by Alex Archer
“Stay with me,” she whispered to Edgar. “Stay—”
Annja’s face scraped hard against rocks directly overhead and she had just enough time to suck in some air. The space above the river had vanished. Keeping one hand on Edgar, she floundered around with her free hand, hoping to find a pocket of air. Desperate, she started treading, trying to reach what might pass for the bank, praying to find a ledge to pull them up on, mounds of guano be damned.
But there was nothing, and the channel only tightened. It felt as if they being pushed through a garden hose. Once more her dream rushed back, being pulled down by a caiman, down and down. But this time there was no down, only being tossed about by water. Like the tributary had become angry and was lashing out. There was life in the ink; she felt things brushing up against her and guessed they were fish.
Then abruptly Annja felt herself flying, and she wrapped her arms around Edgar in a vise grip. Air was all around her and she took in great gulps of it. She could still hear the water, thundering, a recognizable sound—a waterfall. She and Edgar plummeted, striking water again and going under, the gushing torrent of the falls thrusting them to the unforgiving bottom.
No. No. No, her mind shouted. Don’t—
Annja blacked out.
Chapter 35
Annja tasted blood. She ran her tongue around inside her mouth and discovered she’d broken a tooth—fixable. She was probably fixable, too; she was alive. The waterfall had wedged her between two rocks. Her face felt as if it was on fire. Maybe she’d broken her nose. She gingerly touched it. Yes, a broken nose, a gash on her cheek, another one above her right eye.
Pain was the body’s way of letting you know you’re alive...hmm.
She’d expected to drown, maybe meeting Joan of Arc face-to-face, but not this, not...nothingness. That part of the very rocky tunnel the channel flowed through had opened up to provide a miracle. Air, and lots of it. Fresh air.
“Roux.” The word came out too softly to be heard over the rushing water. The tributary sounded like thunder, and it surged past her. She didn’t want to go any farther into the abyss, wherever this current traveled to. There was real fresh air here, and that meant it was coming in from somewhere.
Everything was black. “Roux!” she tried again, rewarded with a mouthful of cold water. “Edgar!”
Had they been carried ahead? Had they been crushed by rocks? Or had they drowned? Rather, had Edgar drowned?
“Edgar!”
She could only hear the water.
Annja felt weak, battered by the rocks and river, no food for days. How long had she and Edgar and Roux been at this? More than a day at least; she didn’t need a watch to tell her that. But how much longer?
Her arms felt practically useless, yet she managed to wrap one around a rock to anchor her and stretch out the other to do a little exploring. The current threatened to dislodge her, but Annja was persistent. Doug had once complimented her on it. That was one of the few days she hadn’t argued with him over something.
What is...there! She grabbed onto a rock sticking up and out of the water like a stalagmite. She pulled herself toward it and wrapped her arms around it. Her face pressed against it; its odor was strong. It was indeed a stalagmite. She stretched out again, fingers brushing another. Annja pushed off against her post, and with hands outstretched caught another one and held on with every ounce of power she had left.
“Roux!” No reply. Nothing. “Edgar!”
Stretching out, she found the next stalagmite much closer this time. Annja didn’t know where she was going, but it felt good to be out of the current for now.
Another stalagmite, and then she felt a rocky ledge. She pulled herself up on it, and crawled farther away from the water. The farther she went, the better she felt.
Annja stretched out on her back and shivered, listened to the water and thought about Edgar and Roux, Moons who’d died before they even reached the underground tributary. Mostly she thought about Dillon; wanting to bring him to justice gave her strength. She must have dozed for a while because she was dry now, although her hair was still damp.
She got to her feet, shaky, the muscles in her legs feeling like noodles. Wobbly, she took a few steps, small and shuffling, not wanting to end up back in the river if she could help it.
“Edgar!” Her voice had more power now and it came back at her, reflecting off a wall she could see. “Edgar! Roux!”
She thought she heard something.
“Roux?” She took another step forward and strained to hear anything besides the waterfall. “Edgar!”
She did hear something, a moan. Her name? Someone said her name.
“Roux!”
“I’m here. You don’t have to shout.”
“Where are you?”
A chuckle. “Don’t know. Can’t see a damn thing.”
“Keep talking.”
He did and she carefully walked in that direction, realizing the ledge she was on was more than a ledge, the size undeterminable. Annja slipped in guano, picked herself up and continued on. Her limbs ached and she felt so empty inside.
Finally, she bumped into the old man. He was seated, back to a stalagmite.
“You stink,” he said.
“Thanks.” She had to admit the guano-smeared clothes smelled awful. “Edgar?”
“He’s not here.”
She crouched down next to Roux.
“Seriously, you stink.”
“I had a hold of him,” Annja said. “Then we went under.”
They didn’t say anything for a while. She listened to the river and the gentle flutter of the bats moving overhead.
“I’ve felt around every inch of this spot, as much as I could,” Roux said. “Searching for you. For Edgar. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. You were going to ask me that next, right? I lost my watch in the river. Edgar got lost in the river.”
“I had a hold of him and—”
“Not your fault, Annja. It was a miracle he hadn’t died earlier, when Dillon’s man pushed him through the hole. He should have died then, when the girl did. Would’ve been more merciful.”
Roux sounded thoroughly defeated, and Annja imagined a sorrowful expression on his face. He was probably thinking that she would die here, just like Moons had, and like Edgar most certainly had. If she didn’t die of starvation...she’d passed the point of feeling ravenous. Now she just felt weak and numb, her fingers and lips trembling; serious hunger, her head dully pounding.
“I’m not going to die here,” she said to herself as much as to Roux.
She’d been listening closely to the bats, and they were leaving.
And she was going to follow them out of this place.
Annja had a hard time standing, her legs not cooperating. She pulled herself up by finding breaks in the rock. Listening to the shrieking bats, she followed them, hands out in front of her like a mummy in an old black-and-white film. She found another stone wall and could hear no more flying bats. However many there had been, they were all gone.
And they’d left through a hole very high up.
The moon must be full and bright for it to shine down. It was a spotlight that didn’t reach her, and yet it reached far enough to give her hope.
“I’m not dying down here, Roux. Do you hear me?”
He mumbled something. Sounded like swearwords, but in German.
“I’m climbing out. You can come with me if you’d like.” At least, Annja hoped she was climbing out. She felt the wall, searching for dry spots and other good places to hold. So much was too slippery, but she persisted, keeping the faint overhead light in view. Finally she found a deep enough niche to wedge her fingers into. She started up. “I’m serious, Roux, I’m getting out of here.” She heard some shuffling, the sound of him cracking into another s
talagmite, heard him fall.
“Verdammt!”
Annja wasn’t fluent in German, but she knew that word.
“I’m not waiting, Roux.” But she was, climbing slowly, talking as she went—about the river and the cave paintings, staying away from the depressing subject of Edgar and Moons. She heard him climbing below her. Despite his age—real or otherwise—she knew him to be athletic. Roux probably didn’t share her total exhaustion; her legs felt like lead as she pulled one up over the other, searching for spots to wedge her toes in. Too, Roux had kept his boots on. She could hear the scraping sound of the leather against the rock.
He fell once, and she hung suspended, waiting for him to start again. “I could come back for you,” she offered. “Find ropes, people to help, old—” She stopped herself from calling him “old man” again.
“Just climb.” She could tell his words came out between clenched teeth. His cursing continued, louder and with more variation.
After many minutes, Annja found a wide enough ledge to rest her knees; her face pressed against the stone, she took several deep breaths. She was starting to doubt this route; giving herself to the river and seeing if she’d survive the rest might have been the better route. If she fell from this height...she’d be done.
Annja waited. The fates had smiled on her so far, giving her a rock wall with plenty of hand-and footholds. Otherwise, she never would have been able to attempt this climb. It felt like forever before Roux joined her. She pulled him up to her perch. His breath was ragged and he didn’t talk. After a short while, she broke the silence.
“I need to rest,” Annja said. “Before I start up again. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper.
* * *
ANNJA AWOKE TO the sound of bat wings flapping, the air rushing against her face. Maybe it was almost daylight above. She didn’t feel any better for having rested; her legs still felt like weights when she managed to stand. Looking straight up, she thought she saw a hint of light...or rather less black.
Annja consoled herself, took a deep breath and began climbing again. One hand, one foot, over and over again. She still couldn’t hear Roux; for now, she would go on alone. But then she heard...thunder? Rain, she didn’t need. Wet rock would make the climb even more difficult, and it had been difficult enough.
“Move. Move. Move.” She gritted her teeth and increased her rate of ascent. The spot of light she’d seen above only a few minutes ago was gone; no doubt the sky—however high up—had gone dark with clouds. What were those curse words Roux had used? Her stomach, legs, every inch of her ached. Her fingers and feet were bloody from cutting them on the rock. Annja let anger fuel her; an image of Dillon flashed in front of her eyes. “Move. Move. Move!”
It was raining.
She’d poked her head out of the hole like a rabbit, and scrambled topside. She lay on her belly, peering down into the darkness, listening for Roux. The hole she’d climbed out of wasn’t large, and she used her body to shield as much of it as she could, trying to keep the hand-and footholds dry for him.
“Roux?” She risked after a minute or two. “Are you there?”
There was silence. The tempo of the rain increased, drumming against her back.
“Roux! Roux! Roux, are you—”
“Of course I’m here,” he hollered. His voice sounded distant. “Where else do you think I would’ve gone to?”
Annja shut up and waited, listening to the thunder, dozing, and then waking when Roux’s hands reached up and out of the hole. Reflexively, she grabbed him, holding as tight as she could manage.
“Pull harder!” Roux commanded. “C’mon, Annja!”
She heaved and got him halfway out, and he struggled himself the rest of the way. He rolled onto his back and she took stock of him. His clothes were shredded, his face and hands crisscrossed with cuts. The rain pelted down on him.
“The next time—” he began. “The next time I worry about you I am staying in France.”
“Probably a good idea,” she said. Annja lay at a right angle from him, too worn out to move. In the time since she’d inherited Joan of Arc’s sword, she’d been shot at, chased, attacked with all manner of weapons. Someone even tried to do her in with explosives. She’d never been tossed down a hole in a tropical rainforest before with the intent of letting her die there.
Dillon had almost succeeded.
“Do you want to stay here, Roux? Mend or whatever it is you do while I go for help?”
“No,” he answered curtly. “I’m going with you.”
But he didn’t. He remained flat on his back, the rain pattering against him.
She struggled to her feet, picked a direction, and struck out. Annja would come back for him later, after she figured out where in the world she’d just arrived.
Chapter 36
The rain didn’t last long. It was long enough though to wash most of the blood and guano off her. She couldn’t imagine what she must look like. And she felt even worse. Still, she persisted.
The clouds thinning, Annja could tell it was close to sunset.
She’d expected trees. She was after all in the middle of the rainforest. She wanted to see the tall buildings of Belém. Annja had hoped the water ride had taken them toward the big city. At least the temperature was delightfully warm. She’d almost forgotten what warm had felt like.
Annja was slogging through soggy savanna, so she really had no clue where she’d come out. The ground was relatively flat; there were trees in the distance and the outline of a barn and a house.
“I’m not in Manhattan anymore,” Annja quipped. She shuffled toward a fence and hitched herself over it, fell in a swath of mud and for a moment contemplated just lying there for a while. But there was Roux to think about, and Dillon to bring to justice. On her feet, she kept going, and she passed a herd of water buffalos. She’d made it across the pasture and over the other side of the fence when her legs gave out.
A farmer coming in from the barn saw her.
* * *
PORTUGUESE, HE KNEW just enough Spanish to carry on a casual conversation. She used his shower, and gorged herself on bread and boiled chuchu while his teenage son went in search of Roux. The farmer loaned her a pair of his son’s blue jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. The high-top tennis shoes were too large, but she didn’t care at this point.
She thanked him profusely and let him fuss over the cuts on her face and tape her nose. The farmer said one year in veterinary school had proved helpful with wounded livestock.
“Me siento como ganado heridos,” Annja said. In English her words meant that she felt like wounded livestock. He pressed, and she gave him the very condensed, edited version of her exploits. That she’d been pushed into a cavern and a long while later had found a way out onto his property.
“Necesitas un medico.”
She didn’t have time for a hospital or a doctor, she thought. Annja shook her head. “I will be fine. Voy a estar bien.”
He scowled like he didn’t believe her, went to the refrigerator and brought back two bottles of DaDo Bier. Annja did not refuse the hospitality.
“Dónde estamos? Esta casa?” Annja wanted to know just where she was.
The farmer—Duarte Cruz, as he introduced himself—disappeared for several minutes, coming back with a laptop so large and old Annja thought it could be displayed in a museum. He strung the power cord to an outlet.
“Wireless,” he said, grinning. He scooted it around in front of her, leaned over her shoulder and impatiently waited for the machine to start up. He spoke to her in Portuguese, but she had no idea what he had said. Maybe something about the machine’s sluggishness?
“Ah! Veja? Ele funciona.” He drummed his fingers and switched to Spanish. “Ven? Va.”
Yes, she could see that i
t worked. His thick, calloused fingers typed in a series of letters, hit return, and a map of Brazil popped up. He zoomed in on the map, presumably to the spot where they were.
So this was where she’d crawled out of the earth.
She was on the largest island in the world that was surrounded by freshwater, the Amazon flowing around it; the largest city, which Duarte said was no legos—not far—was called Breves.
Looking over her shoulder, Duarte pointed at the word Breves. “Tem um hospital,” he said.
“Don’t need one. I will be fine,” she replied. “Voy a estar bien.” Eventually she would be fine. The meal had gone a long way to help, but she hurt all over. The only reason she hadn’t keeled over from exhaustion was because nervous energy had taken over. She had so much to do that she didn’t have time for sleep. Besides, she’d napped some on the rocky ledge, and that had also helped.
The island was almost directly on the equator. Belém sat to the south, across the Para River. She clicked a link to Breves, no English page available; she found one in Spanish and discovered the town did a reasonable tourist business because of its beautiful beach. That meant there would be boats. She needed a way to get back to the nameless Dslala village. Her passport, papers, her satellite phone, Marsha’s camera...all of it was there. And Dillon’s camp was down a well-worn path that extended from the village.
“Duarte—” Annja indicated the chair next to her. He sat. She finally took stock of him. Middle-aged, skin weathered from the sun, black hair streaked with gray, a careworn face. He wasn’t a poor man judging by the house and his clothes, but neither was he rich. Generous, though, and thoughtful; he’d taken her in. “I need to tell you where I’ve been,” she said. And not the condensed, edited version, either. She was halfway through her story about Arthur Dillon and his pharmaceutical and gem operation when Roux and Duarte’s son stumbled in.
The cuts were gone on the old man’s face, but he was filthy and raggedy looking. Introductions were made, more bread and boiled chuchus were served, and Annja finished her story.
