City of the Beasts

by Isabel Allende

  He stopped more than once with the intention of turning back before it was too late, but each time he kept going, spurred by memories of his mother. With every minute that went by, his chest grew tighter and his terror more intense. Again he heard the mute galloping of his heart that he had heard in the labyrinth with Walimai. His crazed mind ran through the list of dangers that lay in store, the worst of all being buried alive in the entrails of this mountain. How long was this tunnel? Would he make it to the end or meet defeat along the way? Would there be enough oxygen or would he suffocate?

  Alexander simply collapsed facedown, bone weary, moaning. His muscles were tense, blood was pounding at his temples, every nerve was raw with pain. He couldn’t think, he felt as if his head was going to burst from lack of air. He had never been so afraid, not even during the long night of his initiation among the Indians. He tried to remember what he had felt when he was hanging from a rope on El Capitán, but it wasn’t comparable. Then he was at the top of a mountain, now he was deep inside one. There he had been with his father; here he was absolutely alone. He gave in to his despair, trembling, beyond exhaustion. For an eternity, darkness penetrated his brain and he lost his purpose, voicelessly summoning death, defeated. And then as his spirit faded into the shadows, his father’s voice cut through the fog in his brain, first as a nearly imperceptible whisper, then more clearly. What had his father told him so many times when he was teaching him to climb? Be calm, Alexander. Seek your center, that’s where your strength is. Breathe. When you inhale, you are charged with energy, when you exhale, you rid your body of tension; relax. Don’t think. Obey your instinct. This was what he himself had counseled Nadia as they were climbing to the Eye of the World, how had he forgotten?

  He concentrated on breathing: inhale energy, ignore the lack of oxygen; exhale terror; relax, reject the negative thoughts paralyzing him. “I can do it, I can do it . . . ,” he repeated. Gradually he returned to his body. He visualized his toes and relaxed them one by one, then his legs, his knees, his hips, his back, his arms, down to the tips of his fingers, his neck, his jaw, his eyelids. Now that he could breathe more easily, he stopped sobbing. He located his center, a red, vibrant place at the level of his navel. He listened to his heartbeats. He felt a tickling on his skin, then warmth through his veins, and, finally, strength returning to his senses and his brain.

  Alexander uttered a cry of relief. After a few seconds, the sound bounced against something and came back to his ears. He remembered that this was the principle of bats’ sonar, what allowed them to find their way in the dark. He repeated the cry, hoping it would indicate distance and direction, and that way he could hear with his heart, as Nadia had so often told him. He had found the way to navigate in blackness.

  The remainder of the journey through the tunnel passed in a state of semiconsciousness in which his body moved on its own, as if it knew the way. From time to time Alex connected briefly with his logical brain and with a spark of intelligence deduced that the air filled with unknown gases must be affecting his mind. Later he would think he had lived a dream.

  When it seemed that the narrow passageway would never end, Alexander heard the sound of water, like a river, and a mouthful of warm air reached his gasping lungs. That renewed his strength. He pushed forward, and at a turn of the tunnel noted that his eyes could make out something in the darkness: a light, at first very faint, slowly growing stronger. He pulled himself on, hopeful because there was light and air. He was in a cave that must somehow be connected with the outside because it was weakly illuminated. A strange odor met his nostrils, persistent, slightly nauseating, like vinegar and rotten flowers. This cave had the same formations of glittering minerals he had seen in the labyrinth. The clean facets of these structures were like mirrors, reflecting and multiplying the faint light that penetrated from outside. He was at the edge of a small lake fed by a stream of white water that reminded him of skim milk. Coming from the tomb where he had been, that white lake and river were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Could this be the fountain of eternal youth? The odor was sickening; he thought it must be from some gas emitted from the depths of the Earth, maybe a toxic gas that dulled your brain.

  A whispery, caressing voice caught his attention. Surprised, he saw something on the far shore of the little lake, maybe twenty feet away, and when his pupils adjusted to the new light of the cave, he glimpsed a human figure. He could not see it clearly, but the form and voice belonged to a girl. Impossible, he said, sirens don’t exist. I’m going nuts. It’s the gas, the smell. But the girl seemed real enough: her long hair swished, her skin radiated light, her gestures were human, her voice was seductive. Alex wanted to dive into the white water and drink till his thirst was satisfied and to wash off the dirt that covered him from head to foot, as well as the blood from the scrapes on his elbows and knees.

  The temptation to go to the beautiful creature calling to him, and to give himself to that pleasure, was unbearable. At the moment he started toward the apparition, he saw that she looked exactly like Cecilia Burns: the same chestnut hair, the same blue eyes, the same languid movements. Some part of his brain warned him that the siren was a mirage, a creation of his mind, like the filmy jellyfish floating in the pale air of the cavern. He remembered what he had heard about the mythology of the Indians, the stories Walimai had told them about the origins of the universe and the River of Milk that contained all the seeds of life but also decay and death. No, this was not the miraculous water that would restore his mother to health, he decided; this was a trick of his mind to distract him from his mission. There was no time to lose, every minute was precious. He tied his T-shirt over his nose, battling the penetrating, dizzying fragrance. He turned toward a narrow ledge that ran along the edge of the lake and followed the stream out of sight.

  Alexander took that path, leaving the lake and the miraculous apparition of the girl behind. He was amazed that the pale light persisted; at least now he was not dragging himself along in the dark. The aroma was growing fainter, and before long it vanished. He walked as fast as he could, bent over, trying not to bang his head against the ceiling of the cavern, and concentrating on keeping his balance on the narrow overhang, fearing that if he fell into the river below he might be dragged away by the current. He regretted that he did not have time to investigate that white liquid that resembled milk but had the smell of salad dressing.

  The long path was covered with a slippery moss seething with thousands of tiny creatures: larvae, insects, and worms, and large blue toads, their skins so transparent he could see their palpitating internal organs. They flicked their long, snakelike tongues toward his legs. Alex longed for his boots, because he had to kick them away with his bare feet and their soft, cool, slimy bodies made his stomach turn.

  About two hundred yards further on, the layer of moss and the toads disappeared, and the path was wider. Relieved, he could look around, and that was when he noticed for the first time that the walls were splashed with beautiful colors. As he looked closer, he identified the source: precious stones and rich veins of ore. He opened his Swiss Army knife and dug into the rock, finding that the stones came loose rather easily. What were they? He recognized some colors, like the intense green of emeralds and the pure red of rubies. He was in the middle of a fabulous treasure: this was the true El Dorado that adventurers had sought for so many years.

  He had only to scrape the walls with his knife to harvest a fortune. If he filled the gourd Walimai had given him with those precious stones, he would go home to California a millionaire; he could pay for the best treatments for his mother’s illness, buy a new house for his parents, finance his sisters’ educations. And for him? He could buy a racing car that would freak out his friends and leave Cecilia with her jaw hanging open. These jewels were the solution for his life: He could devote himself to music, climbing, anything he wanted, and never have to worry about earning a living . . . No! What was he thinking? Those precious stones were not only for him, they wou
ld help the Indians. With that incredible wealth he would have the power to fulfill the mission Iyomi had assigned him: to negotiate with the nahab. He would become the protector of the tribe and their forests and waterfalls; with his grandmother’s pen and his money, they would transform the Eye of the World into the largest nature preserve in the world. In only a few hours, he could fill the gourd and change the fate of the People of the Mist and that of his own family.

  Alex began to pry around a green stone with the tip of his knife, breaking off little pieces of the rock. Minutes later the stone was in his hand and he could take a better look. It did not have the brilliance of the cut emeralds in rings, but there was no doubt it was the same color. It was as he started to put it into the gourd that he remembered the purpose of this mission to the bowels of the Earth: to fill the gourd with the water of health. No. It would not be jewels that bought his mother’s health; he needed something that would work magic. With a sigh, he put the green stone in the pocket of his shorts and moved on, concerned that he had wasted precious minutes and did not know how much farther he had to go to reach the miraculous fountain.

  Almost immediately, the path ended before a massive pile of stones. Alex tested them, sure that there was a way to continue; it wasn’t possible that his journey would end so abruptly. If Walimai had sent him on this trek into the depths of the mountain, it was because the fountain existed; it was merely a matter of finding it. But what if he had taken a wrong turn? Maybe he had gone astray at some fork in the tunnel. Maybe he was supposed to cross the milky lake, maybe the girl was not a temptation to distract him but his guide to the water of health. Doubts began to bounce around like screams in his brain. He pressed his temples, trying to calm himself, and he repeated the deep breathing he had practiced in the tunnel when he heard his father’s remote voice guiding him. “I must go to my center, where there is calm and strength,” he murmured. He disciplined himself not to contemplate possible mistakes he had made but to concentrate on the obstacle that lay in his way. Last winter, his mother had asked him to move a great stack of firewood from the patio to the back of the garage. When he claimed that Hercules himself couldn’t do the job, his mother had showed him how: one log at a time.

  He began removing rocks, first pebbles, then medium-size stones, which came loose easily, and finally the very largest. It was slow and difficult work, but eventually he broke through. A puff of hot vapor hit his face, as if he had opened the door of an oven, forcing him to step back. He waited, wondering what to do next, as the air streamed out. He didn’t know anything about mining, but he had read that gases often build up inside mines and he supposed that was what was happening. If that was the case, he was out of luck. He noticed that the flow slowed down after a few minutes, as if it had been under pressure, and then it stopped. He waited, and then he put his head through the opening.

  On the other side was a cavern with a deep pit in the center giving off clouds of smoke and reddish light. He could hear small explosions, as if something thick were boiling and erupting in bubbles. He did not have to be any closer to know it was molten lava, the last activity of an age-old volcano. He was at the heart of the crater. He considered the possibility that the vapors were toxic, but since they didn’t smell bad, he decided to take a chance and go into the cavern. He wriggled through the opening and found himself standing on warm stone. He took one step, and then another, determined to explore the area. The heat was more intense than a sauna and within minutes he was bathed in sweat, but there was enough air to breathe. He took off his T-shirt again and tied it around his mouth and nose. Tears streamed from his eyes. He was aware that he had to move with extreme caution if he was not to slip into the lava pit.

  The cave was large and irregularly shaped, glowing in the quivering, reddish light of the fire rumbling below. To his right was another chamber; he peered into it. It was even darker because little of the light from the first room reached it. In that cavern, the temperature was more bearable, fresh air must be seeping in through some fissure. Alex was near the limits of his endurance, dripping sweat and very thirsty, convinced that he was not strong enough to retrace the route he had traveled. Where was the fountain?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a gust of wind, and then immediately a frightening vibration that reverberated as if he were inside a large metal drum. Instinctively, he covered his ears, but the disturbance was not a noise, it was a riveting energy force, and there was no way to defend against it. He turned, looking for the source. And then he saw it. A gigantic bat whose outstretched wings must have measured fifteen feet from tip to tip. Its ratlike body was twice the size of his dog, Poncho, and long fangs flashed in the gaping mouth of its large head. It was not black but totally white, an albino bat.

  Terrified, Alex realized that this animal, like the Beasts, was a survivor from an ancient era when thousands and thousands of years ago the first humans had looked up from the ground to gaze with wonder at the stars. The bat’s blindness was no advantage for Alex, that vibration had been its sonar: The vampire knew exactly what and where the intruder was. The wind gust was repeated: with wings flapping, the bat was preparing to attack. Was this the Indians’ Rahakanariwa, the feared blood-sucking bird?

  Alex’s mind began to whir. He knew that the possibilities of escaping were nearly nil; he could not go back to the other cavern and start running across that treacherous floor without risking a fall into the lava pit. Instinctively his hand went to the Swiss Army knife at his waist, even though he knew it was a ridiculous weapon compared with the size of his enemy. His fingers brushed against the flute on his belt and without thinking twice he untied it and placed it to his lips. He whispered the name of his grandfather Joseph, asking for his help in this moment of mortal danger, and then began to play.

  The first notes rang like crystal—cool and pure in that dark place. The enormous vampire, extraordinarily sensitive to sounds, tucked in its wings and seemed to shrink in size. It had probably lived for centuries in the solitude and silence of its subterranean world and those sounds must have been like an explosion in its brain; it must have felt as if it were riddled with millions of piercing darts. It screeched again on a wavelength inaudible to human ears, although clearly with pain. The vampire’s signal mingled with the music and its sonar could not interpret it.

  As Alex played his flute, the huge white bat moved backward, gradually retreating, until it was motionless in one corner, like a winged white bear, its fangs and claws visible but neutralized. Once more, the youth marveled at the power of that flute, which had accompanied him at every crucial moment of his adventure. When the animal moved, Alex saw a tiny thread of water trickling down the wall of the cavern, and he knew he had come to the end of the trail: this was the fountain of eternal youth. It was not as legend described, a flowing spring in the midst of a garden. It was barely a few humble drops slipping down the face of the rock.

  Alexander moved with caution, one step at a time, never dropping a note, approaching the monstrous vampire bat, trying to think with his heart and not his head. This was such an extraordinary experience that he could not trust in reason or logic alone; the moment had come to call on the same resources that had helped him when climbing and playing music, intuition. He tried to imagine how the animal was feeling and concluded that it must be as terrified as he was. This was the first time it had encountered a human being; it had never heard sounds like those from the flute and the noise must almost drown its sonar; that was why it was hypnotized. He remembered that he had to collect the water in his gourd and get back before nightfall. He had absolutely no way to calculate how many hours he had been in this subterranean world, but the one thing he wanted was to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  As he played a single note on the flute, using one hand, he held out the gourd with the other, passing within inches of the vampire bat, but the instant the first drops fell into the gourd, the trickle stopped altogether. Alex’s frustration was beyond words; he felt like beating
the rock with his fists. The only thing that stopped him was the horrible creature poised like a guard at his side.

  And then, at the point of turning away, he remembered Walimai’s words about the unchanging law of nature: to give the equivalent of what you received. He reviewed his limited belongings: the compass, the Swiss Army knife, and the flute. He could leave the first two, which were not of much help at the moment, but he could not give up the magic flute, his instrument of power, he had inherited from his famous grandfather. Without that, he was lost. He lay the compass and knife on the ground and waited. Nothing. Not a single drop squeezed from the rock.

  Then he realized that this water of health was the most valuable thing in the world to him, the only thing that could save his mother’s life. He would have to leave his most valuable possession in exchange. He placed the flute on the ground as the last notes reverberated among the cave walls. The slow trickle immediately started again. He waited the seemingly endless moments it took to fill the gourd, always with one eye on the vampire bat at his side. It was so close that Alex could smell its fetid breath and count its teeth and feel boundless compassion for the profound solitude that enveloped it, but he did not allow that to distract him from the task at hand. Once the gourd was overflowing, he began moving away, slowly, in order not to provoke the monster. He went back to the first cavern, where he heard the gurgle of the molten lava in the entrails of the earth, and slipped back through the opening. He wondered about replacing the stones to close the hole, but he didn’t have enough time, and it seemed to him that the bat was too big to get through and follow him.