Country Of The Falcon. Anne Mather
had been in full flood, its black, crashing waters swollen by the storms of the rainy season. She had, until that moment, never seen such a tremendous volume of water shouldering its way to the sea, but even then she had not really considered its possible effect on her journey. And it had been comparatively easy obtaining a passage to Los Hermanos, but no one had told her that Los Hermanos was nothing like Manaus …
Manaus was a civilised port, founded in the mid-seventeenth century, but owing most of its architecture to the rubber boom which occurred at the turn of the twentieth century. Then a thriving English corporation had built a stone quay, with warehouses and floating wharves that were unaffected by the tremendous swell of the river in the wet season. In consequence its public buildings looked reassuringly European despite their tropical backcloth. Alexandra had stayed at a reasonably good hotel, partaken of mainly European dishes, and decided that all the stories about the Green Hell of the Amazon basin were untrue. But that was before her journey to Los Hermanos.
Manaus was surrounded on three sides by tropical rain forest and on the fourth by the surging waters of the Rio Negro, and indeed it had rained most of the time she was there. But viewing such scenery from the security of a hotel room was utterly different from the actual experience of penetrating further into this watery maze of rivers and forests. It had been a shock to learn that the rivers were the only navigable highways in the area, but she had refused to be deterred even though the knowledge that beyond the steaming wall of giant trunks that flanked the river-bank there was nothing but trees and creepers and rotting vegetation was shattering. The trees themselves were a fantastic sight, towering upwards for over a hundred feet, creating an illusion of lushness from the air which was never visible from the ground. The trees, the vines, the creepers, everything strove upward, and above the canopy of greenery that covered the underworld in cathedral gloom, blossoms flourished, trees flowered, and there was an abundance of life and colour.
Travelling upstream to Los Hermanos in a small craft which seemed totally inadequate to withstand the forces of the thundering waters, Alexandra had still been in the grip of excitement, eager to get on to Paradiablo and find her father. His delight at seeing her would outweigh his annoyance that she had not obeyed his instructions and gone to Cannes with Aunt Liz as planned, she was sure, and it was not until later that the doubts set in.
Her father was a bacteriologist, working for the London-based Haze Institute, and was presently researching the possible uses of the rare fungi found in the Amazon basin in the curing of certain tropical diseases. It was through the Institute that Alexandra had managed to gain the necessary documents and injections to come out to Brazil in the first place, and she had had no qualms about using her not inconsiderable charm to persuade Bob Haze that her father would have no objections. The fact that Aunt Liz had imagined she was spending a few days with a girl friend until the cable she had sent her from Rio de Janeiro arrived had caused her some pangs of conscience, but by then it had been too late to have second thoughts.
She had not given a great deal of thought to the kind of conditions her father might be living under either, and she had soon realised that a camping expedition could be a terrifying prospect. Tarantulas were common enough, albeit harmless if left alone as she had been told, but there were other equally disturbing creatures. Flies, of all kinds, ticks and fleas and centipedes, and mosquitoes which seemed impervious to the insect repellant she used so liberally.
Her arrival in Los Hermanos had been a revelation. It had proved to be little more than a landing point along the river, with a collection of thatched-roofed huts, and a store and warehouse. Her guide, a wizened, monkey-faced little man provided by the tourist authority in Manaus, deposited her there with the storekeeper, and then, by the means of much gesticulation, went on to explain that there were rapids upstream and until the vastly swollen river subsided he would go no further. They had left the Rio Negro some fifty miles above Manaus, and had followed this tributary, the Velhijo, for almost a hundred miles. It had been a strange journey. At the junction between the mighty Negro and the narrower Velhijo, their puny craft had been forced upstream by the weight of the waters below, and to Alexandra, who had never seen a river run against the current before, it was a frightening phenomenon. Further upstream they encountered a stagnant pool, strewn with dead insects and littered with leaves, which her guide had endeavoured to explain was the point where the descending waters of the Velhijo balanced the pressure of the water being forced upstream. After that, the river ran normally again, but Alexandra couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of negotiating that turbulent current on her way back.
Now she pushed aside the curtain of vine leaves which gave the hut a little privacy and emerged into the sunlight. The mornings were the best time of day. Apart from the fact that each day brought her a little nearer to seeing her father, she had the reassuring knowledge inside her that it would be several hours before she had to climb into that precarious hammock once more.
She looked round, aware of the speculative gazes of a group of Indian women sitting cross-legged around a camp-fire in the clearing. Naked children, some of them adorably sweet, played in the dirt, occasionally standing and staring at Alexandra with their thumbs stuck in their mouths. She had grown accustomed to being an object of curiosity, and as she was the only wholly white person in the settlement she was doubly so. The storekeeper, Santos, was of mixed Indian-Mexican origin, while her guide, Vasco, spoke Portuguese but looked more Indian than anything else.
Alexandra’s own knowledge of foreign languages was limited to a fair grounding in French and German, and the merest smattering of Spanish, gleaned during holidays abroad. Santos, fortunately, spoke quite good English, but Vasco littered his speech with Portuguese words that quite often completely confused her. Still, she had managed to communicate with both of them and the rest of the time she had sweated and waited restlessly, growing daily more convinced that she should not have come. But if anyone had told her how remote Paradiablo was she would probably not have believed them …
The hut she had been given to occupy was set some way back from the river but within sight and sound of the store and warehouse on the landing. What food she ate was provided by Santos’s cook, Maria, and now she walked slowly across the clearing towards the shaded verandah of the store. Here Santos had bamboo chairs and a table, and Alexandra had grown accustomed to sitting there for hours on end, flicking away the flies and watching the constant movement of the river.
Maria was putting out some of the starchy mandioca bread on the table which was the Indian’s staple diet, and she looked up and smiled when Alexandra appeared. She was an Indian girl of indeterminate age, although Alexandra suspected she was no older than herself. Indian women aged more quickly and Alexandra had seen the way Santos treated her. She was pretty sure he kept the girl for other reasons than cooking, but Maria didn’t seem to mind. There was a certain acceptance of her lot about her, and Alexandra wondered rather grimly how Women’s Lib would make out here.
Santos appeared as Alexandra was drinking her second cup of coffee. Of all things the coffee here was excellent, and she felt quite sure that without it she would have found it difficult to remain resolute.
Santos was not very tall, but he was immensely fat, and Alexandra could never completely quell the surge of disgust she felt at the idea of he and Maria together. He had a long moustache, and thinning black hair which he combed across his bald pate. He was invariably smoking a cigar, and this morning was no exception.
‘Ah, good morning, Mees Tempest!’ he greeted her blandly, scratching the hairs on his chest visible between the open buttons of his shirt. ‘Is a lovely morning, yes?’
‘Lovely,’ agreed Alexandra without enthusiam.
‘The river—she is subsiding, yes? Yes,’ he nodded.
Alexandra’s head jerked up. ‘You think so?’
He shrugged in typically Mexican fashion. ‘I think.’ He chuckled. ‘We will get that lazy—good-for-nothing moving, yes?’
‘Oh, I hope so.’ Alexandra was fervent. She put down her coffee cup. ‘How long will it take us to get to Paradiablo?’
‘You ask this many times, Mees Tempest. I cannot say.’ He shrugged again. ‘Two days—–’ He spread his hands. ‘Three days.’
‘So