He spoke quickly to stave off the memories: “Because I was stupid! I never taught anyone anything! We were all innocent lambs in the jungle!”
“Something happened,” said Monti. “What happened?”
“I happened!”
Jeb said, “Look, it’s almost—”
“I grew claws,” snarled Gettler. “I learned to eat meat. And I came out here to the only honest teacher in the universe: the jungle. Now, shut up! Or I’ll show you some of the things the jungle taught me!”
She recoiled, eyes widening, looked to Jeb.
David glanced at his mother, turned on Gettler. “Stop talking to my mother like that!”
Jeb froze. Gettler’s crazier than a loco ape, he thought. He may explode!
But Gettler took a deep breath, startled them by laughing. He patted David’s knee. “No harm intended, son. Just joking. Rest easy, young Galahad. You don’t have any maidens to protect today.”
Monti faced forward. How could Roger associate with a beast like that? She thought of the river track ahead. I couldn’t stand six weeks with him! But that’s silly. We’ll be rescued soon. The minute I’m missed. There’ll be a big hue and cry.
Jeb leaned against his door, studied the current ahead. He scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin. Something’s very wrong with Gettler. His story about the Indian attack doesn’t ring true. What’s he hiding?
The sun climbed higher, blasted down upon the river. They floated in a great bowl of burning sunlight with the plane at its center, the tiny cabin a moist hell. A pall of silence settled over their world. Not an animal stirred or cried. Only the insects remained as a token of life: tiny black flies with a bite like fire, random clouds of blue and white butterflies—a fluttering pastel mob that danced across the path.
Monti suffered in her own private hell: fear of bugs. All the wraith forms tortured her … every whirr, hum, stridulating and chafing buzz touched the nerves of her spine. She saw in each jigging, dancing horde only image of grotesque, sticky tentacles reaching for her.
Toward noon the current speeded, swept them around a bend. They whirled toward a low scrub-covered island. The water coursed around the island to join below it.
“It looks clear,” said Jeb.
“Are we going to stop?” asked Monti. She felt that she had to get out of the plane, to run and escape the insects—anything to avoid insanity.
“What do you think, Gettler?” asked Jeb.
“No sign of Indians,” said Gettler. “It’s out of dart range from either shore. Pull into the upper end.”
Jeb slipped down to the pontoon, grabbed up the cane pole he had wedged against the strut, pushed toward a shallow beach of water-rounded pebbles. The float beneath him grated on bottom. He studied the river for signs of piranha, jumped off into muggy water above his knees.
Gettler dropped down to the other side.
They swung the nose of the plane into the beach, put out the grapnel.
Jeb waded ashore, studied the island’s scrub, swung his gaze along both banks of the mainland. The jungle on either side was a green wall with giant creepers weaving random draperies on every tree.
Cicadas whined in the island scrub, and there was the sudden musical whirr of a hummingbird’s wings. The bird—a glorious bronze green—darted across the island, hovered over an invisible flower lower in the scrub.
“That hummingbird says it’s safe on this island,” said Jeb.
Monti and David joined them on the beach.
“Is there any insect repellant in that kit of yours?” asked Monti. “These bugs …” She shuddered.
“Have a look,” said Jeb. “I’m not sure. Try the box with the red cross on it. That’s our first aid kit.”
A black and white vulture lifted from the lower end of the island. Its pinions clattered loudly in the still air. The vulture flapped across the treetops. Another followed … and another … and another, until a stream of them sailed away over the jungle.
The four figures on the beach stared after the vultures.
“Did we frighten them?” asked Monti.
“More likely they were just ready to go,” said Gettler.
“What were they eating?” asked David.
“Fish or a pig, something like that,” said Gettler.
Monti returned to the plane, rummaged in the compartment behind the rear seat. A trail of the tiny black flies followed her like thin shreds of smoke. She straightened, examined a bottle, uncapped it, began putting its contents on her face, neck and arms.
Jeb turned his attention back to the island, took a deep breath, sniffed the air. It was thick with the heavy, drenched hopelessness of a tropical mid-day—and just the faintest touch of ancient carrion.
Monti rejoined them. “I found something labeled ‘Bug-Go’,” she said. “It repels me, so it should work on bugs.”
Gettler moved away from them along the beach.
Jeb looked down at Monti. “Don’t leave the open beach. Lots of fer-de-lance in this country. That scrub looks like a good place for them.”
“That’s a poisonous snake, isn’t it?” she asked.
“One of the worst.”
“This country’s so beautiful, and you make it sound so deadly.”
“It is deadly.” He looked after Gettler, then to the far shore. The jungle felt ominous, peopled with evil. “It’s the dangers you can’t see, that you don’t suspect—those are the worst.”
“What should I do?” asked David.
“Guard the plane,” said Jeb. “Watch that the anchor holds.”
Gettler was moving toward the far tip of the island. He carried the rifle carelessly in his right hand. The game pocket of his jacket bulged strangely.
Jeb stared at the bulges. What’s he got in that jacket? Rifle bullets like he says? Or what?
“What’s he looking for?” asked Monti.
“Something to eat,” said Jeb. “A turtle, a ’gator.”
“Are the Indians over there right now watching us?” asked David.
“In the jungle? Probably. Anyway, we’ll assume that they are.”
“Why don’t they attack, then?” asked Monti.
“Their way is to wait in ambush,” said Jeb. “They’ll choose their own place and time.”
He looked at David. The boy’s face was beginning to turn brick red in the sun.
“You’d better get in the shade of the wing,” said Jeb. “We’ll have to rig you a hat of some kind. The sun’ll boil you like a lobster.”
“Do what he says,” said Monti.
“I’ll look for a leaf to make you a sunshade,” said Jeb. He glanced after Gettler. “But first, I want that little revolver out of the survival kit.”
“Mr. Gettler took it,” said David. “I saw him.”
Jeb stopped. “When?”
“Just a few minutes ago when you were pushing us into the island. Before he got out.”
“The son of a bitch!” snapped Jeb. “He’s got his hands on every weapon we own!” He pushed David toward the plane. “Get into the shade.”
Monti followed. She pulled the silver scarf across her forehead almost down to her eyes. It gave her a curious, Arabian look. “Why would he take all the guns?” she asked.
“You tell me,” said Jeb. “Is he planning to desert us?”
“I don’t like him,” whispered Monti. “He makes me feel afraid.” She hesitated. “Back there when … when you hung up the poncho and … I got out, I kept expecting him to peek.” She shuddered. “Dammit! I’ve posed in the nude, but … It’s those little eyes. They make me feel dirty!”
David moved into the shadow of the wing.
Jeb looked down at Monti. Welts of insect bites marked her cheeks. A streak of dirt slashed across her chin. The man’s shirt she wore looked wrinkled, damp, soiled. But none of these things subtracted from the elements of her beauty.
She averted her eyes under his stare.
The strong lines of her face—lines that mad
e cameramen gloat—defied the harsh noonday shadows. Pieces of history had washed over uncounted beautiful women to produce this face. It refused to bow now to the worst possible light.
Jeb spoke brusquely, “Excuse me. I want to look at the motor. And I’m going to rig a fish line.”
Monti stared after Gettler. “What is it about that man?” she murmured. “He’s an animal … yet … Why would he take all the guns? Doesn’t he trust us?”
“He can’t stay awake forever,” said Jeb. “Had you thought of that?”
Monti’s lips thinned. She put a hand to her cheek.
Gettler had stopped at the lower end of the island. He bent over something on the beach.
“I’ve the strangest feeling,” she said.
“What?”
“That it’s his fault. About Roger.”
“How do you mean?”
“Call it a woman’s intuition. I can feel it. Roger would be alive now if it weren’t for him.” She nodded toward Gettler.
“Nothing except intuition?”
She shrugged.
Jeb told her about his own suspicions, about the pieces of Gettler’s story that did not ring true.
Monti stared into Jeb’s eyes. “Could he have murdered Roger?” she whispered.
Jeb frowned. “I suppose so.”
“But what about the Indians?” she asked. “They were chasing him.”
“Would Roger have made friends with the Indians?” asked Jeb. “I mean—would he have gotten really close to them?”
Her eyes widened. “It’s the very thing he would’ve done! Noble savages he called them in a letter.”
Jeb looked down the island at Gettler, who now was stalking through the scrub.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m just guessing,” said Jeb. “I’ve got nothing to go on except suspicions. But why would he take all the guns?”
“What do you mean?”
“If your husband went through any kind of an adoption ceremony with the Jivaro, and then Gettler murdered him, it’d be a point of tribal honor with them to avenge the killing.”
Monti put a hand over her mouth. “Could he …?”
“Sure he could! But we don’t know that he did. For all we know, he’s told us the literal truth!”
“But why would he take all the guns?” she asked.
“There’s one thing,” said Jeb. “If he did murder Roger, we can’t let him know that we suspect. He’d slaughter us in a minute.”
Across the island, the heliograph of a golden moth wing splashed in the sunlight. Jeb glanced at it. A big green cacique oriole flew out of the jungle, floated behind the moth on an air current, twisted down.
And there was no moth.
The scene left Jeb with a deep feeling of disquiet. For a moment he had identified with the beauty of the moth. And the jungle had taken it—quickly, silently.
“What’ll we do?” asked Monti.
“We’ll watch and wait,” said Jeb. “First chance, we’ll get the guns back.”
At the foot of the island Gettler suddenly sprang into action. He ran across the scrub, raised a twisted limb in one hand. The limb crashed to the ground once, twice. He tossed it aside, bent, lifted something that wriggled and squirmed in his hand. He swung the thing, smashed it against the ground.
“What’s he got?” asked Monti.
“Looks like a lizard.”
David joined them. “Are we going to eat that thing?”
Jeb looked down at the boy, wondered: Did he hear us talking about Gettler? And if he did hear us, will he give us away?
There was no time to explore the problem with David.
Gettler came tramping up to them. He carried a gold-spotted green lizard by one of its hand-like feet. The lizard was about two feet long. Bright spots of blood dripped from its grinning jaws.
“Do you expect us to eat that?” asked Monti.
“Hell! These are good eating!” boomed Gettler. “Taste like chicken.”
“He’s right,” said Jeb. “They’re a delicacy.”
Monti shuddered. “I couldn’t possibly!”
“You’d better forget your squeamishness,” said Gettler.
“I’ll start a fire,” said Jeb. “We can cook it here and eat it on the way.”
“Vultures cleaned a tapir on the lower end of the island,” said Gettler. “There’s real food: a jungle pig.”
Monti grimaced at the lizard. “I’d as soon eat snake!”
“And we may eat that, too,” said Gettler. “You eat what the jungle gives you or you die.”
“It can’t be any worse than frog’s legs,” said David.
“Better,” said Gettler. “Come along, son.”
He led the way down to the river’s edge below the plane, pulled a thin bladed clasp knife from his pocket.
“What’re you going to do?” asked David.
“Give you a lesson in anatomy,” said Gettler.
David crouched beside him.
Gettler flipped the lizard onto its back, half in the water, slit it open lengthwise, spread the cavity.
David gulped.
“Up here’s the thoracic cavity,” said Gettler. “These are the lungs.” He pulled them out. “The stomach.” This, too, came out and onto the rocks beside the lizard. “Let’s see what it’s been eating.” Gettler slit the stomach sack. “Insects … some kind of a worm … a fruit pod. Catholic taste.”
David bent closer, fascinated. He had heard the conversation between his mother and Jeb Logan, and their words had filled him with fearful suspicions about Gettler. But Gettler’s hands moved so deftly. His voice was so gentle.
“Why’d you take all the guns?” asked David.
Gettler swished his knife through the water. “Did your mother tell you to ask me?”
“No, sir. I saw you take them. Why didn’t you leave one at the plane … in case the Indians attacked?”
“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” asked Gettler.
“Yes, sir. My … dad taught me.”
“Maybe next time I’ll leave one of the guns with you,” said Gettler. He poked at the lizard entrails with his knife. “This is the liver.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Logan know how to use a gun?” asked David.
“Can you keep a secret?” asked Gettler.
David frowned. “I … guess so.”
Gettler glanced up the beach where Jeb had a fire going next to a large rock. “Mr. Logan hasn’t been in the jungle as much as I have. There’re ferocious animals here that if you shoot at them, they’ll attack. I’m afraid he might shoot at the wrong thing.”
“Like what?” asked David.
“Jaguar. Boa constrictors.”
“Golly!”
“I know you’d be careful,” said Gettler.
“Did my … dad know lots of things about the jungle?” asked David.
“More than I know about it,” said Gettler. “He was a real expert.”
David nodded.
Again Gettler prodded the liver. “The liver’s what stores the food stuffs that the body needs. And it helps purify the blood.” He moved the knife blade. “This is the pancreas. It secretes insulin and digestive juices.”
“You know all kinds of things,” said David.
Gettler frowned, wiped the knife against his pants, put it away. “Here. Save these.” He handed David the lizard’s heart and a section of lung. “Fish bait.”
David swallowed, took the bloody pieces. “What kind of fish will it catch?”
Gettler swished the lizard through the water. It left a red stain that drifted away on the current. He threw the rest of the entrails into the stain.
Abruptly, the water flashed with a shoal of piranha. The dark surface boiled in a writhing commotion as they fought for the bloody entrails.
“That kind of fish,” said Gettler. “And there’s a lesson for you in natural science. Don’t fall in the river or you’ll feed those fish.”
“Would they really ea
t a human being?” David stared wide-eyed at the turbulent water.
“Right down to the bones,” said Gettler. “Come on. Let’s cook our dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And remember our secret. We wouldn’t want to hurt Mr. Logan’s feelings.”
“Gosh, no.”
Monti was persuaded to take a tentative bite. She savored the meat, then ate ravenously, throwing the picked bones out the open door of the plane beside her. She watched the passing shore as she ate. Food dispelled some of her gloom.
They’ll start searching for us soon, she thought. Her mind turned to Gettler. When we’re rescued. Then we can find out the truth of what happened at the rancho. The government will send soldiers. They’ll get at the truth.
Jeb, too, watched the passing jungle, saw the heat devils spiraling from the treetops. Now, the river bank was more open: lined by cabbage palms and with tree ferns weaving delicate patterns below.
Shadows were longer as the sun began its descent toward the peaks in the west.
Infrequently, in the spotted sunlight beyond the river’s edge, Jeb’s eyes caught flitting movements. It occurred to him that live things in the jungle were mostly sudden—darting so quickly that you seemed to see them only after they’d gone: like frozen afterimages.
A loose rumbling sound from the rear of the plane caught Jeb’s attention. Snoring. Gettler? Jeb turned, and his muscles locked.
David was bent toward Gettler, a look of total concentration on his young face. His right hand crept toward the butt of the big revolver in Gettler’s belt.
Gettler was sleeping with his mouth open, the rifle cradled against one knee.
David heard us! thought Jeb. The crazy kid’s going to start a battle royal! I’ve got to stop him! He watched the slowly moving hand. But maybe he can get it!
Jeb glanced quickly at Monti. She stared out her window, oblivious of the tableau in the rear. Jeb returned his attention to David. The boy’s hand hovered over the gun butt, moved down, touched it.
Gettler’s eyes jerked open. His hand smashed out, caught David on the nose, hurled him into the corner.
“I thought so!” bellowed Gettler.
David cowered in the corner, blood flowing from his nose, running down his chin, down his neck, staining his shirt.
Four Unpublished Novels Page 25
