The Dead Man's Brother

by Zelazny, Roger

  "Mister Bretagne. The man on the hill."

  "Oh?" said Maria. "And what is your place in all this? Both Portuguese and the native dialect seem natural to you. You seem comfortable here in the jungle, but you located Ovid in the city. What is your association with Emil?"

  "My mother was native here, my father was from Rio," she said. "I have lived in many places. I am a priestess of the Church of the Spirits."

  "Isn’t that voodoo?"

  She shrugged.

  "Voodoo, Candomblé, Macumba, Xangô. All the same," she said. "I have traveled much, and it is all the same. No matter how far I travel, though, I always return here at certain times, for it is my home. As for Emil Bretagne, I have long prayed for another Rondon, and I think that perhaps he has come."

  "Rondon?" Maria said. "I’m afraid that I do not understand."

  Vera smiled.

  "My grandmother knew Rondon," she said, "and he was an old man even then. He was a half-breed like myself, born in Matto Grosso. Long ago, when they were laying the telegraph line from Rio to Matto Grosso’s capital, he was in charge of the work, going through the jungle with his men, digging holes, putting up telegraph poles. One day, they saw an Indian, and Rondon followed him. He came to a place where the tribe was massed, ready to attack his work party. They shot poisoned arrows at him and he fled. The next day he returned, bearing no weapon himself, and walked into their camp. He stood in the center of their village and did not move, waiting. The chief approached him then, with an arrow nocked and his bow drawn, but he never shot it. Instead, he was so impressed by his courage that he lowered his weapon and knelt at Rondon’s feet. They were very primitive people, the Nambiquara, and though they lived on the river they did not know how to make boats. Rondon taught them to build them, and he gave them medicine for their sicknesses. They became good friends. As he moved on, placing the telegraph lines, Rondon made more and more friends among the Indians.

  "When then telegraph was installed, settlers came. As in your country, there was much hostility between the settlers and the Indians. It persists to this day. There are killings on both sides, though it is now mainly the Indians who suffer. In those days it was far worse, however, so that the government came to ask Rondon to do something about it—knowing that he had many friends in the jungle. He founded the Indian Protection Service then, and he worked for peace and the betterment of the native peoples. When he died—in 1956, I think it was—he had befriended and aided over 150,000 Indians from well over 100 tribes. He had set up Indian Protection posts all over Brazil. They talked about giving him the Nobel Prize for Peace for his work.

  "But despite all that Cândido Rondon did," she went on, "things are still much as they were in the Old West of your country. There are men who earn their living as professional Indian killers, for there are settlers who want their lands, rubber tappers who want their trees, miners who want their minerals. Things are better than they would have been, but still, they are far from being good. Many of the tribes are near to extinction. Civilization offers them nothing but disease, poverty and misery—and the settlers, the rubber tappers, the hunters and the miners threaten the survival of the old ways. They must be protected from Civilization. We still have the Indian Protective Service, with its parks and preserves. But this is of the government. It is not of the people. It is not enough. Another Rondon is needed."

  "And you think Emil Bretagne…?" Maria began.

  "Yes," Vera said. "Over the years he has helped. Not much, but always some. Then, recently, he came to the people in person. It is difficult to explain, but I was there at the time and I know it must have been like that on the day Rondon went to the chief of the Nambiquaras. There is that about the man which is powerful and honest. I knew that he was a very great man—everyone knew it. And he has already done things for my people. He is very clever. He says that he will be with us for a long while now, and I believe him. You ask my association with him? He has named me his secretary," she concluded.

  The notes of dedication, ethnic pride and self-importance had been of sufficient intensity to convince me that this Bretagne brother, also, was a highly skilled con man, had there been any need for further convincing. I had nodded and smiled at all the appropriate times as she spoke, and searched my memory a bit. Yes, I had heard or read of Cândido Rondon somewhere, years ago. A positively inspired idea, taking advantage of a local legend that way. Instant loyalty. I wondered precisely how he had managed to pull it off in so short a time. My respect for the man increased further.

  "…I wonder what his message could be?" Maria was saying. Our unclad guide had reached the summit and conferred with Emil and another man who had remained out of sight until his arrival. Instructions were apparently given, and our man had vanished once more.

  Vera shrugged.

  "I do not know."

  When I looked back a few moments later, the hilltop was deserted.

  From somewhere, I heard several rolls of thunder, and hoped it was raining on Morales and his crew while obliterating whatever trail we might have left. A few drags more on my cigarette, a sudden smile from Maria, a warm feeling, more thunder and a clean smell from the stream.

  After a time, our guide returned. He bore with him a canteen of water, which he passed about. As we slaked our thirst, he spoke with Vera and the other man.

  Then Vera turned toward us once more.

  "You will come with me, and with Pomi," she said to Maria, indicating our other guide as she spoke.

  "You will go with Jom," she said to me, nodding toward the man who had just returned from the hill.

  "Why?" asked Maria.

  "Because he wishes it so."

  "But I want to meet him, too."

  "Perhaps you will later. Now he wishes to speak only with Mister Wiley. Come with us, and I will see that you are comfortable."

  Maria looked at me, something of uncertainty plowing her brow.

  I nodded.

  "Go ahead," I said. "There must be a reason. We’ve trusted them so far."

  She nibbled her lower lip and nodded.

  "Yes, that is true," she said. "Very well."

  Jom came and stood beside me.

  "Until later, then," I said.

  "Yes. Goodbye. Take care."

  The three of them moved off leftward, toward the foot of the hills. Jom led me to the right.

  *

  We passed through the brush, not following any noticeable trail for perhaps ten minutes. Then we struck a narrow, twisting pathway and remained on it. The hills were always to our left, until they passed from view. We encountered the stream again on several occasions. Finally, we remained with it, and the path widened as we moved along its bank.

  Perhaps twenty-five minutes later, I caught sight of the village. Five minutes after that, we were in it.

  Naked children stopped playing to stare at me, thumbs in their mouths. When I had passed them, they began to follow along behind. Naked adults kept their thumbs out of their mouths and did not follow after, but they stopped whatever they were about and stared silently. A few goats and lots of chickens ignored me for their scavenging and scratching. The huts were of rough wood and pick-your own thatching. The stream was only a few hundred yards away, and there were canoes drawn up on the bank beside it. Some smoke drifted toward the sky’s blind eye, and the aromas of unusual recipes reached my nostrils. Lightning flashed, the thunder growled once more and the dust was pocked about me. It would make a nice woodcut, I thought, glancing back over my shoulder.

  As we moved along, I could see that the village was more extensive than I had first thought. It followed the curving of the stream, and when we rounded a blind of heavy brush I saw that it continued on. Jom led me that way, conducted me to one of the huts, halted before it and made motions for me to enter. I pushed back a hanging of light fabric and stepped inside.

  It was deserted. There was a rude table near the center, containing stationery weighted down with a flat rock, a ballpoint pen, an empty b
asin with a red washcloth hung over its edge, a folded towel, a small mirror, a safety razor and a nail file. There was no writing or impressions on the paper. Two expensive-looking suitcases stood at the head of a low bed. They were locked. There was a chair at the table and a low bench beside the door. Part of a packing case in the far corner held assorted crockery and a can of tobacco. A sheathed machete hung from a peg above it. There were six small windows with rough bark ledges. They held an assortment of knickknacks, pots and tins of growing things and a red, green and yellow parrot who moved only its head, slowly, keeping an inquisitive amber eye on my every movement.

  A glance out the window showed me that the parade of children had already begun to disperse, and Jom had not moved from his position beside the doorway. I took a drink of water from a small Lister bag by the window and seated myself on the bench.

  Then the rain hit hard and a sudden wind lashed it through the camp. I moved to the door and held back the hanging, but Jom made noises and gestures indicating that he would not enter. I let the flap fall again. Literal-minded fellow, most likely. Been told to wait outside, and that was it.

  About ten minutes later the rain let up. About five minutes after that I sprang to my feet as the hanging was pushed aside.

  I recognized the Bretagne features immediately, beneath the wide, wet brim of his hat. He stamped his boots, hung the hat and rifle on a peg and extended his hand in my direction. He grinned, a disarmingly pleasant thing.

  "Mr. Wiley," he said. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

  I found myself smiling back.

  "That’s all right," I told him, clasping his hand. "A few more minutes hardly mattered."

  "I must apologize for the discomfort this roundabout way of arranging a meeting has caused you," he said. Then, "You haven’t eaten since yesterday, have you?"

  He did not wait for a reply—which was just as well—but stuck his head out the door and said something to Jom.

  No, good my lord, I have not eaten, nor slept—and my bones remember that bus ride and my muscles this trek. Also, my eyeballs feel as if they have been scoured with steel wool and must look that way from your side, too. I could use a bath, a deodorant, a shave and some Band-Aids while you’re at it.

  He turned back toward me then, making a few futile attempts to brush the moisture from his khakis.

  "We’ll have something for you shortly," he said, moving across the room and squatting beside a small pit partly covered by a piece of perforated metal.

  He soon had a fire going in the pit, produced a coffee pot from the packing case, washed it, filled it and set it to boil. He did not remove his web belt, which held a sidearm and a hunting knife.

  He seated himself at his writing table, sighed and began packing his pipe. I reseated myself on the bench and lit a cigarette.

  "You know why I sent for you./?" he said/asked.

  "I have a pretty good idea."

  "You wouldn’t be here," he said, "if you didn’t feel I have something you want."

  "I don’t deny it. Do you?"

  He lit his pipe.

  "I think so," he said. "But first I am curious as to what you know or think you know concerning my activities."

  I shrugged.

  "You were an office boy at the Bassenrut Foundation and you looted the petty cash box. You had always wanted to go on a camping trip…"

  He chuckled.

  "In a sense you are correct," he said. "It almost was petty cash to them, and I did always want to come here."

  He puffed several aromatic clouds.

  "Tell me more of the office boy’s motives," he said.

  "Motive for running? Because he was about to get tripped up. Motive for taking it? Political, I’d guess. He had apparently been diverting it for years, in ways that eventually got it to a revolutionary group possibly interested in seeing the State of São Paulo secede and become a separate country. He might even have been known to them as ‘Saci’."

  "No," he interrupted. "Saci he never was."

  "Whatever," I continued, "he seemed to sour on this end of things as soon as the water got choppy. He fled, taking with him the records of his various clandestine transactions, proceeded to siphon off and sequester as much of the capital as he could in a few days’ time, then went to ground and began looking for an opportunity to buy security in exchange for the knowledge of people, places and dealings he possesses which would cripple the movement and possibly result in the dismemberment of Bassenrut."

  "…as well as embarrass the federal government, if you turned it over to an outside agency as powerful here as the one you represent," he finished. "That would make him a real twenty-four carat bastard, wouldn’t it? Selling out his employer, government and comrades-in-arms? In return for what? Security and whatever of the money he can get away with?"

  "I shall refrain from judgment," I said.

  "Very Christian," he responded, chuckling. "Did you know I had a brother who was a priest?"

  "Yes," I said. "I note your use of the past tense."

  "Yes. He died recently. I’m sure you are aware of this."

  "Yes. In Madrid."

  "Lisbon."

  "Pardon me."

  "You feel, I take it, that I will join him soon?"

  "Let me put it this way," I said. "If I were you I wouldn’t start reading a long novel—or a short one. Maybe not even a short story."

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  "Really?" he said. "I’m quite surprised. You came a long distance, presumably to obtain something I have that you want. You must have come prepared to offer something in return for it—and you did speak of security a moment ago. Now you talk as if it is an unavailable commodity. I had expected at least an offer of safe conduct out of the country, a new identity, bodyguards, social security and Medicare, life after death. Things like that."

  "Are those your terms?"

  "No. I was simply speculating. But if that is not your offer, what are you prepared to give me?"

  "I had nothing specific in mind," I told him. "I knew you had plenty of money, so that didn’t seem a likely inducement. Offhand, I’d say some version of security seems the best bet. Life being full of vicissitudes, however, you must of course realize that it is an impossible thing to guarantee beyond certain limits. I decided it would be easiest to simply come and ask you what you want. What do you want?"

  "Before we get into that, I feel somewhat obliged to explain some of the things I have done."

  "You don’t have to justify yourself to us."

  "It is not justification so much as it is a belief that your agency will find the information instructive in evaluating my request."

  "Which is?"

  "One thing at a time. To begin with, the office boy was himself deceived. He was somewhat idealistic—still is, for that mater—and he believed that the group of people he helped to subsidize had as one of their major objectives the protection and benefaction of people such as those who surround us now. In fact, he believed that work along these lines was going on the entire while he was providing assistance. Yes, this sounds somewhat naïve. But he was that sort of person. Whatever injustices you know of as having been rendered the Indians of your continent, take these and multiply them by at least ten. The tribesmen have been suffering from a continuing unofficial policy of extermination. It would be best—for them—if they were simply left alone. This is impossible, however. The next best thing would be the provision of adequate medical and educational facilities, and some means of more adequately defending their rights. The Indian Protection Service tries, but they are understaffed, their budget is too low and their programs are insufficient. Some missionaries try, but they want their souls and their minds in return for what they give. The Church is too damn strong in this country. Private charities do not really know what to do whenever they get interested."

  He stopped then, blinked, seemed to refocus his thoughts.

  "Didn’t mean to run on so," he said, puffing, "but I am quite moved by t
heir position. It is not as if they are the only oppressed minority in the world. God knows, the laborers in the north spend their lives under miserable enough conditions. The government says nothing there because the large landholders are powerful, and the Church encourages their acceptance of their lot. Hell, the priests have their souls and the landowners have their asses. What’s left is pretty dreary. And I won’t even go into life in the favelas. Perhaps you’re read Child of the Dark. The Indians are farther removed from civilization than all this. Even such supposed benefits as vitamin pills can make them violently ill, their diets are so different from those of civilized men. My point is that they must be treated almost as if they are another species if they are to survive. Since we cannot pretend they do not exist, they must be dealt with, and very carefully. This is not being done, properly, today. The office boy thought that the money he provided was helping to do it. When he learned that it was not, he grew angry. Is it difficult then to see his withdrawing this support from the movement?"

  "No," I replied. "It is difficult to see why he did not become aware of this state of affairs earlier."

  "Well, he was duped," he said. "It was not the first time someone had trusted the wrong people."

  "True," I said. "Take the Bassenrut Foundation for an example."

  "A thief has no right to the same moral indignation as an honest man, should his pocket be picked," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "They don’t come any crookeder than Bassenrut," he stated. "Perhaps the word ‘Foundation’ in their corporate title brings forth visions of an organization handing out research grants, promoting the arts and engaging in generally philanthropic activities. Actually, they are a conglomerate, controlling many, many things, some of them quite legal, some of them not so. Movement is the key. You keep the funds flowing back and forth among a sufficient number of entities, and it can be made virtually impossible to tell how much is where, when, and what the precise total is. The use of various accounting methods and different fiscal years for some of them helps, too. Then you divert whenever you need it for other enterprises. You might even use that route in reverse to plow back conspicuous outside earnings."