Chapter 16
“Tucker is dead! Tommy will be by morning.” Bill Smoots had pulled open the flap of Grissop’s tent and stuck his head inside. “You want us to bury him?”
“Damn it!” Quaid Grissop slammed his fist down on the small writing table. “No, I will tell Fritz to take care of it. How are Gunn and West feeling?”
“Caleb is sick, yellow fever. Terry’s arm is full of puss and it stinks, the bite has turned gangrenous, he has maybe three or four days, unless he ends it himself before then.” Dropping the flap, he turned and walked away.
Grissop turned his attention back to the map on the table. He had just marked their current location when Smoots came in and brought the bad news about his men. The image on the thick, yellowed paper represented the area of Brazil known as the Mato Grosso, a vast unexplored area where dozens of men had disappeared and where now, Grissop was determined to survive. The German party was now less than sixty miles south of the Rio das Mortes and on the edge of Xingu territory. His men dead, dying or sick, and the eminent attack of bloodthirsty Indians now a genuine possibility, Quaid Grissop decided it was time Xavier Venoma revealed the rest of his plan.
Quaid made his way to the large meeting tent set up at the center of camp. He walked past the tents and campfires of the German soldiers. The deadly Amazon jungle had claimed the lives of twelve troops plus one more killed while attempting to free a vehicle mired in the mud. As Grissop walked, he saw at least a dozen more lingering at deaths door. Some, attended to by their comrades, others left alone to their fate, all doomed.
The majority of the remaining soldiers were plagued by the usual maladies associated with prolonged stays in the jungle including, foot rot, parasites, infected cuts and bites, fever and dehydration from diarrhea and vomiting. Only a hand full of men remained healthy including Quaid, Smoots, Wolfgang and two of the Wolfsatz SS. Fritz had informed him that Venoma had all the signs of malaria and was being treated with the only quinine in camp. Quaid had not seen Sophie or the Professor since leaving Planaltina.
Approaching the tent entrance, the two Wolfsatz guards stopped him, as usual. Quaid observed that both men appeared pale and unsteady on their feet. Upon gaining approval, Grissop was admitted entrance. Inside he found Colonel Wolgang, Professor DeWulf, and Sophie attending to a very ill Xavier Venoma.
“Mr. Grissop, come in. To what do we owe this visit.” Venoma spoke between short labored breaths.
“I wanted to speak to you about our destination but I will return when you are well.”
“Nonsense, Dr. DeWulf has provided me with excellent ministration and I am feeling stronger already, sit down, we will discuss it now.”
Sophie DeWulf gave Grissop an icy glare that caused his conscience to ache, especially when he saw that her father had fresh bruises and lacerations to his face. The “excellent care” she was persuaded to provide Venoma had obviously come at her father’s expense. He could also see a fresh bandage wrapped around an injury to the colonel’s right hand, no doubt received during the beating. Quaid moved a chair nearer to the small table next to Venoma, sitting down he shamefully avoided Sophie’s eyes.
“That is good, because you’re going to need it. It is time to abandon the vehicles. We will be walking from now on.”
“Ridiculous!” Wolfgang blared. “How will we transport the supplies and ammunition?”
“Every man will need to carry a share, including you Colonel.”
“No, we will continue to use the trucks, your suggestion is absurd.” Colonel Wolfgang was livid. He had taken a step toward Grissop as if he were going to attack him.
“The vehicles are slowing us down, we spend nearly three hours every day getting them unstuck and cutting the wider path for them takes even more time. If the trucks are driven any further you risk them being damaged or becoming stuck so badly that you will never retrieve them. We must leave them here for the return trip.”
“Mr. Grissop is correct Colonel, the vehicles will remain here.” As Venoma spoke, the Colonels body language suddenly changed. Like a dog scolded by his master, he skulked quietly to a corner of the tent and flopped down in a chair.
Sophie had moved to stand between Colonel Wolfgang and her father fearing that the angered man would lash out at him. Grissop stared at her and felt a measure of pity for her and her father, innocent pawns in this violent game.
“He is exasperated due to our slow progress.” Venoma said.
“I understand his frustration. You have yet to inform me of our final destination? I cannot guide you any further without knowing where we are going.” Quaid prodded.
“Bring me the satchel there on the table.” Venoma ordered.
Quaid complied setting the satchel in the man’s lap. Venoma reached inside, withdrew Walter Ramsell’s diary and handed it to Grissop who sat back down next to Venoma and began thumbing through the pages.
“Find the map near the end of the record.” Venoma shifted in his seat getting comfortable, laid his head back, and closed his eyes.
Quaid found the pages containing a hand drawn map of the Mato Grosso. There, rendered in charcoal, was a representation of the area surrounding the Rio das Mortes. He could see that both Cuyaba and Planaltina had been notated on the map and to the south west of the River of Death was a mountain range known as the Serra Azul, Blue Mountains, that marked the southern territory of the mysterious Xingu tribe.
Quaid furrowed his brow, causing Xavier Venoma to chuckle quietly, as he noticed a mountain range drawn on the map stretching due North at the southern end of the Rio das Mortes. Grissop had heard tales of a mountain range in Xingu territory that was said to be inhabited by Demons of the underworld. It was said that the Xingu believed the spirits of their ancestors were taken there when they died.
At the Southern end and on the Western side of the range, two rivers converged and then disappeared as they entered the mountains. A notation here read “Kahch’ultun” and “The maelstrom eats the dead at the threshold of perdition.”
“Kahch’ultun?”
“Ramsell describes it as a vast city located in the mountains and inhabited by an advanced civilization. It is there, the diary says, that the Forster men perished and that Ramsell retrieved the artifact.”
“I would very much like to see this Artifact.”
Again, Venoma, reached into the satchel. Leaning forward in anticipation Grissop drew in a sharp breath as the disk appeared. As Venoma offered it to him, he grabbed it greedily. Turning it in his hands, bewitched by the mellow color and soft smoothness of the metal, he completely ignored the disk’s markings.
“It’s so heavy! Are there other pieces referenced in the journal?” Grissop asked excitedly.
“Ramsell speaks of gilded pyramids and interior rooms lined with golden relief panels depicting the history of the inhabitants.” Venoma spoke as if retelling an epoch tale.
“My God! Then it’s true, it is El Dorado!”
“Yes Mr. Grissop, it is true, and if it is gold that one values, then the lost city holds treasure beyond your imagination.”
“Everyone values gold Herr Venoma.” Quaid said flatly.
“Why is that Mr. Grissop?”
“I suppose one could argue that it is simply metal, and yet, since before recorded history, gold has been highly valued by almost every culture on earth.” Quaid reasoned. “It is used in art and is fashioned into jewelry, but most of all, I would guess its value stems from its distinctive rarity.”
“I disagree, Mr. Grissop. It is neither the uncommonness of gold nor its singular beauty that gives ore its value.”
“Are you suggesting that you are immune to man’s intrinsic lust for this?” Quaid held the disk so that the light reflected off its surface.
“I will not deny its beauty, or that it is uncommon and desirable, its value however stems from neither. Gold has long been the worlds monetary standard and is thus stockpiled by a relative few individuals, organizations and governments, an
d it is valuable because it is in their best interest for it to stay valuable. Gold is no different than, rubber, timber or water for that matter, he who possesses the greatest quantities of these resources controls their value.”
“What is it that the Marquise de Venoma hopes to find in El Dorado then? What is of value to you if not gold?”
Reaching into the satchel Venoma withdrew the blue orb.
“This is the true treasure retrieved from Kahch’ultun by Walter Ramsell! This is what I seek!” Venoma held the blue orb up so that Quaid could see the swirling colors of red and gold moving like electricity inside.
“He who possesses this mandates the value of gold and every other precious thing, even the value of life itself. This is power Mr. Grissop, power over every resource in the universe, power to control, power to reign over all mankind, the power of a god.”
Quaid reached out to take hold of the orb but Venoma snatched it away greedily.
“No!” Venoma discharged the word like the eruption of a malignant boil. “It has come to me, it is under my dominion now and no other man shall control it!”
A sudden chill ran down Grissop’s spine causing his shoulders to quiver slightly. There was something, in the man’s voice, malicious, like a hissing snake.
“What is it?” Grissop asked gently.
Venoma relaxed back into the chair regaining control of his passion. He sat there, gazing deeply into the orb, trance like, for several moments before he finally spoke again, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if he were retelling an ancient story of myth and heroes.
“A library, an archive, a teacher, I am unsure exactly how to refer to it. The greatest minds of Europe could but enter the antechamber of its boundless repository. The gold disk serves as a key, or a decoder, of the anthology contained within its depths, and yet, it is more than a mere compilation of information. It is alive, conscious, aware of the questions in the mind of the pupil, guiding the explorer through an endless universe of knowledge and discernment.
Professor DeWulf was the man responsible for unraveling its secret. The others were simpletons and wandering fools until he came along.” Venoma gazed at Kermit DeWulf like a proud father looking at his child.
“The others believed it to be simply an energy source. One more powerful than any generator. They thought it was perhaps a weapon and that the disk was the trigger mechanism. The Professor knew, somehow instinctively, that its purpose was benign, its power, not to be found in mere physical dynamics but in the immaterial.
You see Mr. Grissop true wealth, unlike gold, is inexhaustible. Intellectual riches cannot be plundered. These become the eternal property of the possessor, his sole property, unless he decides to share them. If used properly, the power contained in this orb could transform the earth, not just for a thousand years, but for eternity.”
“I don’t understand. Why come back here, why not use the orb. You would have been the most powerful man on earth!” Quaid was dumfounded.
“Others exist.” Kermit DeWulf spoke the words quietly, his head bowed toward the floor, as if he were ashamed to utter them. Turning back to look at Venoma, Quaid saw a wide grin stretching across his pallid lips.
“Yes Professor, many others, with even greater gifts to bestow upon their master.” Venoma’s tone became philosophical and idealistic. “This one crystal contains knowledge of the oceans and sea’s. It describes the life that exists in them and how to control it. The information within speaks of manipulating water itself. What knowledge will the others contain? What secrets will they reveal? Perhaps they can bring an end to disease and illnesses, or perhaps reveal the secret to immortality. Imagine a world with no sickness governed by a ruler that never died, think of all he could accomplish. Such a man could unite the world under a kingdom of perfect laws and justice where obedience was rewarded with gifts of mercy and kindness.”
“Or perhaps they will bring death, destruction and misery.” The professor countered.
“The professor is not convinced as to the benign nature of the orbs.” Venoma rebutted.
“It is not the benevolence of the orbs I question.” Professor De Wulf replied.
“Surely if such things exist, professor, they could be used to help humanity.” Quaid argued in favor of Venoma’s line of reasoning.
“Or to dominate it!” Sophie answered Quaid while glaring at Venoma. “The possessor of such knowledge would wield limitless power. Now imagine that power in the hands of a sociopath Mr. Quaid, a man who controls others through fear and suffering. A cold, emotionless man, without conscience or empathy, a man who finds pleasure in destroying life and extinguishing hope.”
Quaid Grissop looked at Xavier Venoma. Could he be the monster that Sophie and Fritz intimated that he was? Surely no man, especially one as rational as Venoma appeared to be, could possibly harbor such malice toward mankind? Surely no man could be that dark and deadly?
Quaid ran his hands over the smooth surface of the disk. He felt its weight, the warmth of the metal. Its texture was soft like silk under his fingertips and its color the same to his eyes.
Xavier Venoma watched Quaid Grissop’s eyes as he fondled the Gold Disk. He could see the lure of wealth and power taking root in the man’s heart, growing, choking any remaining integrity, the thick tendrils of lust and greed blocking out the light of morality so that his mind became as the jungle outside.
Venoma held his hand out, gesturing for the artifacts return. Grissop hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly placed the disc in Venoma’s outstretched hand.
Picking up the diary where he had set it down Grissop opened again to Ramsells map.
“According to Ramsell’s map the River of Death flows very close to this mountain range at its most South Eastern point. Is this our destination then? Is that where we will find Kahch’ultun, El Dorado?”
“It is… our best guess Herr Grissop.”
“Three days. I will have you there in three days.” Grissop promised excitedly.
He then stood turning toward the professor and Sophie one last time. Any capacity for pity toward the two had vanished, replaced by thoughts of power and riches. Sophie could see only greed in his cold, merciless eyes.
“Colonel, Colonel Wolfgang?” A frantic voice called from outside the tent. The tent flap flew open to reveal an excited German soldier breathing heavily and sweating profusely.
“Well, what is it?” Wolfgang snapped.
“Armed men sir!” The soldier said between breaths. “Locals and one white man! About four hours behind us sir.”
“Mr. Hamiltons men no doubt.” Colonel Wolhgang offered.
“And the white man?” Venoma asked.
“It’s Cage!” Grissop announced. Sophie sprung to her feet, a broad spontaneous smile spread across her face.
“Jack Cage?” Colonel Wolfgang asked dubiously. “What makes you think so?”
“You killed Matroye Jolley his best friend. You kidnapped his client. He is not the sort to let that go.”
“No matter.” Colonel Wolfgang said nonchalantly. Turning to the soldier he then said. “Return with a squad, wait until they make camp, then kill them.”
“No!” Sophie cried out involuntarily.
“It appears that Mr. Cage may be motivated by more than simple loyalty to his client.” The Colonel approached Sophie, grabbed her shoulder with one hand, her face with the other and looked into her eyes. The look in her eyes turned vicious as she twisted her head sharply causing the big man to lose his grip.
“Take two squads!” Wolfgang called to the waiting soldier.
A sudden, soft, pitter patter was heard above them. Venoma, Sophie and the Professor instinctively looked up. Quaid Grissop sighed heavily and lowered his head. Moving to the tents entrance, he opened the flap and looked outside.
“Damn!” Looking back inside he said “get some rest, you’re going to need it.” With that, he exited the big tent as a heavy rainfall began to wet the ground.
&
nbsp; Quaid Grissop felt droplets of water falling on the brim of his hat. Tilting his head toward the canopy ceiling he could hear rain drops falling upon the trees from a darkened sky above. Things were getting complicated.
Major Schmidt had failed miserably as a commander. His frivolous and asinine directives burdened the German soldiers unnecessarily and, his disregard for their wellbeing led them to be dehydrated and sick.
Colonel Wolfgang was losing control. It started not long after the death of his SS guards at Fat Charlie’s and escalated daily with the heat, discomfort and stress of traveling through the jungle.
Now Jack Cage was out there in the jungle somewhere waiting to exact vengeance for the death of his friend.
By the time he arrived at his own tent he had been assaulted by a downpour of water drops the size of marbles. As he entered, his clothes sopping wet and his boots waterlogged, he noticed a torrent of mud running under his cot.
Moving to the table he quickly copied down everything he could remember from Ramsell’s map on to his own. Confident that he had accurately recreated the diary’s images and notations he folded the thick yellow paper and stowed in in his shirt.
Things were about to get very interesting. The German party would be deep into Xingu territory by late tomorrow afternoon and it was a bet that the Indians already knew they were here. However, Indians were no longer his primary concern.
The Amazon jungle was always willing to take the life of the white explorer, however during the rainy season her appetite became rapacious. She was a predator craving the flesh of men, and she was insatiable.
The Germans broke camp in a drizzle, moaning and complaining as they hoisted their packs and said goodbye to the trucks. By the time they broke camp the rain had stopped and the sun had broken through. The spirits of the men lifted, until the heat and humidity engulfed them.
Every step forward felt like a quagmire as the heat, humidity, and weight of the water logged equipment they bore bogged them down oppressively. By late morning, the rain returned transforming the path into a greasy, slimy, muck.
By late afternoon, the rain had transformed the jungle. At every step, the men sank to their knees in brown mud, their legs making a loud sucking sound as they struggled to get free. All conversation stopped, the mood was morose, the men irritable. The path had become a greasy, muddy, root and rock strewn detestable thing that stretched off and up into the impenetrable forest. Every step required care and great physical exertion as the party began to ascend a game trail that meandered up a steep hill.
Rain fell from the canopy above as if being poured straight from a bucket. Grissop looked over his shoulder to see the German troops following up the narrow path in single file. The going was steep, the greasy mud making each step a treacherous nightmare. Sophie and Professor DeWulf, covered in mud head to toe and bound at the wrists, were literally dragged up the hill by their captives.
Farther down the line of men, through the curtain of rain, Grissop could see the faint outline of eight men carrying two covered biers one containing The Marquise de Venoma and the other Major Schmidt. Grissop swore under his breath.
“You want me to carry you boss?” Smoot’s asked sarcastically.
Grissop snickered in derision at the arrogance of the German’s. He could make an exception for Venoma because the pail little man was naturally frail and now he was sick with fever. Schmidt however was simply self-important and pompous.
Grissop turned his attention back to the path before him. Rising at a near forty five degree angle it disappeared into the jungle, water now rushing down it in a torrent.
“This is hell!” He thought to himself.
He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to picture the city of gold. He imagined streets paved with gold bricks gleaming in the light of day. He imagined the city inhabited by peaceful, beautiful people adorned in finely crafted jewelry encrusted with precious stones. He could almost see them welcoming the white strangers hospitably and openly willing to share all that they possessed. Perhaps these simple natives did not even comprehend the value of the precious yellow metal. Perhaps it was so abundant they did not value it highly at all.
He suddenly recalled Venoma’s words explaining why gold was considered a precious commodity. What if an endless source of gold was discovered? The metal would become much less rare and thus much less valuable. All the effort and sacrifice they were making would then be for nothing as the nearly endless supply of gold ore flooded the world market. Grissop felt a wash of panic at the realization. He would need to discuss this with Venoma as soon as possible.
They must restrict not only the knowledge of the city and its location but also the amount of gold that flowed from it. Perhaps he would suggest to the Marquise that a permanent Govenor of some kind should be appointed to oversee the city. Perhaps even Grissop himself should have this responsibility? After all, without his help, they would never have found the lost city.
Even as he considered this he realized that Venoma may have already planned for this appointment. Perhaps Colonel Wolfgang or… Schmidt!
Yes it was Schmidt! Why else would he be here?
Grissop growled under his breath at the thought of the swollen-headed Schmidt. That fool will ruin everything. Something will need to be done about this.
Suddenly a shout from behind pulled him back to reality. Turning around he could see one of the biers tilted awkwardly to the left. Schmidt’s head protruded from that same side. The buffoon was screaming profanities at one of his litter bearers who had stumbled or slipped.
Unable to tolerate the man any longer Grissop moved toward the chaotic scene.
“Get out!” He screamed at Schmidt. “Get out you pompous, weak, self-serving, Ass!”
Grissop grabbed the German by the lapel pulling him from the litter and throwing him to the ground. Schmidt was laying face down in brackish mud. He attempted to gain his feet but slipped and went sliding down the muddy hill cursing and swearing as the torrent of brown water washed him away. Only one or two soldier’s made any attempt to stop his descent. He stopped careening down the slope only after slamming into a large tree root and becoming entangled in a group of vines crossing the path.
The German bearers stared at Grissop in disbelief. Venoma, watching the scene unfold, simply withdrew back into his own curtained bier while ordering his bearers to move on. Schmidt’s bearers abandoned their burden and trudged on up the hill.
“You know you’re going to pay for that?” Smoot’s said as Grissop rejoined him.
“It was worth it!” Grissop said as he moved on up the hill.
For three days straight the rain came without end and then the sun reappeared. The heat and humidity reached a new level of hellishness as Grissop and Smoot’s reached the top of a hill the party had been traversing for last two days. Standing on a ridge Grissop stopped to take in the awesome view laid out before him. Never had he seen a landscape so wonderful and terrifying.
Stretching out below him was an emerald green carpet made up of an ancient prehistoric forest canopy. Above it swarmed unknown species of brightly colored flocks of Parrots and Mac Kaw’s that danced like flames amid a smoky mist hanging in the air over the treetops. Grissop could see a high mountain range rising into the clouds above. Its face was jagged, sharp and foreboding. Winding its way like a sickly gray green ribbon at its feet was the Rio das Mortes flowing South to North.
“It’s true!” Smoots said aloud. “The mountains! No one believed they existed, but they are here!”
“No white man has ever been this far and returned alive.” Grissop answered. “ Let’s see if we can change that.”
The forest here was prime evil. Ancient trees stretched hundreds of feet into the air while vines twelve inches in diameter returned to the ground from the canopy above. The stench of rotting vegetation and decay was intense. Moving down the hill proved much easier than the ascent though most of the descent was spent on ones backside sliding uncon
trollably until colliding with a rock or root. Once down, Grissop ordered a rest.
The party now faced green walls of, dense, unbroken foliage. No spot of barren ground could be seen. After an hour Grissop gathered a small team of the healthiest soldiers ordering them to clear a passage ahead of the main party.
“Smoot’s, go with them.” Grissop ordered. “Keep them heading the right direction.” Machetes’ in hand the men set to work on the thick undergrowth clearing a wide path forward.
Two hours later the main party followed. After walking along the newly hewn trail for only half an hour a brown shirted soldier covered in mud and sweat and out of breath approached from the direction they were heading. The man was pale as a ghost and out of breath.
“Colonel! You must come quickly!” He choked out the words between breaths.
Wolfgang, Grissop, Schmidt, and Venoma all made their way to the front of the coloumn which, had come to a sudden halt. As they approached, they could see a group of soldiers blocking the trail.
“What is going on here?” Schmidt yelled.
The men turned and as they did so they stepped aside to reveal what appeared to be a man floating vertically nearly three feet above the trail his back to the approaching men. It was Bill Smoots. Beneath him on the leaf strewn ground was a pool of blood and entrails.
“What… What happened?” Grissop chocked.
“I don’t know sir. He was walking and then suddenly he cried out, sprung into the air and… this.”
“Get him down!” Schmidt ordered.
“NO!” Grissop screamed “No one go near him. In fact, no one move forward beyond this point.”
Grissop began to search the ground and trees around them looking for anything out of the ordinary. After what seemed an eternity he used his rifle barrel to gingerly move a seemingly innocent looking vine that crossed the trail. Immediately a swoosh of air could be heard and then a distinct thwack. Shrubs and vines on each side of the trail moved and then silence. Grissop reached out again with his rifle barrel and a distinct “Tinc” sound was heard. Reaching out he grabbed hold of a solid piece of thin metal in the shape of a hook anchored at two points in the trees above.
“Booby-Traps!” He said.
The German soldiers muttered amongst themselves. Removing a Machete from its leather sheath on his back Grissop made several cuts to the dense bush near the trap revealing what appeared to be a two foot tall Totem.
“There is one just like it near Smoots.” He said.
The Germans all looked back. Now that they knew what to look for they could just make it out in the thick bush.
“We will need to be more cautious in the future.” Grissop observed.
“Xingu?” Schmidt asked fearfully.
“No Doubt.” Grissop responded. “I suggest we make camp for the night.”
Chasing El Dorado Page 16