One day, needing a few moments alone, Katharine retreated to the room on the upper floor of the house that she used for quiet reading and writing of letters. Before she’d had a chance to light a lamp, a scuffling noise from the corner caught her attention. She looked around, expecting to see a rat or a cockroach, both common housemates.
As her eyes focused in the semi-darkness, a flash of green and gold caused her to jump out of her skin and let out a bloodcurdling scream. With a whip of shiny scales and an uncoiling of a body as thick as a tree trunk, a head was suddenly raised to almost the same height as her own, two beady eyes maniacally fixed upon her.
Sobbing with fear, hardly able to breathe, Katharine saw her life ebb away as the anaconda, the most powerful snake in the Amazon, gathered itself for attack, slipping effortlessly across the room like liquid mercury. Terror paralysed her as she imagined the snake’s coils around her, slowly crushing her ribs, draining her strength away, squeezing her out of existence.
And then she thought of Antonio, orphaned.
From some deep crevice of her heart, she summoned up her courage and her fighting spirit and began screaming for help. She could not hope to outrun the snake, or to overpower it – but perhaps she could scare it off for at least as long as it would take for someone to come to her aid.
Racing for the doorway, and then the rickety staircase, she was aware of the anaconda ravelling and unravelling around her feet, its shimmering body twisting and unfurling with such rapidity it was almost impossible for Katharine to jump and dodge the coils.
Somehow, she reached the top of the stairs and, grabbing the rail, tried to leap over the snake. But she’d forgotten the damage done to the building and the rail, burnt and smashed at the bottom, was no longer securely attached. It wo
bbled, pitching her forward, and then broke entirely, the banister rent apart from its supporting post.
Katharine fell, face down on the charred wooden floor, her fingers clawing in vain for something with which to pull herself upright. She felt the snake as it slithered over her; the weight of it, a fully grown adult, was astonishing, appalling. It could overpower her in an instant. It was worming its way above and beneath her, weaving between her legs and under her body like a grotesque piece of knitting.
She fought and struggled and kicked and continued to scream, even while she knew how futile her efforts were, how all they were doing were aiding her own demise, taking all her energy even before the snake had a chance to. Fear forced her eyes closed; she couldn’t bear to see the dreadful beauty of the serpent, its glossy, shiny, irridescent scales, its inhuman gaze.
Then a hair-raising yell sounded in her ears. It took a moment for her to realise that it was not her own voice. Forcing her eyes open, she saw who it was; Antonio, open-mouthed in horror, running up the stairs towards her, shouting and bashing the stick he always carried against the wooden floor in anger.
‘Stay away,’ shouted Katharine, as the serpent fastened around her legs. ‘Don’t come near. Get help!’
Ignoring her, Antonio crashed on up the stairs, flailing his stick, hollering at the top of his voice. The coils tightened and she felt the blood flow to her limbs curtailed. Antonio was by her side, landing blow upon blow on the snake with a force that belied his young age. Some missed and fell on Katharine; she was glad of it, for the fact that she could feel them meant she was still alive.
And then suddenly the pressure on her legs released and she could move again. She pulled herself upright just as the snake lunged for Antonio, jaws wide apart, rows of teeth glinting in the muted light. With some superhuman effort of will and strength, Katharine flung herself forward, pushing the little boy out of the serpent’s way, falling heavily against the wall and smashing her head. For a few seconds, the world went black and stars danced before her eyes. And then she came to, and she waited. Waited for the sensation of teeth searing into flesh, for the constricting hug of the killer snake, capturing her in a fatal embrace.
Instead, what she felt was a hand on her wrist. Not Antonio’s, but Santiago’s. Katharine exhaled in a ululation of relief as he seized her up and carried her downstairs and into the fresh air where he checked her carefully for wounds.
‘That was the biggest sucuruju I’ve ever seen,’ he said, whistling in awestruck horror. ‘Twenty feet long and two around, I reckon.’
The numbers went right over Katharine’s head. All she could think, when she could think at all, was of Antonio.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she insisted, gesticulating wildly. ‘Where’s Antonio? Is he all right?’
But the little boy had already disappeared off to regale his story of the enormous snake to Jonathan, who had missed all the action. He didn’t seem bothered by the episode at all. Perhaps he was just too young to have realised the danger, or perhaps it was because he was used to snakes and liked to beat them with his stick. This had been no different – just a bigger, fatter, stronger snake than usual. Still – if it had come across him first and not her – Katharine shuddered to the core of her being at the thought.
Rosabel the cook, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded, padded over to ask about supplies. Discussing tinned beef, Katharine felt suddenly weak and lightheaded, as if the shock of it all had only just hit her. Or maybe it was the realisation that all they had to eat was what little she had brought back from Lagona – some rice, potatoes and a few cans of meat and butter. The yuca plants had been slashed down but the roots beneath might still be recoverable. Even if so, what they had would not last long with so many mouths to feed – herself and Antonio, Charles and Laure, Jonathan and Santiago plus all the rest of the compound dwellers. The Indians would have to organise a hunt – and soon. Sending Rosabel away with brief instructions about what to make for now, she turned her attention to Jonathan and Santiago.
‘The snake must have got in when we were away and all the damage was done,’ she said. ‘We don’t know how many days the doors were open for.’
‘It was very big snake, Mother,’ intoned Santiago, gravely. ‘You are lucky.’
Katharine smiled. ‘Yes, I am. I must say that I never expected to have an anaconda as a house guest. I assumed they would stay away from humans if possible. Its attack was entirely unprovoked.’
She looked around the compound, at the ruined huts and at her house, charred and smoke-damaged. ‘As was that of whoever did this.’
There was a pause, filled only by the shrill shrieking of the forest.
‘There are many types of snakes in the jungle,’ said Jonathan.
This was true. The forest was home to venemous pit vipers, coral snakes and jararacas, the much loathed snake with two heads, as well as boa constrictors and anacondas. All abounded in Amazonia.
‘But,’ continued Santiago, ‘not all are in serpent form.’
Katharine looked at him questioningly, trying to work out what he meant by such a cryptic remark, but the two men were already walking away, getting back to their work of gathering up the remaining bolachas, seeing what could be salvaged. It was probably another Curupira-type myth, she thought, trying to dismiss it from her mind. She really didn’t have time for such superstition right now.
As she tried to focus on her paperwork, however, the Indians’ words rang in her ears. There are many types of snakes in the jungle, but not all are in serpent form. She could not shake the profound sense of something going on that she didn’t understand.
That night, once Antonio was in bed and fast asleep, she went out and surveyed the decimated compound. Though much rain had fallen, she could still smell the acrid stench of burnt rubber and torched wood. She wandered up and down the paths that ran in intricate patterns between the house and the huts, the storerooms and the cookhouse, doing mathematical calculations in her head. Her rubber trees, virgin and untapped before she had come, could go on producing latex for another twenty-five or thirty years. As soon as the rains had eased off, the seringueiros could restart collecting and smoking, and by next September or October, she could have another crop to send downriver. In the meanwhile, the debts would have got bigger and the time when she could begin repaying her father vanished even further into a murky future.
She knelt down by the dead seringueiros’ graves, and that of loyal Po-Po, and uttered a prayer for the three of them. Such sentimentality about an animal was wrong, she knew – and yet Po-Po had been a true friend, and she missed him, however stupid it was to miss a bird. A desolate sadness overtook her as she prayed for herself and her son, for her parents, for Charles and Laure, Jonathan and Santiago and all those who she relied on so greatly.
What was to become of them all?
Chapter Eighteen
Next day, the myriad pressing matters weighing on her mind woke Katharine early, just as dawn was breaking. Picking her way over the debris that still had not been gathered up, she made her way to the cookhouse. She was desperate for a cup of coffee and even Rosabel was not about yet so she would make it herself. Stooping low over the fire, a flash of colour disappearing over the rise of the land before it sloped down to the beach caught her eye. She straightened up and stared after it, puzzlement creasing her forehead. The figure was familiar, small and somewhat stout, walking with a striding gait.
It was Laure.
Katharine stood, consternation and bewilderment flooding her mind in equal measure. Why was Laure heading for the river at dawn? Where could she possibly be going? A dreadful truth began fomenting in her brain but she refused to contemplate it. Perhaps Laure fancied a bathe, or some silent contemplation on the water when only the sea birds and fish would be stirring.
Stumbling over some fallen roof parts, Katharine headed off on Laure’s tail. She was sweating profusely; the violent thunderstorm of the night before had been followed, as was ofte
n the case, by suffocating humidity. At the top of the beach, she stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw dropped open in appalled understanding that her worse fears had been realised. A canoe, in which sat Charles and Laure, was already in mid-channel and heading fast downriver. Four Indians were propelling them through the water, strong, even strokes rapidly gaining them distance from the dock. It was clear that her clerk and his wife were intent on making a quick getaway.
Katharine, too stunned to move, watched as the craft became smaller and smaller. Only when it had disappeared around the bend in the river did she turn back, staggering up the beach, picking her way between the splintered ends of off-cuts of wood discarded during the rebuilding. She went to Charles and Laure’s house, feeling no compunction about opening the door and marching right on in. It was clear that they had gone and were not coming back. That was the only explanation for a pre-dawn departure without a word said to anyone.
Lying on the table in the main upstairs living room was a letter. Katharine picked it up, turning it round and round in her hands before she opened it.
Dear Katharine,
We have decided to leave Norwood, and indeed the Amazon. It is too dangerous these days and neither of us has the stomach for the adventure any more. We wish to return home for our twilight years, so we are heading to Belgium. We’re sorry to leave you so suddenly but it seemed better this way, without long-drawn-out farewells or tearful partings.
We wish you, Antonio and everyone at Norwood all the best for a happy, healthy and prosperous future.
With much love,
Charles and Laure
It was the final straw.
The jungle was nothing more than a malevolent graveyard, that swallowed people up and spat them out when it was done with them. She couldn’t cope any more, had no coping strategies left. Though losing her clerk was a blow, she knew as much about the business now as he did. And Laure, albeit an ally and a companion, had never truly become a friend. So the worst of it wasn’t that she would never see them again, but what their departure represented. The fact that, without a ton of debts around their necks, they had the freedom to choose what to do, which she did not. And they never had to make that choice alone, as she did, because they had each other, and she had lost Anselmo for good.
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