by Bob Nailor
In the year of our Lord, 1927. Fordlândia, Brazil.
Again, at the beginning of the 20th century, interest in the wonders of the Brazilian jungle surged in the minds of modern men. Industrialist Henry Ford sent researchers to the lush land of Brazil and Fordlândia, and a vast rubber farming operation was created. The entire project failed after almost twenty years of intensive and extensive attempts. The forest quickly reclaimed Ford’s plantations as its own; only the water tower, rusting and slowly deteriorating, remained as a testament to its very existence. The outside world was told a fungus had attacked the plants and the soil would not handle the growth, but the locals knew the true reason: the morcego mulher had again found white blood, her favorite flavor.
In the year of our Lord, 1999. Ghent, Belgium.
Eddy Heirbaut lay on his back sanding the massive table. Five hundred years had left the Spanish oak harder than any wood he’d ever worked. The magnificent piece had found its way back to Charles’ castle via most of Europe’s capitals. In a few months, it would be the centerpiece of the five hundredth anniversary of the city’s most famous son. On top would sit a large illuminated globe to display the extent of Charles' kingdom. Unfortunately, no one would give a damn about what was underneath; no one, except Eddy.
He was ready for lunch and a beer, with sawdust coating every millimeter of his body. He had nearly finished the first of the four massive legs when he sensed a give in the surface. A few taps told him the wood was hollow. Curiosity overcame him and it only took a few moments to find the secret and pop the compartment open.
Inside were three parchments, one each in Latin, German and Spanish. He perused them then called his supervisor. By the afternoon, the royal curator from Antwerp had sealed off the carpenter’s studio and Eddy had been sent home. The writing was validated to be in the Emperor’s hand. The German and Latin documents were bilingual copies of a full pardon for the German monk, Martin Luther. The Spanish document was a simple Dominican report about the New World. All three documents were in the Vatican archives by midnight that same day.
Surprised, Eddy learned the next morning he had been selected for early retirement. He and his wife of thirty years immediately left for an extended vacation on the southern coast of Spain. Stranger yet, while touring the Andalucían coast, their rented motor home slipped off a loose gravel shoulder and plunged dozens of meters to the rocky coast below. Their badly decomposed bodies washed up on the shores of two different countries a few weeks later.
Time waited.
In the year of our Lord, today.
The afternoon was quiet, the water calm. Three children and their mother splashed river water over their bodies for the fourth time that day. The river refreshed them, soothed the insect stings, and restored peace in their forest lives.
The oldest, a bit further out in the stream, spun around as if a fish had nibbled at her bare bottom. She made a face and retreated to her mother. Together, they called the father who reluctantly fished the body out of the river.
The skin was as black as charcoal and hugged the skeleton inside as if it had been painted in place. Two eyes stared wildly into space. The mouth gaped wide in a silent scream of death.
Federal Police Lieutenant Edson Macedo cruised past the family an hour after the corpse was found. They called him over to where the fisherman had tied the corpse to a low-hanging branch. No one wanted to touch it. A school of piranhas calmly flicked about, but not one swam within a foot of the desiccated flesh. The fish scattered when Edson hooked the body and hauled it into his launch.
“How long has it been here?” he asked the father, the only Indian willing to talk.
“We have no idea." He shrugged his shoulders. "It just floated here.”
The mother stood behind a bush, guarding her children like chicks. “Mulher morcego,” she whispered.
“What did you say?” Edson asked, glancing back at the woman.
She pointed at the blackened body. “Mulher morcego did this.” She crossed herself. The children mimicked the action.
Edson shook his head at the jungle superstitions of the family. He’d heard the term before; it was used to scare children — mulher morcego: ‘the women who are bats.’ He knew the phrase would never appear in his official report.
The next day Edson hitched a ride on a Military Police chopper to check out the grazing area where the dead man had worked for the landowner, Eduardo Moraes. He found half of the cattle dead from starvation, covered with flies while rats ran wild in orgiastic feasts among the infestation. The other half of the herd wandered about, listless and gaunt. Bags of feed lay unopened. By the time the Ministry of Agriculture arrived to rescue the livestock, the living cattle had disappeared into the region’s local butcher shops. But, not a living human soul was to be found.
Chapter Two
SINGAPORE PREPARATIONS
In the year of our Lord, Today, Sumatra
Dr. Ana Carvalho squatted in the brush, waiting as the sun crept above the horizon. Three young native women stood an arm’s-length away, stealing glances toward the pot boiling on her campfire. One native carried a chubby girl on her hip who casually nursed her breakfast while keeping one eye fixed on the odd, pale stranger. The other two natives stood on either side, their long black hair pulled behind tiny faces decorated with slashes of colorful paint. They chatted between themselves like teens at the mall.
Ana had lived at the base of their mountainous island territory for a month, biding her time and waiting for a chance to talk. She’d traded gifts through gestures and grunting, smiled at babies, and endured the glares from the tiny native men. Today, the three women had finally wandered to her morning’s breakfast campfire, seeking the source of the wonderful smells.
A small black dot in the sky Ana had noticed earlier, now had grown into a monstrous whirlwind of mechanical pandemonium. The native women scampered back into the bush, the small fire scattered to the winds and her camp a near disaster.
She grabbed her long, black hair as it was whipped about the top of her head by the prop wash, and tied it behind her shoulders. “Get the hell off my mountain, you son-of-a-bitch. You just destroyed a month’s work,” she snapped when the pilot emerged to wave at her. “And don’t come back.” Her green eyes flared in anger.
“I’ve got orders to get you back to Singapore,” he shouted over the roar of the rotor.
Bags dropped to the ground from the helicopter followed by a male. Her replacement. She recognized him from conferences when she had been a student. Ana shook her head in disgust and rolled her eyes. This jerk is totally useless, she thought.
“Bite me,” she yelled and stomped back toward what was left of her camp. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the replacement grabbing his bags from the chopper. “And take that with you.”
The pilot ran after her. “Dr. Carvalho, something has come up in South America. Something big that might interest you.” He yelled to be heard over the roar of the rotors. He handed her a set of hi-res satellite shots that whipped in the winds. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Gotcha!” he said with a smile. “Rossi said these pics would change your mind. Now you grab your stuff and let’s get in the air.”
Dr. Ana Carvalho took one last glance around the campsite devastated by the chopper, and sighed disgustedly at her replacement struggling to set up his tent. The natives had scampered away into the jungle. Loose sheets of language notes were scattered down a precipitous mountainside of black volcanic rock.
I broke the ground, but I’m willing to bet it’ll probably still take him another two months to regain their trust, she thought, then turned and crawled up into the helicopter.
She was livid. It was exactly this crap that drove her to hate Rossi and the United World Federation. She would spend months doing the dirty work—offering gifts, food, smiles. Then some dime-store Ph.D. would fly in at the end and grab the glory. For once, she wanted to be forgotten in the field and work her way into some tribe who was
lost in time. She wanted to go feral, to be a part of them. And… not have Rossi or UWF take it away at the last moment.
The high-res satellite photos did help to sedate her anger somewhat during the flight to Singapore. Big-time cattle herders had chopped down a chunk of the Amazon forest. Now, more than cow patties appeared in its place. Huge geoglyphs had been carved in the earth and lay hidden from the world under that canopy of the forest for centuries. The tropical rain forest wasn’t as virgin as she appeared. And, what was in the center of one of those geoglyphs was what finally put a smile on her.
They put down on the heliport atop the gleaming skyscraper. The United World Federation (UWF) spread out over an entire floor for their global operations center. The foundation had funded her Ph.D. in exchange for five years of her life to their service. She only had one more year left to serve.
The conference room commanded a corner forty floors in the air. The two glass walls boasted the best view of Singapore’s harbor and at present, the mid-morning sun shone down on the scene. The other two walls were covered with electronic maps and monitors. A satellite video system allowed 24/7 contact with their operations around the world.
Ana recognized most of the cast of characters around the table: her linguistic and anthropological coordinators, the Singaporean director of operations, her supervisor, and the Swiss finance officer who never left home without a gold Krugerrand hanging from his neck. At the head of the table was a face she’d only seen in the annual reports: Gianni Rossi. He’d taken the reins of UWF from his father less than twenty years earlier. He split his time between Rome and visits to different field operations. He’d never shown up in a surprise visit, as was his custom, on one of Ana’s sites and that was no skin off her back; she preferred to work alone and be left alone.
“Sit down, Dr. Carvalho,” her supervisor said and glanced toward an empty chair. “We’ve already heard you’re upset about being pulled away from your site.”
“It took me a whole damned month to win the trust of those natives,” Ana snapped. She held up her hand with a hair’s breadth between the index finger and thumb. “I was this close and your chopper blew away all my work in a mere three seconds. Wouldn’t you be pissed?” She glared at her supervisor then plunked herself down. Rossi’s face remained stoic at her impertinence.
“Trust me, Ana.” Her supervisor inhaled deeply below allowing an exhale. “You’ll like what we have to show you.”
She nodded toward a matrix of six monitors which displayed an aerial photo with incredible resolution. It was the one Ana had already reviewed in-flight, but with a few subtle differences she immediately noticed. The coordinates put the location in a remote spot at the headwaters of the Amazon River.
“Where did you get this photo?” Ana asked. “It’s unbelievable.” She slid out of the leather chair and glided to the bank of monitors, totally mesmerized.
Rossi leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Our friends in the U.S. military were good enough to help out, Dr. Carvalho. I see you’ve noticed why you’re here.” The right edge of his lips curled in a sly smile.
Ana’s nose was inches from one of the screens, her fingers softly caressing the glass as if that would push away the images of the trees to allow a better view. Cut into the green of the forest was an orderly settlement unlike any she’d ever seen. The streets revealed a few natives. A few hundred yards further into the forest, thick, black smoke belched from a chimney. At one end of the geoglyph, rose a tower whose roof gleamed yellow in the tropical sun.
“Is that gold?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper.
“It would appear to be,” Rossi answered. Suddenly she understood why it had been blurred and practically removed from the printed version she’d examined in-flight.
“Your father’s from Lisbon,” Rossi stated. “How’s your Portuguese?”
“This is Brazil, isn’t it?” she asked. “I speak Portuguese from Portugal. It’ll take a little getting used to.”
Rossi smiled at her tacit acceptance of the assignment. “And your mother is Serbian.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. He spoke without notes or a file.
“Goofy combination, I know. But it works for me.”
“And how is your Serbo-Croatian?”
“We call it Serbian now. A little better than my English,” she answered. Her American accent was flawless.
“What passport do you carry?”
“Three. Normally, I use the EU one.”
“And the other two?”
“Serbian and American. I was born in Boston.” Ana spoke matter-of-factly with no evidence of pride in her international agility. “I carry triple citizenship.”
Rossi nodded to the supervisor who stood and walked to the end of the room. “We anticipated your enthusiasm.” The matronly Oriental opened a door and, one by one, seven more people sauntered in. “I’ll let them introduce themselves.” She cast a cautious glance at Ana. “This will be your team.”
“Team?” Ana thought with a quick furrowing of her brows, then graciously smiled at the entering group. Patience with colleagues was not her strongest skill.
The first to enter was of medium height with the olive complexion of a Mediterranean. He walked straight to Ana, his hand extended in a warm greeting. “I’m Dr. Aaron Theodouros, an anthropologist from the University of Athens.” He stood only an inch taller than she, slight of build, but firm from years in the field. A broad smile accompanied his enthusiastic handshake. It was the ice-blue eyes that caught Ana’s attention.
The next to enter was a wiry academic whom Ana recognized from her days at Harvard. He’d written the book on Native American linguistics. “Dr. Neville Hastings,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye and an exuberant smile. “City College of London.” He was more or less her father’s age with a posh British accent and practically skipped to his place at the table.
Next, a lanky young man stuck out his hand. “My name is Marshall Randolph, Dr. Carvalho,” he stuttered, nervously clearing his throat and shifting his gaze between her and Rossi. “I’m a fourth-year grad student at King’s College. In addition to my archeology major, I am also the English singles rowing champion for last year. I’ll be your EMT.” The Brit was tall and fit but extremely shy in his demeanor. His hair and skin were baked by hours on the Thames.
“Nancy Smith, third-year geologist from the University of Adelaide,” the young woman said. She grasped Ana’s hand with a grip as strong as any of the men. “If it means anything, I was the Australian surfing champion two years back.” She was medium height but thin, with sun-bleached hair. The Aussie radiated confidence.
“My name is Megan Anderson,” said the group’s only redhead in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a third-year photojournalist and sketch artist. My minor is in surveying.” Her minor drew puzzled looks from more than Ana but she quickly shrugged them off. “Not what you’d normally expect but my dad is a surveyor so it’s a no-brainer class. I’ve helped him since I was ten.” She hesitated and added, “Ever since my mother died.” Megan finally offered her hand and Ana discovered it lacked the forceful confidence of the other students.
“Wayne Pierce is the name, Dr. Carvalho,” the remaining male said. He grinned broadly and his blue eyes flashed a ‘devil may care’ look. “Anthropology’s the game. Second-year grad at the University of California, San Diego. I’ll be your radio guy.” He stepped back into line with an air of arrogance exuding from his athletic build.
The last member of Ana’s team stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Her physique was startling, even among the athletic group. “My name is Barbara Philips, also a second-year grad student in anthropology at the UCSD,” she said quietly. Her deep black skin was tightly stretched over a body sculpted by hours in the weight room. She wore her hair short to her scalp, on the edge of masculine. Her brown eyes darted from person to person in an uncertain way at odds with her dominating physique. “I’m very glad to meet you.” She jutted out her h
and to shake Ana’s, as if on a last-minute impulse.
“Do you two know each other?” Ana asked, pointing at Wayne and Barbara.
Wayne’s chest swelled. “We ran track together last spring.” There was a snide smirk on his face which Ana read like a garish neon billboard. Barbara squirmed while Wayne smirked in male conceit. There was no doubt in Ana’s mind: Wayne had hung a towel on Barbara’s doorknob at some point in the past.
Her supervisor’s words jolted Ana from her thoughts. “You can see we’ve assembled a team both academically and physically qualified. All of them speak at least a little Portuguese. This will be one of UWF’s most challenging expeditions. A week by boat into the headwaters of the Amazon followed by an uncertain distance inland through uncut rain forest, all of that dependent on the river’s availability. We have no idea exactly what you will find once you arrive.” She mumbled the little speech like a repetitious ritual. Ana had heard the last line many times in the past, it seemed a litany from Sunday morning mass.
“But, you do have some idea, don’t you, Mr. Rossi?” Ana stared straight at the boss who sat with his arms crossed at the head of the table.
“And what might that be, Dr. Carvalho?” Rossi asked with a smile that feigned innocence.
“What we’ll find there,” she replied, straight-faced and serious. Ana waited, then cocked an eye at the commanding image on the screen. “El Dorado?”
Alone, Rossi ambled along the bank of windows, staring out at nothing in particular. Shadows stretched out over the city he’d chosen for his headquarters as the afternoon hours slipped away. Singapore was neither completely Oriental nor Occidental. It sat at a special spot in the world, at a cusp of beliefs and cultures. There was no tolerance for evil. A stolen purse could cost a thief his hand. He reached over and lifted the phone’s handset to personally place the call to Rome.
