Primeval Waters

by William Burke

  A muscular, pockmarked man eyed him from across the room.

  Micah politely asked, “Hey. Could you please get this monkey off me?”

  Without a word the man stood and clamored up the gangway to the upper deck.

  Micah muttered, “Thanks,” then cautiously shooed the monkey back until he could sit up. He probed his forehead. The wound had been closed, probably with super glue, and he caught a whiff of disinfectant. Rendering first aid was a good sign that they wanted him alive. Massaging his temples, he muttered, “I gotta stop waking up on strange boats.”

  He surveyed the cabin. It was spartan, consisting of only a few mismatched chairs and a folding table with a large nautical chart tacked to the wall above it. Another table in the far corner was draped in red cloth and decorated with small statues, a few cigars and a bottle of rum. From past experience he knew it was a Macumba altar with figures of spirits and sacrificial offerings. Its centerpiece was a ceramic snake coiled atop a mound of skulls.

  “Cheerful.”

  He heard footsteps coming down the gangway. The big man returned, followed by Queen Caveira. The pirate queen had changed into a bright red Victorian-era naval jacket sporting enough gold trim and adornments to make Michael Jackson blush. The ensemble was set off by a thick leather gun belt sporting two revolvers. It should have looked ridiculous, but she somehow pulled it off. She yanked off her captain’s hat, shaking her hair out into a mountainous afro.

  Shrieking with excitement, the monkey leapt off the cot onto her shoulder.

  Queen Caveira scratched the monkey’s chin, and in a sing-song voice asked, “Hello, little Ladra, have you come to steal something?”

  Taking its cue, the monkey rooted through her breast pocket until it found some fruit slices. It perched on her gold shoulder epaulet, gorging itself.

  Turning her attention to Micah, she said, “Well, look who’s alive.” She snapped her fingers and the pockmarked man handed her some loose Brazilian reais. “Poor Umberto lost our bet. If you died, he would have gotten your watch.”

  Seeing the disappointment in Umberto’s eyes, Micah said, “Better luck next time.”

  Another man came down the gangway and handed a steaming mug to Micah. The concoction smelled like a boiled diaper.

  Queen Caveira pinched her nose and said, “Just do that and swallow it all. You sucked down a lot of river water, but those herbs will keep you from shitting yourself to death.”

  Micah held his nose and swallowed the entire mug. Its taste matched its smell, and he struggled to keep the vile brew down.

  Looking mildly impressed, she asked, “Are you curious why the evil pirate, Queen Caveira, hasn’t tortured or killed you?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “When a man is kidnapped by Batista and escapes, then manages to survive caimans and kill a jaguar with his bare hands, I think to myself this is one lucky gajo. Not someone to kill … maybe better to keep close and let some of that luck rub off.”

  “Okay.”

  She pulled a long cigar from her jacket and took her time lighting it. “Now, Lucky Man, tell me your story again.”

  Micah did, going into greater detail about the monstrous snake.

  The queen’s face lit up. “You should feel blessed to have witnessed such a miracle.”

  “The only miracle was not getting eaten.”

  She went to the altar, reverently stroking the snake statue. Umberto lowered his eyes, mumbling some kind of blessing.

  Queen Caveira said, “That snake you saw was Boiúna, the serpent spirit of the river. He has risen to protect his domain. That piece of shit Batista has invaded its sacred territory so it seeks vengeance. But Boiúna would never attack my boats.”

  “It didn’t seem too picky.”

  ‘Hmm, maybe you’re just an ignorant white man after all. Probably content to worship your peace-preaching carpenter god.”

  It took Micah a few seconds to figure out that she was referring to Christianity.

  The queen asked, “Do you know what Quimbanda is?”

  “Yes I do.” Micah was familiar with the distinctly Brazilian branch of the Macumba faith—and it was bad news. While Macumba was a recognized religion preaching charity and good works, Quimbanda was based in demonology, embracing black magic and blood sacrifice.

  Queen Caveira said, “I am not only the queen of the river pirates but also a Quimbanda priestess, blessed in the eyes of Boiúna.”

  Micah said, “Okay, cool.”

  “Now, on to business.”

  Queen Caveira dangled something shiny in front of the monkey, just out of its reach. It was Micah’s watch. The Rolex Explorer had been a gift from Micah’s network bosses—back when high ratings made him their fair-haired boy.

  Micah said, “You can keep the watch.”

  “Was that ever in doubt?” She read the watch’s inscription aloud. “‘To our brightest star, from your friends at the Outdoor Adventure Network.’ This inscription tells me you’re an American television celebrity, so your bosses will pay good money to get you back alive.”

  Micah thought, You’re a season too late. They’d probably consider kidnapping an easy way out of their contract.

  Strapping the watch onto her wrist, she said, “I kidnapped a guy from National Geographic last year. I demanded twenty thousand dollars, but they only gave me ten to get him back. I accepted their pathetic offer but chopped off his hands first, to teach them a lesson. Let’s hope your bosses aren’t so cheap.”

  Micah felt the herbal concoction rising in his throat but managed to choke it down.

  She asked, “Do you know the other television people… Netflix?”

  “Uh, yeah. They’re all good friends of mine.” Micah would say anything at this point to keep his hands attached.

  “Good, they will want a show about a beautiful pirate queen and her adventures. America would rather watch me than some fat piece of merde who wrestles tigers, yes?”

  “Uh, absolutely. Fantastic idea!”

  “Then you will help me, how do you say, ‘throw this’ to them, so the whole world will know and revere Queen Caveira.”

  Micah thought, Oh my God, this insane black magic priestess and pirate is pitching me a TV show while also threatening to cut my hands off. But he said, “I’d love to help you set that up, but right now Batista has my daughter.”

  Queen Caveira shrugged. “Then he’ll kill her, unless the pig has some other use for her. Now, let’s talk about my televisão show. Do you know Beyonce? She would be very good as me.”

  Desperately trying to stay on track, Micah said, “I don’t think he’ll kill her just yet, and there’s a woman who might be able to keep her safe, maybe even help them escape.”

  Queen Caveira shook her head and sighed. “At this point I think escaping would be worse than Batista.”

  “Why?”

  “This section of the river is deadly. I only traveled down here because Batista built a fuel depot to support some secret operation. But some idiot set the place on fire before I could rob it. I’d love to find that stupid bastard!”

  His stomach lurching, Micah asked, “What’s that have to do with my daughter?”

  Queen Caveira stroked the monkey on her shoulder, cooing, “Lucky Man is so impatient.”

  Having finished its snack, the monkey climbed off her shoulder. It scurried over to Micah, pawing at his pants leg.

  Queen Caveira walked over to a nautical chart, identical to the one Micah had seen in Batista’s cabin. Pointing to a section of river, she explained, “By now Batista has reached this area. It’s the territory of an un-contacted tribe. Their name is impossible to pronounce, so we call them Morte Tinto.”

  “The Red Death. I’ve heard about them.”

  The monkey climbed up Micah’s leg. Rather than offend his clearly insane pirate hostess, Micah just let it continue.

  Queen Caveira watched her monkey with amusement. “Don’t bother fighting my little friend, he won’t give up unt
il he steals something. A habit he picked up from me. If your daughter escapes in their territory, they’ll capture her.”

  “And?”

  “They’re cannibals.”

  The monkey nimbly unzipped Micah’s pants pocket and fished around until he found something. It scurried into a corner, clutching its prize.

  Micah implored, “If you can just get me close to Batista’s boats—”

  “Sorry, Lucky Man, I’ve tested Batista’s firepower firsthand and I don’t want it all pointed at me.”

  In a Hail Mary attempt to entice her, Micah blurted out, “His secret project is a mining operation.”

  Sounding unimpressed, she said, “Good. If he ever digs up something I’ll rob his boats, one at a time.”

  The monkey tried to bite into its prize, but when it proved inedible, he threw it away. It rolled across the floor, landing at Queen Caveira’s feet.

  She picked up the pool ball-sized emerald. Mentally connecting the dots, she shouted, “Umberto, get out!”

  The frightened man scrambled up the gangway.

  Once he was out of earshot, she held up the emerald. “Is this what they’re mining?”

  Seeing the greed in her eyes made Micah even more brazen. “That’s the smallest of what was brought back on the first trip. They’ve already dug up a huge supply, and it’s all sitting at the mine, ripe for the plucking. But if Batista gets there, he’ll dig in with his army and it’ll be impossible to steal.”

  She stared into the emerald, pondering a potential fortune, then shook her head. “If I attack Batista, his gunboats might cut us to pieces. Even if I beat him, I still don’t know where his mine is.” She ran her finger across the chart. “There are dozens of tributaries and lakes, and if I go exploring in that territory, the Morte Tinto will pick us off one by one.”

  Micah grinned and said, “What if I could lead you right to the mine?”

  “How?”

  “I saw it marked on his charts.”

  Queen Caveira tapped the chart. “You won’t be able to remember the exact spot.”

  “I was studying charts before I could read. I remember exactly where it is. If you hit Batista while he’s still on the water and vulnerable, all those emeralds plus the mine will be yours.”

  “Being rich is no fun if you’re dead.”

  “But if you attack him, won’t that snake god … Bonnie…”

  “Boiúna.”

  “Yeah, Boiúna will come to your aid. Killing Batista will elevate you in the eyes of a god.”

  Nodding slowly, she said, “Perhaps it is destiny.”

  “And you know who else would love it… Netflix!”

  She clapped her hands excitedly. “Ah, yes, the season finale! With my brilliance and Boiúna’s aid we’ll slaughter that bastard. Now, show me where this mine is.”

  “Only if you help me get my daughter back. All I need is a small boat so I can sneak over and grab her before you attack.”

  The pirate took the cigar out of her mouth and blew on the red-hot tip. “You’ve got some balls, Lucky Man. Maybe big enough to put my cigar out on.”

  Micah gulped, realizing he’d set himself up for torture.

  Then her mood swung a hundred and eighty degrees. She smiled and tucked the emerald into her breast pocket, tapping it softly. “But I am a kind soul and your daughter’s plight has touched my heart, so I will help you. You can keep your secret for now, but you must at least tell me the area so I can plan my attack.”

  Micah put his finger on a maze of tributaries and small lakes, careful not to touch the precise location.

  The queen cursed under her breath and said, “That region is sacred to the Morte Tinto. Only their high priest goes there.” She bellowed in Portuguese, and Umberto raced back down the gangway. “Take Lucky Man to the guest quarters and make sure he’s comfortable.”

  Umberto grinned and shoved Micah toward the gangway.

  She added, “But remember this; if you cross Queen Caveira, you won’t be a lucky man anymore.”

  With that, Micah was half led, half dragged up the gangway.

  #

  Micah was pushed onto the main deck. He tried to get his bearings until Umberto shoved him towards a ladder. It led to a flat platform resting over the pilothouse—the boat’s highest point.

  Micah asked, “Why’re we going up top?”

  Umberto answered with another shove that sent Micah crashing onto the deck at the base of a ladder. He felt a sharp pain in his back. Twisting around he saw a piece of rusted metal sticking out of the hull.

  “Great, now I’ve got tetanus too.”

  Umberto shouted, “Climb!”

  “I’m going, I’m going!”

  Once up top, Micah stepped onto a steel platform slick with algae and bird droppings. Out of nowhere, Umberto kicked him squarely in the butt. Micah slipped, landing flat on his elbows next to a set of chains secured to the platform—manacles.

  “What the fuck?”

  Umberto knelt on Micah’s back, pinning him down, while slapping manacles onto his left wrist. Once secured, he flipped Micah onto his back.

  Micah shouted, “Shit man, is this about the watch? I’ll buy you one!”

  Umberto shouted, “Quiet!” while manacling Micah’s other wrist.

  “Come on, we’re on the same team here, remember? I’m the queen’s Netflix guy!”

  “And that’s why she’s given you her finest guest cabin.” He pointed above Micah. “Or would you rather be like your shipmate?”

  Umberto shined his flashlight onto a bamboo cage dangling above the platform. A naked man was slumped inside, his face beaten to a pulp, his body a roadmap of shallow knife wounds—precision cuts designed to inflict pain, without killing. The man looked down at Micah, who suddenly recognized what was left of his face. He was one of Batista’s deck cooks. The poor bastard must have survived the snake attack only to be scooped up by the pirates.

  “Your friend also talked about a giant snake, but even after hours of cutting he couldn’t tell me anything else.”

  That brutal interrogation must have been the screaming Micah heard during his delirium.

  Umberto leaned close, breath reeking of dende oil and garlic. “In the morning, you can watch the birds peck out his eyes.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because the queen isn’t stupid. Right now you’d say anything to save your miserable hide. But after a few days in the hot sun, you’ll be more honest … or dead. And all you have to do is look up at your old shipmate to remember what happens if you lie to our queen. Sweet dreams… Lucky Man.”

  He slipped down the ladder, leaving Micah and the dying man to their own devices.

  Micah shouted, “You can forget about getting an associate producer credit, buddy!” Then he squirmed around. After some contorting, he was able to sit up and assess his sorry situation. The high platform reeked of decay and bird droppings, but at least it offered a crow’s nest view of Queen Caveira’s pirate fleet.

  He was chained to the top of what appeared to be a sixty-foot motor yacht serving as the queen’s flagship, likely hijacked from some unlucky tourists. Its luxurious trappings had long been stripped away, replaced by military functionality. Every inch of deck space was covered in supplies. A series of tattered bullet proof vests bearing Brazilian coast guard emblems were lashed to its deck railings, creating a wall of improvised armor. On its bow, a split, fifty-gallon drum had been repurposed into a gun turret. A guard sat there, manning an aged belt-fed machine gun.

  A forty-foot trawler cruised along the port side, her brown painted hull nearly invisible against the muddy water.

  Orbiting the two large boats was an armada of smaller, sharp-bowed dhow style go-fast boats—the same type favored by Somali pirates. All sported oversized, or dual, engines that could easily overtake fishing boats or even drug smugglers. The rear of each boat was fitted with a shelter draped in rope and barrels, so, at a distance, it could pass as a fishing boat.
By the time anyone realized their error, it would be too late. Men with assault rifles sat at the bows. The compact fleet was ideal for piracy or smuggling but didn’t compare to Batista’s armada. But Queen Caveira had the advantage of being a genuine psychopath, with a crew who worshipped her.

  Micah also got a look at her minions who were working the deck—a mix of brown and black faces with some Asian and indigenous natives thrown into the mix.

  Well, he thought, at least the queen’s an equal opportunity tyrant.

  The only common traits were hard features and sinewy muscles, along with similar scars criss-crossing their backs—healed over lash marks from long ago.

  He was certain of one thing— the pirate queen was crazy as an outhouse rat and willing to kill anything in her path, including Faye and Catalina. His only hope was to appease the mad queen and somehow escape before the attack, free the ladies, and make a break. Then all they had to do was avoid the angry pirates, cannibal natives and monster snakes. It seemed impossible, but there was no alternative.

  Micah spotted a ray of hope lashed to the flagship’s stern—a three-man, fully inflated dinghy with an outboard engine. He assumed it was the queen’s escape craft, meaning it would be kept fueled and ready. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

  Micah lay back on the slimy platform, determined not to let himself slip into despair.

  “Hey,” he muttered to himself, “it could be worse. It could be raining!”

  A few minutes later, the rain started.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hans sat rifling through research documents in what doubled as a workplace and Catalina and Faye’s sleeping quarters.

  Holding up one of the aerial photographs, he asked Catalina, “What observations have you made regarding the crater?”

  Catalina tensed. The past two days had been an ongoing struggle to pass herself off as a geologist, while constantly looking for an opportunity to escape. Her CIA trainers had given her a crash course in geology, with added focus on meteorites, but it was barely enough to bluff her way through an academic dinner party.