Indiana Jones and the Interior World

by Rob MacGregor

  "Why did you name your restaurant after it?" Brody asked.

  "Because I too have seen it passing by the island late at night." Fernandez leaned over the table in such a melodramatic manner that Indy suspected he'd put on this performance many times for visitors. "It was very brightly lit, and you could see the crew and hear their strange music. It was so captivating that I had to hold myself back. I wanted to run to the water and swim to the ship, even though at the same time I was very afraid."

  "That's fascinating," Brody said. "But can you tell me about the artist? What's his name?"

  Fernandez's animated behavior abruptly ceased. He stepped back. "He's not here any more."

  "Did Juan Barrios paint that picture?" Indy asked as the restaurant owner started to move away.

  Fernandez's face was a road map of suspicion. "How do you know his name?"

  "I'm a friend... a relative of sorts," Brody said.

  "What was his real name?"

  Brody told him.

  Fernandez nodded. "Very few people on Chiloe knew him by that name. He changed it to fit in better."

  "What happened to him?" Indy asked.

  "Let me see about your dinners, and we will talk."

  "He knows something, doesn't he?" Indy said, as the restaurant owner disappeared into the kitchen.

  "I was about to say the same thing." Brody's eyes moved across the restaurant as if he were searching for more clues. "I always did love a mystery."

  "And this one's complete with a ghost ship," Indy said.

  Their meals were identical, heaping plates of cobia and lobster, clams and squid, potatoes and asparagus. As they ate, Indy kept glancing at the painting of the Caleuche. Something about it disturbed him. The crows, he thought. That was it. At least a dozen tiny crows were perched near the bow of the ship. What bothered him was that he hadn't noticed the birds at first. It was almost as if they'd appeared since he'd first set eyes on the ghost ship.

  When they had finished eating, Fernandez returned to the table with a tall bottle filled with a golden liquid, and two glasses. "This is our specialty, made here in Ancud. Liquido de oro. Liquid gold. I think you will like it. Please, be my guests."

  He poured a small amount in the glasses, and watched their reactions as Indy and Brody sipped. Indy had to admit it was delicious, and Brody agreed.

  Fernandez beamed, then poured more into their glasses. Brody motioned to the empty chair. "Please, Mr. Fernandez, would you have a few minutes to sit down and join us?"

  The restaurant owner glanced around, then nodded. "It's still early. I will be honored to join you."

  As soon as he sat down, Fernandez began a monologue about the island, telling them about its various towns, his favorite restaurants, and the best food to order. He went on endlessly about seafood: the succulent clams and freshwater prawns, marine crabs with spotted shells, snails and giant mussels, and best of all, lobsters from the San Fernandez Islands. He patted his expansive stomach and suggested they try a corn pie called pastel de choclo, and also humitas, which were similar to Mexican tamales without all the spices, and of course, empanadas, a pastry turnover stuffed with chopped meat, fish, chicken, onions, hard-boiled eggs, raisins and olives. When he turned to the wines, Brody interrupted and asked if Barrios had come here very often.

  "Before he went away, yes. He would sit at this very table under his painting. It was just one of many that he made of the ship and other strange things around here."

  "What sort of strange things?" Indy asked.

  Fernandez raised a finger, leaned forward, whispering: "You can't trust the birds."

  "What do you mean?" Indy stole a glance at the painting to make sure that the crows were still there.

  "There are witches around here who can turn themselves into birds."

  Brody cleared his throat. "In the States, we call stories like that old wives' tales."

  "Please go on," Indy said, curious to hear what Fernandez had to say. "What's that got to do with Barrios?"

  The front door opened, and several people hurried in from the cold. "I have to go back to work now, but if you want to talk about Barrios, come back here when we close. I will take you to my house. I have something to show you."

  As it turned out, Fernandez meant exactly what he said. It was close to midnight when he led them from the restaurant to a two-bedroom cottage on a hill above the town. He turned on a couple of gaslights revealing walls covered with paintings. Every one of them, Indy noted, was initialed J.B., and the subject matter, without exception, was of a mystical nature. There were lots of birds, some of which blended with women flying on brooms. Traditional sorcery. There were other paintings of people. Mysterious, menacing men dressed in black, alluring mermaids leaning against a rock in a harbor, and odd women with one side of their faces painted black.

  "My God," Brody muttered. "That's him."

  Brody pointed to a painting of a man with pale blond hair and skin so translucent that the veins on his nose were clearly visible. The wrinkles around his pale blue eyes suggested he was in his late fifties. But it was his expression that caught Indy's attention. He looked tortured.

  Fernandez had opened a bottle of wine. He poured them each a glass, and they sat down at a wooden table in the dining room. "The people of this island are an industrious sort, but you will find that they are also wary of strangers. They have good reason."

  "Witches?" Indy asked.

  Fernandez nodded toward one of the paintings of the Caleuche. "Powerful ones. The ship's crew."

  "Hold on, now." Brody looked baffled. "You're saying that the witches come from the ghost ship?"

  "They've been terrorizing this island for hundreds of years. The people here are very careful not to hurt birds, because the legend says that if any harm comes to a crew member while he is transformed, the guilty one will either be killed, or abducted and condemned to sail the seas forever as a galley slave."

  "Have you ever encountered any of them?" Indy asked.

  "Maybe flying overhead in the shape of a crow, or as strangers like yourselves. But I've been fortunate. I've had no trouble with them, not like Juan Barrios."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," Brody said.

  Indy's gaze slid over to one of the paintings with the menacing faces again. "Did he tell you that he's seen them?"

  Fernandez drained his wine glass, and set it on the table. "One day I asked Juan to paint the ghost ship for my restaurant. I was not a believer in the Caleuche then. I thought the name would attract attention. That was all. To me the ghost ship was a legend, nothing more. But once Juan had painted the Caleuche, everything changed for him." Fernandez pointed at one of the paintings of faces. "They haunted his thoughts, and eventually visited him. Repeatedly."

  "And he told you about it?" Brody asked.

  "He didn't tell me everything. But one night he took me out to see the ship, and it was just as I told you earlier. That convinced me it was more than legend."

  "But what happened to Hans... or Juan?" Brody asked. "Do you have any idea?"

  Fernandez walked over to a window and spread the curtains apart. Bright moonlight streamed through the glass. He turned, facing them, his face in shadow. "Let me tell you another story. A few weeks ago, I was visiting an old man, named Marcelino, who had invited me to his house. There was another old fellow sitting in the comer, who didn't greet me, or say anything. He seemed so remote that after a while I just ignored him. Finally, Marcelino explained that the man was his brother, Teotoro, who had disappeared one night fifty years ago."

  "Fifty?" Brody asked, incredulously.

  Fernandez nodded. "Several weeks earlier Marcelino had been feeling nostalgic about Teotoro. Marcelino had been only eighteen when his brother vanished. He visited their old home on the banks of the Rio Pudeto, and there, seated in the living room and dressed as he'd been half a century earlier, was his brother. When Marcelino asked where he'd been all those years, Teotoro replied only that he'd been on a ship and implored hi
m not to ask anything more."

  "The ghost ship?" Brody asked.

  Fernandez ignored the question and continued the story. "I went over to the man and asked him if he knew anything about Juan Barrios. He nodded and said that he was there on the ship. That was all he would say."

  Brody looked disappointed. "That's it? You don't know anything else?"

  "There is one other thing." Fernandez walked over to the table, poured more wine into his glass, and tipped the glass to his lips. "The last time I saw Juan he said something very strange to me. I didn't know what to think, He told me that he'd seen his wife, Loraine, on the ghost ship, and that he was going to join her."

  "But it couldn't have been her," Brody protested. "No, she's dead."

  Fernandez touched his temple. "They found her inside his head. If these evil beings can change to birds, they can look like anything they want. They created her to lure him aboard."

  Indy had heard enough. "Could you take us to where you and Juan saw the Caleuche?"

  "Right now?" Fernandez asked.

  Brody jammed his hands in his pockets. "It's awfully late, Indy."

  "I don't think you look for ghost ships at noon, Marcus."

  "But, do you really think—"

  "I'll take you there," Fernandez said. "But I can't guarantee your safety."

  "Who said life ever came with guarantees," Indy snapped. "Let's go."

  5

  Two Beitelheimers

  In the moonlight, the peninsula on the northwest corner of the island looked barren and uninhabited; the desolation of the place suffused Indy with a dark gloom that he couldn't shake. They'd taken Fernandez's carriage, riding west to the end of the dirt road. Then they'd hiked over a couple of rugged hillocks as they headed toward a prominence jutting toward the sea.

  Indy picked at Fernandez's story as they walked, puzzling over every detail. He was still anxious to get back to Easter Island, but he was also curious about Beitelheimer and the ghost ship. He kept thinking about Beitelheimers last message to Brody: Trapped in a legend. Indy still wasn't sure what that meant, but it was starting to make sense.

  The landscape was steep and rugged, and the going was slow. Indy took his time, waiting for Brody and Fernandez, who were gasping for breath. Finally, he climbed the last few steps. Several feet in front of him, the land dropped precipitously. Beyond the abyss, ripples of silver moonlight glazed the dark sea. It wasn't hard to imagine a luminous ghost ship sailing through these waters.

  "I don't remember it being such a climb," Fernandez puffed.

  "I'll remember it that way," Brody said.

  "This is where you stood?" Indy asked.

  Fernandez nodded as he recovered from the hike. "Right here. We waited maybe one hour when we saw the ship rising from the sea."

  "From beneath the water?" Brody asked.

  "First I heard faint music." Fernandez spoke in a hushed voice as if he were afraid of being overheard. "It grew louder and louder, then the ship rose from the depths. It was all lit up, and before long I could see people on board. Men and women dancing, drinking. I don't know how to describe the music; it was music of the sea, rippling and shimmering like the water, wailing like the wind."

  Indy listened for the strains of eerie music drifting over the silvery waters. Listened and watched. But he heard and saw nothing. The night was still and cool, and after a few minutes they each sat down, hunched against the chill, and waited. The moon floated slowly across the sky. Clouds came and went.

  The cry of an unseen bird brought Indy alert. He couldn't tell which direction the sound had come from, or how far away it had been. A cool breeze suddenly touched his face, the caress of icy fingers. It was followed by the sound of flapping wings. Close by. Instinctively, he ducked, anticipating the pinch of talons or a beak against the back of his neck.

  "What happened?" Fernandez asked.

  "Didn't you hear it?" Indy leaped to his feet and looked around.

  "Hear what? Music?" Panic laced Brody's voice.

  "A bird. It almost hit me in the head."

  "I didn't hear anything," Fernandez said. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his shoulders huddled against the cold.

  Brody looked around uneasily. "I think we should get going. I'm freezing."

  Indy peered into the darkness. He was sure he'd heard and nearly felt the flapping of wings. He turned his gaze to the sea. Moonlight still glistened across the empty, quiet waters.

  "I don't think we're going to see anything," Fernandez said. "Not tonight."

  As they walked back to the carriage, Indy mulled over what he knew and what he suspected. He separated the few facts from the conjecture. His conclusion was that islanders, at least a couple of them, had been abducted. But he doubted that a ghost ship was involved. It was something else altogether, and he thought he knew what it was.

  He waited for Brody and Fernandez to catch up. "I'd like to talk with that old man you told us about."

  Fernandez shook his head. "I'm sorry. That is impossible. Teotoro is dead."

  "How did it happen?" Brody asked, keeping his eyes on the rugged terrain in front of him.

  "He started complaining that he was hearing voices that told him he was going to be swallowed by a snake."

  "Swell way to go," Indy said.

  "He was so afraid that he tried to kill himself," Fernandez continued. "At first, he kept trying to drain blood from his body by poking himself with pins and putting leeches to his stomach. He even called the leeches by pet names. Then one day he slashed his arms with a razor. His brother was able to save him, but he didn't want anything more to do with Teotoro."

  "I can certainly understand his sentiments," Brody said.

  "What happened to Teotoro?" Indy persisted.

  Fernandez stumbled, but Indy caught his arm. "He was taken to an insane asylum in Santiago, where he underwent a water cure."

  "What's that?" Brody asked. "I've never heard of a water cure for insanity."

  "He was doused in icy water repeatedly, then scalding hot water. Finally, he was wrapped tightly in wet sheets. "He underwent this horrible treatment several times a week until he died," Fernandez concluded.

  "That is appalling," Brody muttered. "It sounds like something out of the Middle Ages."

  Indy had the feeling that whatever had happened to Teotoro during the time he was missing was probably the same thing that Beitelheimer was experiencing right now. But then, if he'd been missing for years, how had he managed to send Brody a telegram?

  Back at the hotel, Indy lay in the dark and waited for sleep. He kept hearing Fernandez's voice, talking about Teotoro's water treatment, and when he finally shut that out, the soft fluttering of the bird he hadn't seen haunted him. Over and over again, its wings pounded his body and its cry echoed in his head. He felt prickles on the back of his neck and realized that his shoulder muscles were tight and knotted.

  He flipped onto his side. Calm down, he muttered. Take it easy. But no matter how hard he tried, sleep still evaded him. Finally, still feeling edgy, he tossed off the covers and turned on the light. It was two-fifteen. He wondered if the bar downstairs was still open. Maybe a shot of brandy was what he needed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and quickly pulled on his pants and shirt.

  The bar was empty save for a single customer, a man who wore a hat and dark clothes. His head was tilted forward as though he were staring into his drink. Indy took a seat two stools away from him. As he ordered a brandy, the man lifted his head. His face was still shadowed by his hat. "Eacefrio esta noche," Indy said, commenting on the weather.

  No answer. The bartender, a young man in his early twenties with thick sideburns, set Indy's drink in front of him, and glanced warily toward the other man.

  "Leave us," the man said.

  The bartender moved to the other end of the bar and busied himself washing glasses. The man ran a finger along the rim of his glass. "What do you want?"

  "You talking to me?" Indy asked. />
  "You called to me."

  "Who are you?"

  The man turned and now Indy could clearly see his gray eyes and long face with its somber expression. There was something oddly familiar about him. Then he knew where he'd seen the face. It had been in one of the paintings on Fernandez's wall. A self-portrait by the artist.

  "Well, well. If it isn't Hans Beitelheimer," Indy said. "Better known as Juan Barrios."

  Barrios grabbed Indy by the front of his shirt, jerked him off the stool, and lifted him into the air as though he weighed no more than a sack of straw. "You are going to be dragged into hell. I see it in your eyes, Jones."

  "What are you talking about? How do you know me?"

  "By your mistakes. You made a big one, and now you're headed for the journey of your life. Pick the time. We are waiting."

  With that, he dropped Indy back onto the stool, ripped open his shirt, and pressed his open hand against Indy's chest. It burned as if he were being branded, and he yelled out in pain.

  Indy bolted upright in bed; he felt feverish and chilled. He flopped back down, rubbed his hands over his face, and muttered: "Go away. Leave me alone."

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The pounding was relentless, and pulled Indy out of a deep sleep.

  "Hang on. Wait a minute." He climbed out of bed, and crossed the room. "Who is it?"

  "It's me."

  Indy opened the door. "Marcus, what's going on?"

  "You won't believe what happened, Indy. I got up this morning and went downstairs for coffee and there was a message waiting for me at the front desk. It's from Hans Beitelheimer. He knows I'm here. C'mon, get ready. We're going to go meet him in the plaza."

  Indy rubbed the sleep from his face. "You mean he found us?"

  "Apparently so. And we didn't even know we were lost!" Brody laughed, giddy with delight. "I'll meet you in the lobby in a few minutes."

  As Indy ambled toward the bathroom, he saw that his undershirt was ripped and wondered how it had happened. He pulled it over his head and stared in the mirror. A red hand-print marked his chest.