‘Row!’ shouted Pierre.
The rest of the arrows came flying our way the second we picked up our oars. Most fell short, leaving ripples in the river like the first drops of rain in the spring, but one or two almost hit their mark. Unless their mark was the fat end of my oar, in which case they scored a perfect bullseye.
‘Who the hell is shooting at us?’ I screamed. I could only see where the arrows were coming from - the dense wall of trees on the other side of the river.
‘Who do you think?’ he yelled back, ducking under a rather fabulous-looking projectile. ‘Probably the people whose canoe we stole, if I were to hazard a guess.’
We rowed faster and faster; I could feel the water push back against my oar as if it belonged to the tribesmen - which I guess it did, in a way - begging us to stay and be perforated. Still the arrows came flying, but gradually they fell only as far as the waters behind us and, as we rounded the next bend in the river, soon they stopped falling at all.
About ten minutes later, when my arms felt as stiff as the oar they rowed - stiff enough to hang a coat from, as my grandmother used to say - Pierre pointed out the muddy shore onto which we were to disembark.
I’m not sure which idea filled me with more of the jitters; winding our way along a river infested with long, snapping jaws and fish that could fillet me in under ten seconds, or venturing back into the very jungle which only moments before had been spitting feathered death towards us. But Pierre said this was where the door would be, and whichever way led to home sounded just peachy.
I’m not an exotic man. The back of my neck felt red raw, worse even than the time I’d gone a week in Parga, Greece without suntan lotion. And this time I didn’t even had a pathetic little straw hat to hide under.
We let the canoe drift into the mud of the bank, then jumped from its tip to avoid splashing back into the river. Pierre went first, then helped me up and over. Upon me leaving it, the canoe drifted back into the gentle current of the river, spun around in a weak goodbye, then flowed from out of sight.
‘Let’s hurry,’ whispered Pierre, crouching beside a thin and thorny bush. I did the same, though I’m not sure it was really necessary. ‘We’re still making good time, but I’d hate for us to miss our window.’
We pushed through the undergrowth. A prickly leaf scratched the back of my hand. A vine, slick and oily, draped across the back of my sunburnt neck and sent a confusing mix of pain and surprise spilling out from my mouth. Pierre shot a stern look in my direction and mimed that if I didn’t shut up he’d shove my bloody bandage down my throat and string me up in a tree for the pumas to eat. Or a gesture to that effect, at least.
There were monkeys following us overhead. Or at least I’d hoped they were following us, rather than running away from something else.
When we eventually reached a circular clearing I was a little confused as to what I was seeing. A giant wooden watch tower had been bolted and cemented into the earth, and stretched high above the canopies of the trees that ringed around us. It looked a hell of a lot more modern than I would have expected. Sunlight blinded me as it streamed from off its glass windows and I swear that it had power cables running down its supports. Yet it had been ravaged by time and enslaved by the jungle; thick leaves clung to its sides, resembling a busy garden trellis, and vines had begun to pull away at its balcony’s railings. Planks of white painted wood lay scattered and splintered around its base.
‘I thought nobody had been here before?’ I asked. ‘Why else would Captain Montgomery believe he was discovering it?’
‘Oh, they’ve never been here before. But whenever people try to discover a new land there’s usually somebody already there, somebody who’s been discovering it for a good few millennia or so.’
‘Yeah, but they’re usually a less… developed society than the one that comes looking. This looks very… very…’
‘Impressive?’
‘I was going to say Westernised. It looks like the sort of fire tower you’d see out in Wyoming. Or maybe something beside an old railway station.’
Pierre shrugged and kicked a bit of dirt. ‘Could be that someone from a later time period dropped by and built it a while ago.’
‘So they discovered it?’
‘You can’t discover something if you come from a place where everybody else already knows about it. That wouldn’t make any sense. Anyway, ignore it. The door we want isn’t up there. That’s the door we’re after.’
I followed his pointed finger to a little hut further down the clearing. It was a simple oblong building, about seven feet tall, three feet wide and just as deep, fashioned together with cheap cuts of wood. It was also, unmistakably, a smelly outhouse.
‘He’s going to come out of that?’ I asked. It didn’t look sanitary.
‘Well, he’ll never technically be in it, will he? And coming out is much more preferable to going in. We’ve got about ten minutes, so let’s get into a good position.’
We hurried round to the back of the silent outhouse, for which I suppose I should have been grateful. I found myself wondering whether its inside was a pit latrine - i.e. a long drop into a pit of shit - or a bucket, but then as neither sounded much better than the other I tried to think of nicer things, such as the squeaky feel of my leather briefcase in my triumphant grip.
Behind us was another thick wall of trees and bushes and leaves wide enough for a scantily-clad servant girl to waft a pharaoh with. The outhouse had clearly been built as far from the lookout tower as possible, and for good reason, what with how hot it was. It was a lucky thing the tower looked as if it hadn’t been used for a great many years; God only knows how murderous the smell would have been had the toilet still been in service.
‘How much longer?’
‘Nine minutes.’
‘Eurgh.’
And so we waited, sitting there in the sweating heat. My heart pounded double-time. It would be so close. The buzzing of insects and mosquitos and the far away calls of marmosets formed the backdrop to my anticipation; the stale stench of hot, dry earth permeated the air.
With a creak like a hillbilly’s rocking chair, the door to the outhouse swung open.
I went to stand up but Pierre held on to my arm. He mimed for me to stay put, so I did, reluctantly.
A figure lunged from around the corner, looking in the direction of the lookout tower. My briefcase hung loosely from a tired-looking hand. He slammed shut the door to the outhouse, gasping for air, and flung the pistol he carried off into the undergrowth. It was then I remembered that whilst it felt like hours since Viola Kadwell had shot at her basement torture cabinet, for the thief it had been only a matter of seconds. Surely, I thought, this is the best time to strike?
‘Not yet,’ whispered Pierre, as if reading my mind. ‘He’s on edge, full of adrenaline. His reflexes will be like that of a cat in a dog pound. Wait until he’s calm and complacent, and then we’ll catch him unawa-’
Without giving so much as a rustle of leaves in warning, the jungle wall behind us parted like the red sea. A dozen brown arms came darting out. Faces pierced with rings of gold stared out from amongst the cinchonas and rubber trees, their eyes glowing with a rare, raw flame. One of them sported a chain of copper and bronze, which draped from his nostril to his ear. Callused hands adorned with rings and bracelets grabbed ahold of Pierre’s uniformed shoulders and dragged him kicking and screaming into the depths of the forest.
I turned back towards the thief and there he was, looking right at me. His scarf was brought up over his bloody nose once again and his blackened eye looked surprised, yet… gloating. He raised my briefcase up as if to entice me, like a child-catcher would tempt a toddler with candy. He was only metres from me, and yet I could hear Pierre being dragged further and further away.
And the longer I looked directly at him, the dizzier I started to feel. At the time I put it down to heat exhaustion, though I knew damn well it wasn’t.
Help Pierre. Get my briefcase b
ack. Help Pierre. Get my briefcase back.
Time seemed to have slowed to a single frame - the thief taunting me from in front and Pierre being abducted from behind. Everything crawled to a complete stop - everything save for my thoughts. A colourful bird hovered in the sky overhead. The door to the outhouse was frozen mid-swing. A water droplet, spilt from the petals growing out from a twisting vine, sat suspended in the air.
I can finally bring this all to an end, I thought, eyeing up my briefcase. I felt irritated by the scuff marks across its corners. I could grab it right now, and then all of this nonsense will be over.
The thief looked so pompous, so victorious. I wanted to add a few more bruises to his already extensive collection. What kind of man steals another man’s briefcase, anyway? He’d no idea what was in it, surely?
But Pierre needs my help, and he wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. Well, if it weren’t for the thief standing before me, to be perfectly accurate, but the point is he’d never have come if I hadn’t needed his help. And now he’s being dragged through the mud and dirt to be sacrificed… or worse.
All my memories, all of my goodbyes, were right there, only a few feet away. I had only to reach out and grab them.
Sod it, I finally thought. There’s no getting back home without those magic keys of his, anyway.
So I turned from the thief and ran into the jungle, swatting away leaves and thorns and vines and branches as they lashed out and tried to blind me. I wasn’t so strong that I could withstand the temptation to look back, and through the path I’d left behind me I could still see the thief waiting, watching me run from what I sought. That strange dizziness started to return.
‘George!’ screamed Pierre from up ahead. I turned back and found that I could just about see him through the thick undergrowth. He was being dragged by his arms and shoulders in such a way that his legs dug twin furrows through the earth. ‘Don’t look back, George. Whatever you do, don’t look back.’
The tribesmen didn’t seem to consider my pursuit to be of any importance, which was lucky considering the bows and spears they had strapped across their backs. But either their pace quickened or mine slowed (let’s be honest, it was probably the latter), because bit by bit they pulled further and further away. I could hear Pierre groan as rocks and roots bashed into his back.
‘Why, Pierre? What happens if I look back?’
‘Things get messy,’ he half-yelled and half-hissed. ‘Just keep chasing,’ he added as he was dragged deeper into the brush.
‘How do you know I’ll find you?’ I shouted, slowing to a jog. My sides felt like someone had rattled a knife around my ribcage.
‘Because you already have,’ he yelled, and the jungle closed up over him. Suddenly there was silence - a silence of man, at least, for the jungle still whooped and whistled and rustled in all its natural ambience - and I was very much alone.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ I asked a bewildered skink. It blinked at me from atop its rock, which really wasn’t of much use at all.
Chapter Thirteen
There was still light when I tracked Pierre’s troughs in the dirt to their conclusion, albeit a dim, orange and fierce kind. The kind that promises to turn purple before too long. Clouds drifted from the west and whispered the promise of a midnight storm.
I’d come close to lost when the trail had crossed a stream. Its waters bubbled and churned over glossy, oily rocks. Tiny silver fish tried to fight against its current. But a little past the stepping stones I found a small, empty bottle of red wine and knew I was headed the right way.
The temperature had cooled along with the sun, dropping to what most reasonable people would consider a warm English summer (which, by the way, is as hot as any given day away from a beach needs to be). It made me feel clammy inside my shirt, however, and did little to stop the bugs from biting.
But back to the point: there was still light when I tracked Pierre’s troughs in the dirt to their conclusion, albeit a dim, orange and fierce kind. And when I brushed away the last of the leaves blocking my path, that syrupy light dribbled down the sides of the most impressive temple I have ever seen.
I wouldn’t want to suggest that the temple was made of gold, but that the sand and stone of its thousand steps shimmered like the most precious of metals. It began like a pyramid - four sides growing from out a square base, perhaps forty metres or more in length along the bottom of each face - but, rather than converge at a single, heavenly point, it levelled off about three quarters of the way up. What was housed there I could not see, but it apparently warranted great, twisting pillars and numerous guards with flamboyantly decorated spears.
From my nook amongst the trees I could make out a number of other, more modest buildings nearby. It didn’t seem to be a village as such, but rather a sacred place - a place of protection, punishment and, I’d hazard a guess most importantly, of worship. There were no women, at least none that I could see, and certainly no children. I could only assume that their settlement was nearby, a home for all their warriors. Warriors that seemed to be doing a rather good job of keeping unwanted visitors away from their temple.
Most were naked, save for a band of ragged cloth tied around and under their genitals, and for any piercings of gold and chains, which hung from ears, noses and nipples alike. Some had shaved heads, others had long hair tied into braided ponytails. All carried either a crude but ornately carved bow, complete with leather quiver and feathered (and no doubt poisoned) arrows, or a spear that stood a good foot taller than they did. A great deal of polished flint knives hung from belts of bronze.
None of them seemed to be smiling or having fun of any kind.
I guess they’d carried Pierre from where I stood because the tracks ended abruptly at their territory’s edge. That’s if he was even still alive, of course. Perhaps he lay hidden in amongst the plants around me, his throat already slit and his eyes glassy and wide. I shuddered.
But then I saw four tribesmen depart from one of the smallest buildings, and identified one of Pierre’s kidnappers among them. I’d have recognised those dangling nasal chains anywhere, though admittedly it was harder to differentiate him from his resplendent colleagues than it would have been from a crowd of shoppers at Waitrose, for example. They seemed satisfied by something, stopping just short of dusting their hands from a job well done, and were wandering off towards the steps of the temple. The building they’d left had slim windows, each only as wide as an index finger.
They can’t have gained too much ground over the past few hours. If Pierre is still alive, I’d bet my briefcase that they’ve got him holed up in there.
Once the tribesmen had begun their ascent of the temple steps, I sprinted across the open clearing and hugged the wall of what I assumed was their prison. Its walls were crumbling and vines crept up to its flat roof like an invasion of snakes. Given that there were no arrows in my arms, legs or head, I had to also assume that nobody saw me cover the distance.
I peeked into the darkness beyond the chiselled hole they called a doorway. Unless somebody was lying in wait amongst the shadows, which wasn’t an entirely unreasonable suspicion, there were just as few guards inside as there were out.
Light streamed through the windows in pencil-thin bursts, doing little to dispel the darkness. Dust danced like moths amongst what little light there was and the air smelled of old urine. There was a single corridor running the length of the building - about ten or twelve metres I’d wager - and on each side were cells, each only about two metres wide. Spears of wood and copper and lord knows what else lined their openings, embedded into the stone. Through their gaps I could see into the first cell, empty save for enough hay for a stable and an ominously lonely bone the size and shape of a femur.
About halfway down was an occupied cell, but it wasn’t Pierre. The man inside looked like another tribesman, but his left leg was gone from the knee down and a crude tourniquet had been tied around his bloody stump. He was asleep, or at leas
t I hoped he was.
‘Pierre?’ I whispered. My voice came out far more cracked and wobbly than I’d intended. The man in the cell next to me didn’t stir.
‘George?’ came a voice from the end of the hall. It was followed by a tuft of hair and a pair of Pierre’s eyes. They looked tired. I wondered if mine looked better or worse.
‘Pierre, thank God you’re still alive,’ I said, rushing over. He was slumped against the wall of his cell, and I guess he’d been fiddling with the ropes and strings that bound the wood of his door. His uniform looked ready to go on a bonfire; the stitches along his shoulder had all come loose. ‘I was sure they were going to cut out your heart to some unpronounceable twelve-armed god.’
‘You never know, there’s still time,’ said Pierre, rubbing his back. Who knew being dragged through a jungle would cause so much irritation? ‘We’d better go before somebody comes back to check up on me. Or carve out an organ, for that matter.’
‘Okay sure, well why don’t we use the keys? There must be a door with a keyhole we can use somewhere around here…’
‘Ah. Hmm. That’s the… ahem, problem. I don’t have them.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have the one thing we need to get back home? Are we stuck here?’
‘No, don’t be so melodramatic,’ he said, stretching his spine and really hamming up how painful it was. ‘The locals took them, that’s all.’
‘What the hell do they want with them? Do they even have locks?’
‘I don’t know,’ dismissed Pierre. He bit his lip and seemed to be looking at something in the corner of his cell - a something that wasn’t there. ‘But they seemed… impressed by them. You’ll need to get them back.’
‘Don’t you have a spare?’
‘Well yes,’ he said, as if it was obvious. ‘But we can’t just leave the main set with them, can we? Imagine the mischief they’d get up to.’
‘Fine. I don’t fancy my chances much, mind. They’ve got sharp things, you realise?’
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