The Codex

33

Tom could not sleep for thinking about the White City. Vernon was right. It all fit so perfectly. It was so obvious Tom wondered why he hadn’t figured it out before.

While he tossed and turned, Bugger squeaked irritably, then finally climbed up the hammock pole and slept in the rafters over Tom’s head. About four o’clock in the morning, Tom gave up. He rose from his hammock, built a fire in the ashes of the old, and put a pot on to boil. Bugger came down, still annoyed, climbed into his pocket, and tilted his head up to get scratched under the chin. Don Alfonso soon made an appearance, sitting down and accepting a cup of coffee. They sat in the jungle darkness for a long time without speaking.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” Tom said. “When we left Pito Solo, you talked as if you’d never be coming back. Why was that?”

Don Alfonso sipped his coffee, his glasses reflecting the flickering glow of the fire. “Tomasito, when the time comes, you will learn the answer to this question and many others.”

“Why did you come on this trip?”

“It was prophesied.”

“That’s not a good reason.”

Don Alfonso turned his face to Tom. “Destiny is not a reason. It’s an explanation. We will speak no more of this.”

The Macaturi was the broadest of the five rivers flowing into the Laguna Negra. It was a more navigable river than the Patuca, deep and clean, without sandbars or hidden snags. As they motored up the river the sun broke over the distant hills, tingeing them a greenish gold. Don Alfonso had taken his usual throne on top of the heap of supplies, but his mood was different. No longer did he offer philosophical reflections on life, talk about sex, complain about his ungrateful sons, or call out the names of the birds and animals. He just sat and smoked and gazed ahead with troubled eyes.

The two boats continued upriver in silence for several hours. As they rounded a bend, a large tree appeared, lying across the river, blocking their way. It had recently fallen, and the leaves were still green.

“This is strange,” muttered Don Alfonso. He called out to Chori, and they slowed their boat to let Pingo’s boat, which was behind them, catch up and pass. Vernon was amidships, leaning back against the gunwale, taking in the sun. He waved as they went by.

Pingo angled the dugout toward the far side of the river, where the fallen tree was thinnest and therefore easiest to chop through.

Suddenly Don Alfonso dove for the tiller and shoved it all the way to the right. Their dugout swerved and heeled almost to the point of capsizing. “Get down!” he screamed. “Down!”

At the same instant a burst of automatic-weapons fire rang out of the forest.

Tom threw himself on Sally and slammed her to the bottom of the boat as a line of bullets ripped through the side of the dugout, showering them with splinters. He could hear the bullets slapping the water around them and the shouts of the attackers. He twisted his head and saw Don Alfonso crouching in the stern, one hand still on the handle of the motor, steering them toward the shelter of an overhanging embankment.

An unearthly scream rose up from the boat behind them. Somebody had been hit.

Tom lay on top of Sally. He could see nothing but the mass of her blond hair and the scarred wooden hull beneath them. The screaming continued in the other boat — an inhuman wail of terror and pain. Tom thought, It’s Vernon. Vernon’s been shot. The firing continued, but now the bullets seemed to be passing above their heads. The boat scraped the bottom, scraped again, the propeller grinding on rocks in the shallows.

The firing and the screaming stopped at the same time. They had reached the cover of the embankment.

Don Alfonso scrambled back to his feet and looked behind. Tom could hear him shouting in Tawahka, but there was no answer.

Tom rose cautiously, lifting Sally. There were flecks of blood on her cheek where splinters of wood had cut her.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded mutely.

Their boat was now running alongside a high embankment of boulders and brush, almost underneath the overhanging bushes. He sat up and turned to the dugout behind, calling to his brother. “Vernon! Vernon! Are you hurt?” Tom could see there was a bloody hand clutching the tiller of the dugout behind. “Vernon!” Tom screamed.

Vernon rose up shakily from the center of the boat. He looked stunned.

“Vernon! My God, are you okay?”

“Pingo’s hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Really bad.”

The cough and roar of a boat engine sounded upriver, and then a second one. Tom could hear distant shouts.

Don Alfonso steered the boat as close as possible to the embankment. Vernon had taken the tiller of his boat and was following.

“We can’t outrun them,” Tom said.

Sally turned to Chori. “Give me your gun.”

Chori looked at her, uncomprehending.

Without waiting Sally grabbed the gun, checked to see it was loaded, slammed the bolt back, and crouched in the stern.

“You can’t stop them with that,” Tom cried. “They’ve got automatic weapons.”

“I can sure as hell slow them down.”

Tom could see their two boats coming around the bend in the river, the soldiers aiming their weapons.

“Down!”

Tom heard a single shot from Sally’s gun just as a burst of gunfire raked the vegetation hanging down over them, showering them with leaves. The shot had the desired effect: The two boats veered off in a panic for the cover of the riverbank. Sally dropped down next to Tom.

Don Alfonso was steering their boat under the embankment, the propeller striking rocks and whining as it was forced out of the water. More bullets whizzed overhead, and there was a dull metallic clank as one of the rounds struck the engine. The engine spluttered, then there was a whoosh as it caught fire, the boat turning broadside to the sluggish current. The fire spread with incredible speed, the flames leaping up from the melting rubber gas lines. The prow of Pingo and Vernon’s boat bumped into their hull from behind, jamming up against it as burning gas began to spread on the bottom of their boat, licking up around the gas tanks.

“Out!” said Tom. “They’re going to blow. Grab what you can!”

They threw themselves over the sides and into the shallows along the riverbank. Vernon and Chori grabbed Pingo and carried him up the embankment. Another burst of gunfire slammed into the bank above them, sending dirt and pebbles cascading down, but Sally’s shot had made the soldiers cautious, and they were keeping their distance. The fugitives scrambled up the dirt embankment and took cover beneath a mass of overhanging vegetation, stopping to catch their breath.

“We’ve got to keep going,” Tom cried.

At the top of the embankment Tom looked back only once, to see their boats drifting downstream, flames leaping. There was a muffled explosion as the gas can in one of the boats exploded, sending a ball of flame skyward. Beyond, the boats with the soldiers were cautiously angling in toward shore. Sally, still carrying Chori’s gun, dropped to a knee and fired a second shot through the screen of vegetation.

They retreated deeper into the jungle, taking turns carrying Pingo, forcing their way through the thick vegetation. From behind Tom could hear more shouting, followed by some random shooting through the forest and the muffled crump of another exploding gas tank. The men had evidently landed their boats and were halfheartedly chasing them. But as they pushed deeper into the forest, the sporadic gunfire grew fainter until the sounds disappeared altogether.

They halted in a small grassy clearing. Tom and Vernon laid Pingo down, and Tom bent over him, desperately feeling for a pulse. There was none. He located the wound. It was horrifying. An expanding bullet had struck Pingo in the back, between the shoulder blades, and emerged with explosive force from his chest, leaving a gaping hole more than six inches across. It had passed directly through the heart. It was amazing he had lived for even a few seconds after a wound like that.

Tom glanced up at Chori. The man had an expression on his face that was absolutely cold.

“I’m sorry.”

Don Alfonso said, “There is no time to be sorry. We must go.”

“And leave the body here?”

“Chori will stay with it.”

“But the soldiers are surely coming—”

Don Alfonso cut him off. “Yes. And Chori must do what he must do.” He turned to Sally. “You keep his gun and ammunition. We will not see Chori again. Let us go.”

“We can’t leave him here!” Tom protested.

Don Alfonso grabbed Tom’s shoulders. His hands were surprisingly strong, like steel clamps. He spoke quietly but with intensity. “Chori has unfinished business with his brother’s killers.”

“Without a gun?” Sally asked as Chori took out of his leather bag a tattered box of ammunition and handed it to her.

“Silent arrows are more effective in the jungle. He will kill enough of them to die with honor. This is our way. Do not interfere.” Without a backward glance Don Alfonso turned, swiped his machete across a wall of vegetation, and plunged through the opening. They followed, struggling to keep up with the old man, who moved with the speed and silence of a bat. Tom had no idea where they were heading. They walked for hours up and down ravines, wading swift streams, at times hacking their way through dense stands of bamboo or ferns. Biting ants rained down on them and crawled down their shirts, and several times Don Alfonso impaled small snakes with his machete and flicked them aside. It rained briefly and they were soaked. The sun came out and they steamed. Clouds of insects followed them, biting viciously. Nobody spoke. No one could speak. It was all they could do to keep up.

Hours later, when the light began to die in the treetops, Don Alfonso halted. Without a word he sat on a fallen tree trunk, fished out his pipe, and lit it. Tom watched the match flare up and wondered how many more they had. They had lost almost everything with the burning of the boats.

“What now?” Vernon asked.

“We camp,” said Don Alfonso. He pointed with his machete. “Make a fire. There.”

Vernon got to work and Tom helped.

Don Alfonso pointed his machete at Sally. “You: Go hunting. You may be a woman, but you shoot like a man and you have the courage of a man.”

Tom looked at Sally. Her face was smudged, her long blond hair in tangles, the gun slung over her shoulder. He could see in her face everything he was feeling: the shock and surprise of the attack, horror at the death of Pingo, dread at the loss of all their supplies, determination to survive. She nodded and went off into the forest.

Don Alfonso looked at Tom. “You and I will build a hut.”

An hour later, night had fallen. They were sitting around the fire, eating the last of a stew made from a large rodent Sally had shot. A small thatched hut sat nearby, and Don Alfonso sat in front of a pile of palm leaves, stripping them and weaving them into hammocks. He had been silent except for giving terse orders.

“Who were those soldiers?” Tom asked Don Alfonso.

Don Alfonso busied himself over the hammocks. “Those were the soldiers who came upriver with your other brother Philip.”

“Philip would never permit an attack on us,” said Vernon.

“No,” said Tom. He felt his heart sink. There must have been a mutiny on Philip’s expedition, or something else had happened. At any rate, Philip must be in grave danger — if not already dead. The unknown enemy, therefore, had to be Hauser. He was the one who had killed the two policemen in Santa Fe, who had arranged for their capture in Brus, who was behind this most recent attack on them.

“The question,” Sally said, “is whether we go on or go back.”

Tom nodded.

“It’d be suicide to go on,” Vernon said. “We’ve got nothing — no food, no clothes, no tents, sleeping bags, or food.”

“Philip’s up ahead,” said Tom. “And he’s in trouble. It’s pretty obvious that Hauser’s the one behind the killing of the two policemen in Santa Fe.”

There was a silence. “Maybe we should go back, resupply, and return. We won’t be able to help him like this, Tom.”

Tom glanced at Don Alfonso, plaiting deftly. He sensed from the studiously neutral expression on the old man’s face that he had an opinion. He always looked that way when he was about to disagree. “Don Alfonso?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have an opinion?”

Don Alfonso laid the hammock down and rubbed his hands together. He looked Tom in the eye. “I do not have an opinion. I have instead a statement of fact.”

“Which is?”

“Behind us is a deadly swamp in which the water is lowering every day. We have no dugout. It will take a week at least to make another. But we cannot stay in one place for a week, because the soldiers will find us, and the manufacture of a dugout creates clouds of smoke, which will be a signpost for all to see. So we must keep moving, on foot, through the jungle, toward the Sierra Azul. To go back is to die. That is my statement of fact.”