Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  The jungle returned to silence.

  Jeb’s palm against the machete handle felt slippery with sweat. The rank odor of rotting vegetation crossed his nostrils. He moved forward. Only rare clumps of pale bushes and hanging vines now blocked the avenues between the trees. He stopped, looked around, started forward, withdrew his foot.

  A single human footprint slowly filled with water inches away from his boot.

  Not a minute old!

  The footprint pointed right.

  Perspiration flooded Jeb’s skin. He looked to the right, expected at any moment to feel the biting thrust of a spear. His back felt naked.

  Only dappled green met his eyes.

  His mind told him there were other colors present: pale flowers, grey bark, brown bark, red bark … and somewhere the copper skin of an Indian. But nothing detracted from the overpowering green: it drew all colors to itself and fused them.

  Again he passed his gaze across the jungle: vines, scattered low bushes, ferns, a low clump of …

  He saw the Indian.

  Copper skin blended with shadows not fifteen feet off the trail. The native stood hidden from the waist down in ferns. He held a blowgun vertically at his left side.

  A woman crouched behind him, and beside her a younger warrior, hardly more than a boy.

  A curare gourd and bamboo tube of darts hung over the man’s right shoulder. Red string was twisted around his arm just below the shoulder. Red lines of achiote streaked his brown face in a pattern of whorls. Both man and boy carried fluffs of kapok behind each ear.

  The woman was bent under a woven bark sack.

  All wore plain bark breech-clouts.

  Jeb recognized the painted symbols on the man: one of the Napo tribes. He stared into the ebony eyes beneath the flat line of bangs. They were cold and untamed eyes.

  A family group, thought Jeb. Traders?

  He nodded his head—a slow, dignified movement—shifted the machete to his left hand, lifted his right hand, palm out.

  The man brought his right arm across his body, touched the red string on his upper arm.

  Warding off the death finger.

  During his first year in Milagro Jeb had taken a short course in Quechua, the language of the Incas that had become the universal tongue of the jungle Indians. Maria mixed Spanish and Quechua indiscriminately. Half the workmen of Milagro did the same.

  Jeb dredged the words out of his memory, said: “Maim shamungui?” (“Where from?”)

  The man turned his head to the right, indicated the hills above the river. Beyond the mountains.

  Jeb focused on the curare gourd. They’ve probably been buying dart poison from the Jivaro witchmen. And at the same moment, he realized that the Indian had wanted to be discovered. Otherwise I wouldn’t have seen him. Why’d he want me to see him? Trade? Jeb motioned for the man to approach.

  The Indian came up to the trail—moving almost without sound. Jeb felt in his pants pocket, extracted a clasp knife, passed it into a brown hand. The Indian gravely placed the knife in a monkey-skin pouch at his hip.

  Jeb dredged up more of his Quechua. With much rolling of eyes and many gestures, he got across to the Indian that he wished to know if there were Jivaro nearby … and if the Jivaro were angry.

  The man squatted, spat between his fingers for emphasis, drew a curved track in the mud with one finger. The river.

  He indicated a straight section of channel downstream, held up two fingers. “Ishcai!” Two days. The brown hands came close together. Narrow channel. “Jacaré!” A place of rocks and foaming water.

  “Ti coachat!” Many Jivaro.

  Jeb nodded. “Ari.” Yes.

  The native crossed his index fingers before his face, spat between them, said: “Huasi Huanui!”

  Jeb recognized the crossed fingers and the words: House of the dead? He frowned. House of the dead? Then he understood: to this Indian, Jeb and his companions already were dead.

  The Jivaro had spoken.

  The man grinned, exposed a double line of teeth blackened from chewing sindi-muyu—the jungle fire seed. Again he pointed downstream, then touched the curare gourd at his shoulder.

  “Jambai?” asked Jeb. Poison?

  “Ari,” said the Indian. Yes. He held out both hands, fingers extended: Uncountable numbers of Jivaro with much poison!

  “But we have guns,” said Jeb.

  The Indian looked at Jeb’s waist, peered around. “You have no gun. Only the angry man has guns.”

  Angry man? He knows about Gettler!

  Unconsciously, Jeb hefted the machete.

  The man looked at the blade, said: “Maná jambai.” No poison.

  Jeb straightened, unwilling to break off the talk. “Would my new friend help me by leading the way to a fiber bark?”

  “To repair the hole in the roaring bird that carries men?

  He even knows about the damage to the plane!

  Jeb nodded. “Ari.”

  After a moment’s hesitation the Indian agreed. But he explained that this was only because no Jivaro were at present in the vicinity—the immediate vicinity. And he added as though it were a natural thing that the White man would readily understand: “The Jivaro witchmen have put the death finger on you and on any river tribesmen who try to befriend you. I, of course, am from beyond the mountains—and am not subject to the whims of the Jivaro.

  “Why are the Jivaro angry?”

  “Because of the White man who was killed.”

  “What White man?”

  “The gentle White man of the rancho. He was the friend of the Jivaro: their brother.”

  “Who killed this brother of the Jivaro?”

  The Indian stared at him, then: “The angry man—the one you saved.”

  Gettler did kill Bannon!

  Jeb looked up. The Indian woman and boy had moved closer. He returned his attention to the man. “I did not know.”

  “Thus I told my companions.”

  “Companions?”

  “The ones who ran. They were afraid.”

  Then there were others besides this family. Jeb studied the shadowed avenues of the jungle.

  “I stayed because I wanted cigarillos,” said the Indian.

  The Spanish word caught Jeb’s attention. This one’s had contact with civilization.

  “I’m sorry, but I have no cigarettes.”

  “The woman smokes.”

  “She is the only one.” The woman! “She is the wife of the one who was slain,” said Jeb. “We did not know that the angry man killed her husband.”

  “Then it is not magic that the boy has the face of the slain one!”

  “He is their child,” said Jeb.

  The Indian stood up. “The woman and boy are in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will help.” The Indian turned, addressed himself in a chatter of words to the woman and boy. They turned, trotted off through the trees. The man turned back to Jeb. “You will need fiber bark? Vines?

  Jeb nodded. The Jivaro are out for revenge! Gettler’s right: they won’t give up!

  The Indian held out his hand for the machete, nodded off the trail to his left. “Bark there.”

  Jeb relinquished the machete, watched the Indian go directly to a tree some thirty feet off the trail.

  I’m a real babe in the woods, thought Jeb. I didn’t even see it.

  The native worked methodically, stripping off shaggy layers of bark.

  He’s a plantation Indian from the way he handles the machete, thought Jeb.

  The Indian returned with a bundle of bark wrapped in vines. He returned the machete, hoisted the load to his head, moved down trail. The blowgun was carried loosely in his left hand.

  Jeb followed. We’ve got to disarm Gettler, put him under control!

  He slipped and sloshed down the muddy track. Perspiration soaked his shirt. It clung to his back, twisted beneath his armpits. The grey mud weighted his boots.

  Gettler mustn’t guess that I know.
Jeb glanced around. The gum tree ought to be close. There it is.

  “Hoy!” called Jeb.

  The Indian stopped, turned.

  Jeb pointed to the bucket on the gum tree. It looked like an illustration out of the Air Force survival handbook.

  The man nodded, retrieved the bucket.

  Jeb hesitated, looked at the blowgun. We could kill Gettler from the screen of the jungle! But curare doesn’t kill instantly. Monti and the boy might get hurt. She could even think it was an Indian attack and kill herself! No. He chewed at his lip, waved for the Indian to go ahead.

  The beach loomed up like a bright cave mouth at the end of the trail. Jeb fell farther behind, making heavy work of slogging through the mud. The Indian stepped from the trail into the sunlight.

  There came the roar of a rifle. A bloody patch appeared as though by magic in the middle of the Indian’s back. He staggered backward.

  Jeb screamed: “No! Wait!” even as the Indian collapsed.

  In the taut silence that followed he heard Gettler shout: “Come on, you bastards! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

  Monti screamed.

  “No!” shouted Jeb. “That Indian’s helping me. It’s all right!” He disregarded his own safety, stumbled out onto the sand, knelt beside the fallen figure.

  The Indian was dead.

  Jeb looked up, saw Monti clutching Gettler’s rifle, struggling. Gettler hurled her away. His eyes looked wild, frightening.

  “No!” screamed Monti. “It’s Jeb!”

  Gettler quieted, glared at Jeb.

  He would’ve killed me, too!

  Monti was sobbing hysterically.

  If it hadn’t been for her, Gettler would’ve killed me! Jeb looked down at the dead Indian. This is my fault. I should’ve thought. Christ!

  A violent frustration welled up in Jeb. He lifted his head, looked across at the plane, at Gettler standing beside it, at Monti sitting in the sand recovering from her hysteria.

  Where’s David?

  Then he saw the boy in the front seat of the plane, staring wide-eyed at the body on the sand. David’s face radiated the vacuity of numbing fear.

  Slowly, Jeb got to his feet, stepped around the Indian’s body, crossed to Gettler. The violence trembled in every nerve and muscle of Jeb’s body. He found it difficult to speak. “You just killed a friendly Indian!” he husked. “That Indian was …”

  “There’s no such thing as a friendly one!” snarled Gettler.

  “This one was helping to …”

  “Are there any more of them back there?” He gestured with the rifle.

  “Some who ran away … and this Indian’s wife and child.”

  “You’re just like Bannon!” snapped Gettler. “Take up with every stinking native in the brush!” He took three quick, uneven breaths, backed toward the shelter of the plane.

  “There’re no Jivaro here,” said Jeb.

  “They’re all alike, I tell you!”

  “The Jivaro are waiting for us two days downstream, Gettler.”

  “How d’you know?”

  Jeb hooked a thumb toward the body on the sand. “He told me.”

  “Probably lying!”

  “And maybe not.”

  “Two days,” muttered Gettler. “Where?”

  “Rapids.”

  Monti stumbled to her feet, glared at Gettler. “You utter beast!”

  Gettler ignored her. “Rapids. That’ll be the place they call ‘the cut’ …”

  “You trigger-happy madman!” shouted Monti. She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “I hope they—”

  “You wanted me to kill him!” snapped Gettler. “You thought it was an attack!”

  “I thought you were jungle-savvy,” said Jeb. “Can’t you tell a Napo from a Jivaro?”

  “They’re all alike,” said Gettler. “Treacherous, lying—”

  “And deadly when wronged,” said Jeb.

  Gettler stepped into the protection of the open door of the plane. “So fix this pontoon before some more of them show up!”

  “We oughta just sit here and let them come and get you!” snarled Jeb.

  The rifle centered on Jeb’s head. “Fix the pontoon.”

  Monti touched Jeb’s arm. He shook her off.

  “Kill me and you face them alone, Gettler!”

  “They may blame all of us,” said Monti.

  “Fix the pontoon,” repeated Gettler. “Don’t make trouble or—”

  “You’ve made all the trouble I want for one day!” said Jeb.

  A curious smile flitted across Gettler’s mouth. “So do what I say.” He frowned.

  “First, you should know just what you’ve done,” said Jeb.

  “Yes?”

  “The Jivaro witchmen have put the death finger on anyone who helps us. All of the river tribes’ll hear how this Napo died. It’ll convince them all the curse is real. Any who might’ve been inclined to ignore the curse and help us sure as hell won’t ignore it now!”

  “We don’t need help from these treacherous bastards,” growled Gettler. “Get busy on the float!”

  Jeb returned to the sprawled body, recovered the fibers, vines and gum, carried them to the plane.

  David slid down from the cabin. “Is that Indian dead, Mr. Logan?”

  “Yes.”

  “The dead ones are the only safe ones,” said Gettler. He climbed into the rear of the cabin, sat with the rifle across his knees.

  Jeb found a rock, squatted by the damaged float, began pounding out the torn edges of the hole. It was slow work. Gum stuck to his hands and arms. Flies and sand accumulated on the gum.

  The finished patch looked bulky—a thick scab of bark lashed with vines to the outboard edge of the pontoon. It dripped with sand-coated gum. Trapped insects buzzed in the sticky mess.

  David collected sections of cane poles Jeb had cut.

  “Put those behind the floats for rollers,” said Jeb.

  He took the machete, crossed to the jungle edge, cut four long cane poles, returned to the plane.

  Monti wiped sand from her hands. “What’re those?”

  “To help guide us after we get going.”

  She looked down at the pontoon. “Think that’ll hold?”

  “It should.” He found a section of green leaf, wiped at the mess on his hands and arms, took up one of the poles.

  “The rollers are ready!” called David.

  “Get aboard,” said Jeb. “You, too, Monti.”

  “What about him?” she asked. She looked at the body on the sand. “It seems so callous to … well just leave him there.”

  Gettler leaned out the door. “What’s the delay?”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” said Jeb. “Get aboard.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay out here and help?” asked David.

  Jeb looked at the plane. “Okay. You push on this side. It shouldn’t take much once we get it going on the rollers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Monti climbed into the plane.

  Abruptly, Gettler said, “Wait!”

  Jeb straightened. “Why?”

  “What if it sinks?”

  “You can wade ashore and build us a canoe,” said Jeb. “Sit down.” He turned to the boy. “Okay, David. On the count of three. Rock it onto the rollers.”

  David bent to the float. “I’m ready.”

  “One … two … THREE!”

  The plane rocked back, moved about six inches.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if we got out?” asked Monti.

  “No.” Jeb wiped his forehead, straightened his flying cap. “Again, David. One … two … THREE!”

  The pontoons grated on sand. Slowly, the plane rocked back. It tipped down, gathered speed, splashed into the river.

  Jeb caught the grapnel line, snubbed the plane up short. “Climb aboard, David.”

  The boy jumped onto the float, made his way into the cabin. Jeb waded out to the float, studied it. He tapped the metal, rocked th
e plane.

  “It is holding?” asked Monti.

  “Seems to be.” Jeb unscrewed the cap on top of the float, felt inside. “It’s dry.” He replaced the cap.

  “Aren’t we going to bury that dead man?” asked David.

  “Hush.” said Monti.

  “Let the ants do it,” said Gettler.

  “Fine thanks for warning us about the Jivaro!” said Jeb. And he thought: When’ll I get a chance to tell Monti that our suspicions were right? That Gettler murdered her husband? And maybe it’d be better if she didn’t know.

  “Shove off,” said Gettler.

  Jeb collected the cane poles, wedged them against a strut, brought up the grapnel and put it on the left float. The current tugged at the plane. He leaped aboard, pushed off with one of the poles.

  A line of vultures began settling to the beach behind them. Jeb heard the wings, looked back, shuddered. The vultures hopped toward the coppery body at the jungle edge. A bend in the river shut off the scene.

  Jeb looked to the west. The sun hung low above the peaks.

  “Another hour to sunset,” said Jeb. He felt suddenly weak, drained by his exertions. It seemed to take his last energy to climb into the cabin.

  Alto cirrus clouds hung above the peaks. Sunset poured color through them until they became red waves in a sea of sky.

  The plane swept around a sickle-shaped bend, drifted almost due north along a widening channel. Along the eastern shore the water became silver tinted with mauve, metallic and luminous.

  A deep booming of jungle doves sounded from the hills.

  Dusk siphoned in its flow of tiny insects. The whine of cicadas increased in the still air.

  The sun dipped behind the peaks, rimmed them with fire that was quickly extinguished. The nightly patrol of bats flickered overhead—swooping and soaring. Noises of the evening birds gave way to night sounds; far off a jaguar’s coughing growl (followed by sudden stillness), the rustlings and quiverings, an unseen splash nearby.

  An amber moon climbed over the jungle. The plane drifted down the moon path like a giant dragonfly crouched on the water. A great skeleton butterfly fluttered across the pale light, waved the filigree of its transparent wings briefly on the plane’s cowl, departed.

  Gettler mumbled and growled to himself. Once he raised his voice: “Kill them! Kill them all!”