Two Graves

58

PENDERGAST HEARD, AT THE EDGE OF AUDIBILITY, THE sound of the boat engine as it moved down the river, soon fading away. The trace of a smile crossed his lips as he continued on. The jeep road wound its way through the endlessly dripping forest, the strange spiky branches of the araucaria pines heavy with droplets. He trudged along, occasionally stopping to pursue a butterfly, as the road wound upward through the dense forest in a series of broad switchbacks, mounting higher and higher until it eventually reached into the low-hanging clouds.

Half an hour later, the track leveled out as it arrived at the top of a low ridge—the rim of an ancient volcanic crater. From there it descended into the mist, the visibility now only a few hundred yards.

Pendergast peered closely at the crater. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper: the picture Tristram had drawn of a mountain—the feature of Nova Godói he’d been unable to describe in words. It perfectly matched the crater that now rose up before him.

He made his way down, and as the trail once again leveled out he came to two pillars of dressed lava rock on either side of the road, with a chain-link gate across and a rock wall extending on both sides out into the forest. Behind the gate stood a guardhouse. As he approached, two guards came tumbling out, rifles in hand. They cried out at him in German, pointing their rifles.

“I only speak English!” Pendergast cried, raising his hands. “I’m a naturalist! I’m here to look for butterflies!”

One of the soldiers, apparently the man in charge, stepped forward and switched into excellent English. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“My name is Percival Fawcett,” Pendergast said, delving into his pack and pulling out a UK passport. “Fellow of the Royal Society. I came here by boat up the river, I can tell you it was no easy trip!”

The guards seemed to relax somewhat, both putting up their rifles. “This is private property,” the commander said. “You can’t come in here.”

“I’ve come halfway around the world,” said Pendergast in a voice that combined a shrill pleading with a certain truculence, “to find the Queen Beatrice butterfly. And I will not be turned away.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “I have letters of introduction from the provincial governor and another from Santa Catarina.” He proffered the papers, which had been duly stamped, embossed, and notarized. “And I have a letter here from the Royal Society, urging cooperation with my important mission, and another from the Lepidoptery Department of the British Museum, endorsed by the Sociedade Entomológica do Brasil.” More papers came out. “As you can see, mine is a mission of the utmost scientific importance!” His voice climbed in volume.

The commander took the sheaf of papers and rifled through them, a frown disfiguring his keen, Nordic features. “We don’t allow visitors for any reason whatsoever,” he said. “As I told you, this is private property.”

“If you refuse me entry,” said Pendergast shrilly, “there will be a scandal. I will make sure of it. A scandal!”

This created a certain uneasiness in the guard’s expression. He moved back and conferred with his subordinate. Then the commander went into the guardhouse and could be seen making a call on a radio. He spoke for some time, and then returned to the gate. “Wait here,” he said.

A few minutes later a jeep came down the road, driven by a man in olive drab, with another man, in a uniform of solid gray, sitting in the backseat. The jeep stopped, and the man in the rear got out and stepped forward. Even though he wasn’t exactly in a military uniform, he carried himself like a soldier.

“Open the gate,” he said.

The guards rolled the gate aside. The man stepped forward, his hand extended. “I am Captain Scheermann,” he said, with just a trace of a German accent, as he shook Pendergast’s hand. “And you are Mr. Fawcett?”

“Dr. Fawcett.”

“Of course. I understand you’re a naturalist?”

“That’s right,” said Pendergast, his voice rising belligerently. “As I was telling these men, I’ve come halfway around the world on a mission of great scientific importance, endorsed by the governors of two Brazilian states as well as the British Museum and the Royal Society, in cooperation with the Sociedade Entomológica do Brasil”—he stumbled badly over the pronunciation. “I insist on being treated with courtesy! If I am turned away, I promise you, sir, there will be an investigation, a very thorough investigation!”

“Of course, of course,” said the captain soothingly. “If I may—”

Pendergast went on, undeterred. “I am in pursuit of the Queen Beatrice butterfly, Lycaena regina, long thought extinct. It was last observed in the Nova Godói caldera in 1932. My twenty years of research—”

“Yes, yes,” the captain interrupted, smoothly if a little impatiently. “I understand. There’s no need for such excitement, no need for investigations. You’re welcome to enter. We have our rules, but for you we will make an exception. A temporary exception.”

A beat. “Well,” said Pendergast. “That is most kind of you. Most kind! If there are expenses or fees—?”

The captain held up his hand. “No, no. The only thing we require is that you accept an escort.”

“An escort?” Pendergast frowned.

“We’re used to our privacy here, and some of our people might be startled by an outsider. You’ll need an escort—mostly for your own comfort and safety. I’m sorry, but that is not open for negotiation.”

Pendergast harrumphed. “If necessary, fine. But I will be moving about in the forest in all weathers, and he or she better be able to keep up.”

“Naturally. Now, may I escort you to our town hall, where we can take care of the paperwork?”

“That’s rather more like it,” said Pendergast, climbing into the jeep as the captain held open the door. “In fact, that’s capital. Just capital.”