The circle tightened round Ben, Nico and Pepe, pressing them close together with jabbing spearheads and threatening arrows. Strong hands whipped out and snatched away their torches, one of which was passed to the warriors’ leader. He examined the device, shining it all around him. He was an older man, flabby round the middle. His whole body was stained red with some kind of vegetable dye and he wore a string of decorative beads over the tops of his ears and around his face, attached to his nose by a large ring. He was obviously a man of senior rank – not a chief, maybe, but their equivalent of a squad commander at least.
The commander pointed the torch at his three captives and yelled something to his warriors. Ben didn’t need to understand Quechua to catch the tone of his words. Nor did Nico. ‘They’re pretty pissed off,’ he observed.
Ben tucked the bone-handled knife into his belt and raised his hands. ‘Talk to them, Pepe. Tell them we don’t mean any harm.’
Pepe stammered a few hesitant words to the leader, who just went on glaring and pointing at them.
‘I don’t think they care either way, man,’ Nico muttered. ‘Whoa, easy with that, brother,’ he said to the Indian jabbing him with a spear. ‘Ben, you have any ideas on how to deal with this?’
Before Ben could come up with any, he saw the commander’s gaze drop down to his belt. There was a lot more gesticulating and yelling.
‘What’s he saying?’ Ben asked Pepe.
‘I think he’s asking where you got that knife.’
Ben glanced down at the handle of Bracca’s Bowie sticking out of his belt. ‘Tell him I took it from one of the men who wish harm to his people. And that I offer it to him as a gift.’
‘I don’t know if I can say all that, but I’ll try.’ Pepe addressed the commander again. This time he seemed able to get a few more words out, and they seemed to have a greater effect. The man looked long and hard at Ben from under beetled brows. After a drawn-out pause he signalled to one of his warriors, who darted forward, plucked the knife out from Ben’s belt and ran over to hand it to him. Another long pause while the commander inspected the knife with extreme gravity. He shone the light on Ben again, scrutinised him very carefully, spent a few more moments in deliberation and then grunted an order at the warriors.
The spears were lowered. Bowstrings were slackened. The circle drew back. Nico let out a sigh.
‘Think we’re meant to wait here,’ Pepe said as the commander gave further orders and then led a group of the men away with him. As squat and ungainly as he looked, the Indian slipped through the trees with the grace of a deer.
‘Wait for what?’ Nico said.
‘Guess we’ll soon see,’ Pepe replied.
The remaining warriors were all watching intently by the light of the torches, though Ben would have bet they could see pretty well in the dark. Now that the immediate crisis had eased slightly, he was able to study them. All but one or two had long, thick black hair. Tattoos and other facial adornments appeared standard, and their bodies were dyed either red, like the commander’s, or black. Their weapons were beautifully crafted from wood, hide, twine, feathers and stone. The Indians didn’t seem much affected by the fact that the Iron Age hadn’t reached their part of the world yet. A sharpened flint arrowhead could still penetrate the same vital organs that a steel one could.
Silent minutes passed. Then, with only the faintest rustle of leaves, the commander and his men returned. He was no longer holding the Bowie knife. Pepe listened hard to what he was saying, then turned to Ben. ‘Sounds like we’re being let into the village.’
‘And I thought US immigration control was tough,’ Nico joked nervously as the warriors escorted them through the dark jungle. Ben saw a glow of firelight between the trees up ahead, then the shapes of huts came into view. Figures clustered among the shadows, chattering worriedly among themselves as the three strange captives were led into the heart of the village. A crowd of men, women and children quickly formed in their wake, becoming braver and more inquisitive with each step.
Ben, Nico and Pepe were led to the largest of the huts. As they were shown in through the low entrance, Ben saw he’d been right about the commander’s rank in the community hierarchy. The most important dignitary of the village was seated on a carved stool facing the doorway, surrounded by a group of other men and women. While everyone else was as unselfconsciously semi-naked as the warriors, the chief was cloaked in a colourful robe that together with the adornments on his face and body were obviously the marks of his office. The hut was filled with the flickering light of the fire at its heart and the scent of the woodsmoke that rose up through a hole in the roof.
The squad commander obviously felt that the lowly captives must be made to grovel in front of the chief. Ben obeyed his barked orders and knelt cautiously on the earth floor by the fire, keeping his head lowered. Nico and Pepe did the same. More villagers were filtering in through the entrance, gathering round to stare at the three strangers, some apparently keen to witness their slow dismemberment, others just gaping in fascination.
Peering up, Ben recognised a face: the young woman he’d saved from Luis Bracca in the wake of the previous day’s massacre was standing at the chief’s shoulder, talking fast and gesticulating in his direction as if recounting the story to the others of how this man had rescued her from being raped and killed. Like many of the other women she was wearing a kind of sarong around her waist, made from cotton that had been dyed into colourful patterns. Every so often she’d glance across at Ben with bright eyes. The chief was listening quietly to every word. In his hands was the Bowie knife. For some reason, the knife was terribly important to them.
Then the chief made a gesture and the hut fell into hushed silence. After surveying the three prisoners for a moment or two with an air of imperious contempt, he pointed the knife at Ben and shot him a look that said, ‘Let’s hear it, matey – and it better be good.’
All eyes were suddenly on Ben. As carefully as he could, he explained in Spanish that he and his friends meant no harm or threat to the Sapaki people. He thanked the chief for his great kindness in letting them enter his village. He’d come a long way to find a loved one who was missing, and his search had led him here.
‘I can’t translate all that,’ Pepe muttered. ‘I said I knew a few words, not the whole damn language.’
‘Let me interpret for you, son,’ a voice said – to Ben’s astonishment, in a County Cork accent. He turned towards the hut entrance to see a tall, gnarly and slightly bent-over white man in his sixties standing in the doorway. His hair was silver and shaggy, his eyes a vivid blue. The khaki shirt and shorts he wore were probably older than Ben’s son Jude.
‘You must be the preacher,’ Ben said.
‘That I am, indeed,’ the Irishman replied. ‘Father Padraig Scally, at your service. By God, it’s been a long time since I last spoke English, let me tell you.’ He nodded with a smile to the chief. ‘Now, then. Tupaq’s a mean old bugger but I think he’ll change his tune once he understands.’
Father Scally translated Ben’s words into the Sapaki language, which he seemed to speak as fluently as any of the Indians. The chief’s expression changed gradually from one of suspicion to one of satisfaction as he listened. When the priest had finished, Tupaq spoke for a long time, and the hut began to fill with chatter.
‘Well, that’s better,’ Father Scally said, turning to Ben. ‘Tupaq accepts that you are not the evil murderer they call White Knife, who slew the daughter of his brother. Thanks also to the testimony of K’antu there’ – the Irishman motioned towards the young woman Ben had saved, who was repeating her story in an unbroken stream to a group of others and pointing at Ben with a smile – ‘he accepts that you are not an enemy of the Sapaki people, and are therefore free to come and go as you please.’
‘Please express my thanks to the chief,’ Ben said. ‘And I’m grateful to you, too, father.’
‘So they’re not gonna chop us up or shoot us full of arrows,’ Pepe ventured.
&n
bsp; ‘The Sapaki are not exactly what one might call a bloodthirsty people,’ Father Scally replied with a note of irritation. ‘Though there’s no telling what unspeakable torments they might have seen fit to inflict on you young fellows if I hadn’t been here to moderate their more bellicose impulses.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Now, I’m not going to ask the nature of your business in Amazonas, or how or why it is you were able to rescue K’antu from those wicked people. But I am curious to know what brings you to this village. You said something about a missing loved one?’
The words were ready to burst out of Ben. ‘A woman was found in the jungle. Her name’s Dr Marcel. Is she here?’
Father Scally frowned. ‘Dr Marcel?’
‘Brooke Marcel. I have a picture.’ Ben’s heart began to plunge towards his boots. Surely, after all this, he hadn’t come to the wrong place?
But the priest’s next words almost made him collapse with relief:
‘You wouldn’t happen to be Ben, would you?’
Several stunned moments passed before Ben could reply. ‘Yes, I’m him. I mean, I’m Ben.’
Father Scally’s wizened face broke into a smile. ‘When the fever was at its worst, she must have asked for you a hundred times. So you came looking for her, did you?’
‘Is she all right?’ Ben asked dizzily.
‘She is now,’ Father Scally said. ‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself?’
They left the hut and the tall, long-striding Irishman led Ben through the village, followed by a crowd of excited, clamouring Sapaki people who, now that Ben was officially a hero and not some evil invader come to murder them, all seemed to want to touch his strange blond hair. ‘You’ll have to forgive them,’ Father Scally explained. ‘I’m the only white bloke most of them have ever seen. Which I’ve always regarded as generally a good thing.’
At the far side of the village was a long, low hut with a wooden door. ‘This is what I use for a sick bay,’ the priest explained to Ben. ‘Not exactly the Royal City of Dublin Hospital, but it does us all right. Tica and Kusi, two of the tribe girls, help me run the place. We currently have just one patient.’ After a pause he added, ‘She won’t talk about what she was doing wandering the jungle alone, and I haven’t pressed her for answers. To be honest I prefer to remain ignorant.’ He knocked gently at the door. ‘Brooke? Are you awake, my child? You have a visitor.’
Ben felt as if he was dreaming.
Father Scally opened the door of the sick bay.
And there, sitting by the light of a candle on a low bed made of wood and rattan, wrapped in a blanket, her hair tousled, her face turned towards the doorway with a look of rapt bewilderment, was Brooke.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ben rushed into the hut. ‘Brooke—’ he began. He couldn’t believe it. It was really her. She was wearing a cotton skirt like K’antu’s, and a torn T-shirt that had been carefully darned with coarse thread.
‘Ben! You’re here?’ Her voice sounded faint.
‘You two have a lot to talk about,’ Father Scally said with a smile. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’ He slipped away.
Brooke burst into tears. Ben stepped closer to her, welling up with emotion, then dropped to his knees by the low bed, took her in his arms and held her tightly for the longest time.
‘I thought I was never going to see you again,’ he murmured, rocking her gently back and forth. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’ She clung to him, weeping. He had to struggle to hold back his own tears. ‘I love you, Brooke. I’m so, so sorry that we fought the way we did.’
‘So am I,’ she sobbed.
‘I’m never going to leave you alone again. Never, not for a minute. I swear it.’
Brooke went on crying in his arms. His own face was wet now. He stroked her back, her shoulders, her hair. She felt thin and frail. As she drew away from him to gaze into his eyes he could see her face was drawn and pale in the candlelight.
‘You’re sick,’ he murmured.
‘I was,’ she said through her tears. ‘I’m so much better now, thanks to Padraig.’ She touched his cheek. ‘Oh, Ben, I can’t believe it’s you,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe you found me. How did you know where I was?’
‘It’s a long story. Don’t worry about it for now. What matters is that I did, and that you’re all right.’
She burst out sobbing again at the memory of her captivity. ‘It was terrible, Ben. He was holding me prisoner. He’s insane. He thinks I’m someone else. I had to get away.’
‘I know all about the compound, and the fire,’ he said. ‘About Ramon Serrato, too. And about his dead wife Alicia.’
‘She was his wife? Oh God! He killed her, didn’t he?’
‘Let’s not talk about it. Serrato can’t touch you now. I’m here. You’re safe.’
‘Sam’s dead,’ she sniffed.
He nodded. ‘I was in Donegal with Amal. I’m sorry.’
‘Amal! Is he here too?’
‘He’s back in London. He’s been worried sick about you. Thinks none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for him and his play.’
Brooke smiled weakly. ‘Poor Amal. It’s not his fault.’
‘That’s what I told him. But he needs to hear it from you. And he will, soon, because I’m taking you home.’
‘Yes, take me home, Ben,’ Brooke said softly. Her voice faded away. Her eyelids fluttered shut and he felt her go limp in his arms. For a moment he was ready to panic and yell for Father Scally – but then he realised she’d just passed out from sheer weakness and fatigue.
He laid her down gently on the bed, brushed the auburn tangles away from her face and kissed her brow. ‘You rest now,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll leave in the morning.’
‘That’s completely out of the question,’ Father Scally said a few minutes later. Ben had left Brooke asleep in the sick bay and found the priest near the chief’s hut, from which the sounds of chatter and laughter were still drifting out into the night.
‘No disrespect, Father, but there are places she can be better cared for than out here.’
The priest shook his head firmly. ‘The Brazilian wandering spider’s bite is no joke – I’ve seen strong men die from it within half an hour. Thankfully, I can only suppose that she didn’t get the full dose of venom, or it’d have been a corpse we found in the forest. She’s responded better to treatment than ever I dared hope, but she’s still very weak. There’s absolutely no way I can allow her to be moved, let alone take a long trip downriver. She needs at least several days’ complete rest, maybe a week, before I can permit you to take her away.’
Ben said nothing. The Irishman was making sense, and he knew it.
‘You look fairly worn out yourself,’ Scally said, his tone softening. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t had a scrap to eat for days. Come with me and I’ll sort you out.’
‘I’d better find Nico and Pepe,’ Ben said. ‘They must be hungry too.’
Scally nodded towards the chief’s hut. ‘Don’t you worry about them. They’re being well taken care of. This way.’
Ben followed the priest along a compacted dirt path that led round the outskirts of the village to a little hut slightly apart from the others. The dwelling was built from earth and reeds like the rest, but unlike them it featured a little lean-to extension and a flower garden surrounded by white-painted stones.
‘This is my abode,’ Father Scally said, showing Ben inside. The furnishings were virtually non-existent, just a raised mat for a bed and a couple of stools carved from sections of tree trunks. In one corner was a tiny, primitive kitchen area that amounted to an open fire and a hook for hanging a pot. A battered wooden chest served as a cupboard.
The priest ladled something that looked like stew from a large dish into a smaller bowl and handed it to Ben with a homemade spoon to eat with. ‘It’s not bad, actually,’ he reassured him. ‘And here’s a little something to wash it down with.’
He reached into the cupboard and brought out two clay beakers an
d a bottle of colourless liquid. Pouring a generous measure into one of the beakers for Ben and then one for himself, he said, ‘It’s not quite the way we used to make it back home, but it’ll warm the cockles just the same, sure. And something tells me you could do with a drink. It’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it?’
‘It has.’ Ben took a sip. ‘Wow. I haven’t tasted poteen since I left Galway.’
Scally chuckled. ‘I get the potatoes from a fellow in San Tomás. Got me old still set up in the shed outside. So you lived in Galway, did you?’
‘Half Irish,’ Ben said.
‘Thought there was something good about you. Or half good, at least.’ Scally laughed. ‘Here, drink that up and I’ll pour you another. It’s not often I get to share a drink with a fellow countryman.’
‘Don’t you ever go back?’ Ben asked him.
Scally shook his head. ‘Last time was almost twenty-seven years ago. But who’s counting? Not me.’
‘You’ve been living here all that time?’
‘Just about. Doing God’s work is all I ever want to do with meself.’
‘How well do the Sapaki take to having a missionary in their midst?’ Ben asked, genuinely curious.
‘For the first fifteen years or so they tolerated me; since then I don’t suppose they even notice me. I don’t interfere with their ways, and Heaven forbid I should ever go about preaching the Gospel at them. My work isn’t about foisting a foreign religion on these fine people. God wouldn’t want that, and neither would the Sapaki. They have their own gods – the spirits of the forest, of the animals and the river. No, I’m simply here to serve them as I’d serve all God’s children, not to brainwash them.’
Ben looked around him at the primitive hut. ‘You gave up everything for this life.’
Scally smiled. ‘It all seems very distant to me now. I can barely remember the Padraig Scally who served with the Royal Irish all those years ago.’
‘The Royal Irish Regiment?’ Ben asked in surprise.
‘Medical Corps, First Battalion, part of 16 Air Assault Brigade.’
The Armada Legacy bh-8 Page 32
