Shadow Play (22 page)

"I know," she replied.

"At first I thought he hated me. He said things that were often unkind. Then I realized it was his way of keeping a wall between himself and the ones he cared for most. That way he didn't have to admit his true feelings, and needs— not to those he loved or even to himself. He was an orphan, you know."

The memory of their conversation concerning their families those many nights ago

came back to her in a rush of tears that spilled down her face.

"That poppycock about his father being a naval officer was a lie. He never knew his father. His mother was a prostitute who worked the docks. She was unable to care for him, and when he was six she turned him over to a Catholic orphanage in New Orleans. I don't think he ever saw her again. He was never adopted. He told me in one of those rare moments when he let his guard down that I was the only family he'd ever had. You can't know what that meant to me." He stopped rowing and placed the oar across his knees. Grief washed over him again.

They drifted with the current as the air grew hellishly steamy, condensing in clouds of moisture that hung over the river like fog. Somewhere a bird called out, its high plinking cry sounding like pebbles dropping into a crystal glass. In response there came the donkeylike braying of some animal that made Sarah wish even harder that Morgan were there. She had not realized how safe she had felt with him. Now death and danger seemed to loom at her from every side. How blind and ignorant she had been not to respect—and fear—the jungle.

Ahead of them, Kan's canoe showed intermittently through the mist, appearing, then disappearing as they rounded a bend in the river. Henry and the Indian sharing their boat eased their oars into the water, deftly guiding the craft through the tricky currents, all the while keeping their eyes trained on the vessel ahead for signs of trouble.

It was Kan who first noticed the change in their surroundings. Easing his oar to the bottom of the canoe, he peered back through the fog at Sarah and Henry. It came to them all in that moment: the strange stillness and silence. Through the primeval cloak of swirling steam they watched an iguana ripple through the water and disappear between the vermilion petals of a river flower growing along the marshy banks. Kan, sitting erect and on guard, raised his hand and cupped it around his ear, signaling to Sarah and Henry that he had heard something. Everyone sat forward in rapt attention. A moment passed, then ...

There came the gasp and splash of a solitary swimmer somewhere behind the submerged trees near the shore., Sarah's heart stopped at the sound. She turned to Henry and grabbed his hand as his dark eyes did their best to pierce the fog rising off the water. Again the sound came, a sigh and gulp of air. It seemed eerily human, yet somehow...

The Indian sitting in the bow of Sarah's boat leapt to his feet and, pointing to the water, cried,
"Boto!"

The water near their vessel roiled, and as Sarah stared in fascination the swimmer surfaced, puffing a spray of air from its blowhole, humping up before plunging underwater, its triangular pink back knifing through the murky surface. Again and again it rose, rolling around the bobbing boats, slapping its tail, and filling the air with noises that sounded uncannily like laughter.

The marmoset in Morgan's hat scuttled up to Sarah's shoulder and chattered as she reached out for the dolphin, missing its glossy hide by inches. But as she began

to withdraw her hand it appeared again, sliding its sleek wet body against her palm, from its long bottle nose to the end of its tail, emitting a soft, satisfied sigh that brought a rise to the hairs on her nape. Then, with a flash of its fins, it swirled away, knifing through the water like a silver blade and—before the spectators' amazed eyes—soaring straight out of the river where it danced upright along the surface, in and out of the fog, so that for an instant it looked so startlingly like a man that many of the Indians cried out in fear.

"My God," Sarah whispered. Clutching Henry close to her, she watched as the creature slowly and silently slid back into the water, leaving hardly a ripple in its wake as it sank from view. The minutes hung suspended while each person watched and waited for the
boto
to reappear, to assure them that what had just transpired had been no dream, no fantasy, but reality.

Yet it did not reappear. The stillness moved over them again, the sounds of the floresta returning to swallow them in a cacophony of hums and shrieks and whistles. Overhead a pair of bright red macaws flew, followed by a flock of green and blue parrots. Near the shore the bushes rattled and an alligator slid through the mud and into the river, and there, peered toward the canoes with eyes that were barely visible above the surface of the water.

Relaxing, Sarah released her breath. In that instant, Kan cried out through the fog, "Aaaiyaah! Oooaaaiyaah!" And he motioned toward the opposite sandbank.

"Good God," Henry exclaimed. "Sarah, Sarah—look!" Leaping to his feet, rocking the boat perilously, he screamed out in joy, his laughter reverberating from the floresta walls and ceiling. The Indians, too, began to laugh and cheer, and Sarah broke down and wept.

Morgan Kane stood on a sandbar at the bend of the river. He was alive!

Chapter Eleven

Henry leapt from the canoe and slogged his way through knee-deep water before reaching the sandbar. Loin- cloth dripping, he came at Morgan full speed, throwing himself against him like a child would a long-lost parent. They stumbled backward, spilling to the ground.

"Morgan, you're alive. God, I thought we'd lost you!"

His arms and legs thrown wide, Morgan winced as Henry squirmed off him. He had little strength to speak, much less sit up. The effort to stand moments before had been
almost more than he could manage. On his knees, Henry gazed down into his face, his look of relief melting into awareness and concern. He placed his small hands on Morgan's cheeks. "Morgan, you look like hell."

"And you're still short and ugly. Tell me something I don't already know." A smile flickered over Henry's lips, making Morgan laugh dryly. "What's wrong? Don't tell me you haven't ever met a man whose face has been ravaged by fire ants."

"Is there much pain, my friend?"

Morgan tried to wet his lips; it wasn't possible. Then Sarah materialized over Henry's shoulder, eyes luminous with tears, knuckles pressed against her mouth in an attempt to hold back her emotions. Morgan blinked to clear his vision, to no avail. He wanted to assure himself that she was not as beautiful as his imagination had pictured her the past nightmarish days. Surely she had to be a hallucination brought on by his pain and fever.

He reached for Henry, who had begun rambling. "We'd given up hope. What happened? Can you tell us? By Jove, but the last days have been torturous for us. I can only imagine what they've been for you."

"Henry."

"The natives never gave up hope. 'Trie American is the
boto,'
they kept repeating. 'The
boto
cannot drown.' "

"Henry?"

"We made camp about two miles upriver and—"

"Henry!" He grabbed Henry's shoulders and jerked him down to his face. "Be quiet," he said. "There are Yanoamo out there, in those trees."

Henry glanced toward the menacing forest. "You've seen them?"

"Yes."

"Did they see you?"

"Obviously not, or I'd be laid out over someone's dinner plate."

Henry appeared thoughtful. "We could make it halfway to Mancos by nightfall, since the current is with us."

Morgan frowned. "Manaos?"

"Yes. We've decided to forget King and go home. We—''

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no."

"But, Morgan—"

"No but Morgans." He gripped Henry more tightly. "Two thoughts have kept me alive these last days. One of them was getting to King. I'm gonna make that son of a bitch pay for what he did to me. He took my dignity. He made me want to die."

Henry nodded.

"The other is..." He looked toward Sarah. "Gold," he whispered, his voice slurring as he struggled to remain conscious. "It's gonna make me a rich man, Henry. I'll be able to buy... anything I want, includin' a title if that's what it takes to be somebody in
her
world."

' 'But, Morgan, you need rest. We'll need to do something about your.. .face."

"A real mess, huh?"

Trying to smile, Henry nodded. "You're almost as ugly as me."

"God, how comforting."

"We might make it to the Barcelos mission before dark. The ruins will offer us protection and shelter until you're fit enough to travel. Are you up to the journey?"

"No," he replied. "But we'll do it anyway."

Soon they were gliding back up the river. Morgan lay in the bottom of the canoe, his head resting in Sarah's lap. Occasionally she would soothe his hot brow with her cool hands, and although she spoke little, her smile com- forted him.

He was aware of voices and noises around him. They swam in and out of his consciousness, as they had for the past two days. The sounds of birds and animals seemed to speak to him in human tongues until, in some corner of his mind, he realized he was hallucinating. Odd echoes of a woman's laughter flitted on the edge of his awareness, yet when he awoke and gazed up at Sarah with his one good eye that was not swollen closed, he found her studying him with a solemnity that belied her young years.

Every so often she spoke to him, and he answered, yet afterward he had trouble recalling the words that had passed between them. He asked for a cigarette once and watched, amused, as Sarah lit it for him, wrinkling her nose at the acrid taste of the smoke and tobacco. Then she slid it between his lips, her fingertips brushing tenderly, and tenuously, against his mouth. "Oh, Morgan," she whispered. "I thought I'd lost you."

He awoke once to find his marmoset perched on his chest, chattering wildly. Sarah forced

a piece of fruit into his hand and directed him to feed the upset animal. He did, and the marmoset, with juice running off its elbows, settled into a satisfied silence as it feasted on the succulent treat. Then it curled into a furry ball on his stomach and fell asleep.

When he awoke again the air felt cooler. Twilight had slipped in around them, and with it the fragrance of night flowers filled the air like perfume. The Indians beached their canoes on a stretch of sand that curved like a scythe around a bend in the river. As Sarah and Henry helped Morgan from the boat, he looked up to see a crucifix high above him. Covered with vines of bright flowers, the aged object reflected the last rays of sunlight that spilled through an opening in the foliage canopy. For an awe-inspiring moment everyone paused, taking in the sight. How long had it been since they had seen the sun, since they had seen the sky for that matter?

Sarah left Morgan's side and walked up the crumbling steps to the doorless entry of the deserted mission. As she turned her face up to the sun, light poured over her in a bath of soft yellow, turning her features the color of butter and her hair into a pale fire that might surely have burned him had he buried his hands in it, which was what he longed to do in that moment. Finally she turned to him and smiled. "I thought I would never feel the sun on my face again. Morgan, it's wonderful." Then she entered the mission, leaving her spellbound audience staring after her in silence.

Once, the Reduction of Barcelos had stood for order and permanence in Amazonia. Now, however, the set- dement, which had been abandoned a century ago, was in danger of being swallowed completely by the forest. Even from the river one could easily see that the clearing in the floresta was not natural, but the remains of what had once been a thriving Portuguese fort situated between the Padauiri and Branco tributaries that fed into the Rio Negro. Its paved alleys were now littered with thorn bushes and serrated jungle grass that had thrust its way up among the stone blocks laid out in the main square.

Henry, having built a fire of rotting wood, perched at the foot of the steps and worked diligently at pulverizing the berries of some plant into a thick mush, to which he added a finely ground powder, the ashes of cecropia, and a liquid steeped with coca leaves, which he had carried with him from Belem. "The cecropia will draw out the infection," he told Sarah and Morgan. "The coca will alleviate the discomfort." His hands stopped their furious grinding as he cocked his head toward Morgan, who reclined in a hammock between two trees. "The effects of this won't be pleasant, Morgan, but it'll be worth it in the end. I take it you're still in a great amount of pain?''

Feeling sweat seep from every pore on his body, he nodded.

Kan moved toward the fire and, bending low, stirred a dark brew that had been cooking for some time. As Henry looked at him curiously, Kan stated, "It is the ayahuasca, the medicine of my shaman. It will give me great power, enough that I may draw the poison from Kane's body and cast it to the dark."

"By Jove," Henry muttered. "That's quite good, old man." Standing, he moved in and out

of the firelight, motioning toward Sarah, who had never ventured far from Morgan's side since their arrival at Barcelos. "Help me to get his shirt off. Careful. His arm is badly swollen." Partially turning, he watched Kan drink down the vile-looking tea, then he directed, "Bring me that knife, please ... that is, if you can manage it, old boy. That's a good chief. You might try calming the others. They seem to believe that if Morgan dies, they will too. Something about their inability to keep him safe from evil spirits. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that rumor, would you, chief?"

Kan retrieved Morgan's knife where it lay by the fire. He delivered it, swaying slightly as if he were drunk. Pressing nearer, his bronze body covered in a film of sweat, he began humming under his breath. Henry, smiling down at Morgan, said, "Try to ignore him and maybe he'll go away.''

Morgan could find no humor in the situation. He hurt too damn much. The flesh on the side of his face and neck was swollen to the point of bursting. His right arm and hand, from the tip of his fingers to his shoulder, were distended to twice their normal size. As the sleeve of his shirt was cut away, the sight of his arm told him exactly what he feared most. Infection had set in.