Everyone was bored. Lomara wasn’t singing her little songs anymore. Karen thought she’d give anything to talk to Alice, Cheyenne, and Socorro. She wondered if they knew by now she was missing and wondered what they were thinking. Karen recalled how cooperative they were on all their wilderness trips. She’d not had to tell them what to do next, to be packed and ready like she’d had to do at Outward Bound School. Maybe that was the reason for Karen’s supposed leadership problem. It was easy to become used to girls who didn’t need to be told when to blow their nose. They knew from experience what was expected and had unwittingly evolved into a team. Her crew here hadn’t shared the same experiences. She’d keep that in mind.
A game of sorts evolved. They had to keep their spirits up. When one of them spied a bird they’d point it out, naming it if they knew. None of the names were known to Karen and Jay didn’t know what they were talking about. It seemed with every turn of the river they saw a new bird flying over or in the trees. They were of every color, even blues, yellows, oranges, and greens. Some were multicolored parrots, lots of green ones. This was more like the rainforest Karen expected. There were stretches where few birds were seen, other than vultures high up making their endless sweeping patrols. For such ugly birds, they were as graceful as eagles turning in the sky. Tía lost interest early in the game simply staring down the river ahead.
They scared a blue heron up from the reeds and it flew down-river to alight in another hide. As they approached it took to the air again winging down the river. It did this four times, each evoking cries of joy from Lomara as the elegant bird lofted itself on its broad wings. It finally hid out, probably in paralyzed fear as they drifted past, much to Lomara’s disappointment. She watched astern with keen anticipation for it to show itself, but it never did before they rounded yet another bend.
Later they saw a motmot, the green, turquoise, and brown Nicaraguan national bird flitting among some riverside reeds.
It was late afternoon, still plenty of daylight left. Karen considered locating a campsite as they rounded a bend. She was looking at a bare patch of ground on the left bank.
It was a boat landing, devoid of boats. On a post was a sign finger-smeared with shoe polish, “Santa Marta.” A village—the absence of boats said it was un-peopled. There might be food though; there might still be some people and help.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She steered for the bare patch. Something didn’t feel right, but she had no idea what.
Nosing the boat into the landing she could tell Tía was apprehensive, but the woman didn’t say anything. Karen listened, hearing only bird chatter.
She managed to convey to Tía that she and Jay were going ashore to see if there were people or possibly any food left behind.
She and Jay slipped on their shoes as Tía cautioned them to be careful. “Vayan con Dios,”—Go with God, she muttered with pain-filled eyes. Even though Jay couldn’t understand, she told him to protect Karen as she was helpless. That hurt—Thanks for the vote of confidence. Karen didn’t see him being able to offer much protection from…whatever.
“You up for this?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go for it.” He didn’t sound too positive.
They crept up the bank and peered over. Karen had taken the machete gripping its black handle tightly.
They were looking down a long narrow clearing, over a football field long and as wide as a four-lane road. Tucked into the trees on either side were a few ramshackle bamboo and thatch houses. There were probably more among the trees. They were up on log stilts, four or five feet high. It had flooded, but had since receded.
There was no movement, no sounds of animals or chickens. Even the birds now seemed quiet. The breeze barely rustled the treetops. Karen realized the sun was low. They needed to light up their fire. A thought crossed her mind. Maybe we could camp here. She didn’t know why, but it simply didn’t feel comfortable here.
Karen led off, sticking close to the trees on the right. Jay was on her heels. They moved slowly.
The first house was smaller and cruder than the ones back in the mud-buried farmstead. She peeked into the door, but it was too dark to see anything. She should have brought flashlights. She’d not been thinking ahead she chastised herself.
Before treading up the split log steps, she pointed to the next house, some thirty feet away, and whispered, “Check it out for food. Stay quiet.” Without any acknowledgement, Jay skulked toward the rickety house.
She tiptoed into the house pausing to let her eyes adjust to the gloomy, musty single room. The only window was in the back and was covered by a split-open burlap sack. There was a crude plank table and two backless chairs, a few wooden fruit crates to one side, not much else. The crates were empty as was a cardboard box in a corner. The former occupants had taken just about everything with them, what little they possessed.
“¡Salte de aqui!”—Come out! She heard Jay say. An ice-like shock lanced through her. That wasn’t Jay!
“Oh crap,” she gasped and dashed for the door. There was an indiscernible shout. She halted, crept to the wall and peaked through a crack in the bamboo slats. Two men, in their twenties, were in front of the next house, the one Jay had headed to. The men were moving toward the door; something was menacing about them. A third man appeared out of the trees on the other side. Yikes! He’s carrying a shotgun! Another came out of the woods at a run with a machete. Karen gulped feeling weak-kneed and seeing herself facing him with her own machete. She felt like dropping it.
The first two clambered up the stairs into the hut—they too had machetes. There were scuffle noises and Jay tumbled down the steps with the two men leaping down and shouting. The man with the shotgun aimed it at the prone boy. Karen turned to ice in spite of the heat. A fifth man came out of a house farther down and ran toward the little mob—with a machete of course. No surprise. In rural Nicaragua, the machete was a tool and a weapon. A man no sooner left home without one than an American left home without her smartphone.
There was a lot of shouting and they were pushing Jay around. Bastardos.
They were a rough looking bunch, unshaved, shaggy dirty hair, grubby shorts or cutoff jeans, holey T-shirt s, and sandals or running shoes held together with duct tape.
She made out scattered words. “¿Quiéneres. ¿Hay otros?” —Who are you? Are there others? Once Jay glanced toward her house.
Karen was scared now. Then she remembered Tía and Lomara in the boat. What if these guys went to the landing to see if the stranger had arrived by boat? How else would a gringo have gotten there? They’d want a boat. What would they do to Tía and Lomara? They’d not take the two with them if they wanted the boat. There wasn’t room and who’d want to bother with a little girl and a sick old woman with broken arms?
One of the men punched Jay in the face and he crumpled to the ground like a feed sack. Panic blasted through Karen and she darted to the back window, flung aside the curtain and plummeted to the ground. Get a grip, she ordered herself. Crouching, she looked beneath the house and could see only the men’s legs. One roughly pulled Jay to his feet and said something about “una mula gringo.” She eased into the trees behind the house. Turning, she ran through the brush. Vines and brush grabbed her legs, lashing her exposed shins.
She crashed out of the brush with leaves flying, scaring the daylights out of Tía and Lomara.
“¿Dónde está Jadon?” —Where is Jay? Tía gasped.
“No hablen.” —Don’t speak, Karen whispered harshly. She tossed in the machete, untied the bow rope, waded to the boat, and scrambled in. She slipped the oars and turned into the current pulling as hard as she could. Tía understood something was afoul and kept quiet.
Less than a hundred feet downstream was the leafy top of a big uprooted tree hanging into the water. She pulled for it, rounded it, and heaved hard against the current as she turned into it pushing them among the limbs. She grabbed a branch and held on to the rough bark cutting her fingers an
d palm. Grabbing the bow rope, she turned it around a larger limb.
She again cautioned Tía and Lomara, “Silencio.” Tía started asking where Jay was.
Soon Karen heard faint voices from the landing. She couldn’t see through the foliage. There was a splash and some laughter. One of them was counting. More faint splashes and a stone skipped past. Then it was quiet again with only the current hissing through the submerged limbs.
Karen turned and whispered that men had hit Jay and taken him prisoner. She had to run back to the boat to keep them from being found.
Tía was rattled. She said Karen had no business taking Jay with her and she didn’t know what she was doing.
Don’t start, thought Karen. She didn’t say anything, but plopped down in the stern and thought. Tía turned her back to her, but Lomara came back and snuggled up beside Karen.
Okay, maybe she screwed up or maybe it wasn’t her fault. It didn’t matter. She’d have to make a decision. We could simply row on down the river leaving Jay to his fate. She’d heard the words “una mula gringo.” Maybe they were going to use him as a pack mule to carry their stuff. Or, and this was nuts, she could try and free him. The others, there were at least five, mean guys, with machetes and a shotgun. What could she do?
Could she leave him? One less mouth to feed. Dang, she knew she shouldn’t be thinking that way. She knew it was the stress, the fear of what she’d have to do. Her subconscious was giving her a way out; a chicken way out. Or she was over-focusing on surviving, no matter what it cost. He might have been a royal pain in the butt, but he was part of the crew. She had to be real though. She couldn’t risk all of them for him.
She came to the conclusion the right thing to do was to sneak back to the village in the dark and see if they were still there. If the others were already gone there was nothing she could do. The Others, like the bad people in Lost, the TV show about the strange island. But the Others might still be there. It was late in the day. They might not leave, if they were planning to, until morning.
What would the Others do with him? Probably tie him up inside one of the houses. They might have a lookout. All she could do was sneak up as quiet as a mouse and see what she could see. There was little chance she could free him, but she had to take a look.
She knew she had one thing going for her. The Others didn’t know anyone else was here. She was petrified thinking about it.
One other thing nagged her. What if something happened to her? It would leave Tía and Lomara alone. They would have no chance. That was her way out, her excuse to back out, but she’d still have to give it a go. She’d be extra careful.
Tía continued to ignore her. She didn’t even say anything about eating.
The sun dropped below the trees. Muted light descended through the lattice of limbs. Karen doctored the little cuts on her shins. Tía glared at her with a disapproving look that said, I warned you about cutting off your jeans. Karen drank water and tried not to think about what she was going to do. She was too spun up to think about eating.
She finally told Tía what she was planning with the few words she had and hand motions. At first she didn’t understand, but Karen got it across. Tía told her she was loca, but didn’t try and convince her not to go.
Tía did say, “Ten cuidado con los fantasmas.”—Beware of ghosts.
Groan. “Voy a tener cuidado.”—I will be careful. She left unspoken, Leave it old woman, okay?
Time passed and Tía and Lomara were asleep in the bow.
Karen thought about what she knew of game stalking, moving quietly through the woods; crouching low to blend into the foliage, stepping high to avoid snagging on vines and brush, placing her toe down first and feeling for firm footing before planting her heel, and listening after each step. The Venturing crew sometimes played capture the flag. This was like that—sneak in, steal the prize, and run for it knowing you’d be chased. Getting caught here was a different matter.
She’d take her multi-tool and the small flashlight; nothing else and certainly not the machete. She needed her hands free and the idea of taking on a gang of Nicaraguan ruffians, who had played with machetes growing up, was frightening. In rural Nicaraguan culture, the machete was a powerful symbol of machismo—manhood.
It was around ten o’clock she guesstimated. Taking a piece of charcoal from the hubcap, she ran black streaks down her arms, backs of hands, and dabbled it on her face and neck—like Gina Carano in Haywire. She tied her hair back in a twist and tucked her tee into her jeans so it wouldn’t snag. Without awakening Tía and Lomara, she slipped over the side into the dark waist-deep water and pulled herself through the limbs to shore.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She crept slowly through the trees and brush. No need to rush—slow and deliberate. Take a step, feel for twigs and dry leaves, listen, and step again. Presently she heard faint distant voices and then caught the glow of a fire reflected off the underside of treetops. On hands and knees she moved slowly toward the first house, the one she had searched. The closer she got the, louder her heart hammered and the slower she slinked across the ground.
From under the house in its deep shadows she watched the fire leisurely die. It was in front of the fourth house from hers. The Others were sitting around the fire. Occasionally, one wandered off to pee and eventually all climbed the stairs into the house. With all the shadows cast by the flickering fire she was still uncertain of how many there were—five at least. She didn’t see the shotgun and didn’t spot a lookout. She didn’t see Jay either. He must be tied up inside.
They were all bedding down inside the same house. If Jay was in there it would be impossible to get to him. He would be tied up and the men would be sleeping on the floor or maybe in hammocks. They certainly wouldn’t have him near the door. Sneaking into a room with six sleeping men and its creaking bamboo floor, well, just thinking about it blasted adrenaline-fired fear through her.
She waited.
For a long time.
She dozed off with her head cradled in her arms. Jerking awake from a blurry nightmare, she instantly remembered what she had to do. She saw the thin crescent of the waning moon hung below the treetops. She guessed it was around two, maybe later. It was when people slept their deepest. The nightmare, she was in the Huck Finn drifting without oars on a midnight river and she was alone, alone, alone.
It was totally quiet. The fire was dead, no movement. This was the time to go. She lay there, unmoving, filled with dread. She needed to at least try and find Jay. Okay, do it! She rose on all fours, her shaking arms feeling weak. She eased forward, feeling with a hand, then moved her knee to the spot. Keep moving, don’t hesitate, don’t stop without good reason.
She crept from house to house beneath their shadows. As she crossed toward the last house next to her objective, she moved as slow as drifting fog, touch feeling her way with fingertips. From under the house she stared at the target house. No sound, no movement.
Okay, go for it, now! Steeling herself, she rose and angled across the open space toward the stairs. She crouched at the foot of the seven steps leading up to the gaping door. Before mounting the steps, she pressed down on the first four. The second one indistinctly creaked. She’d feel her way up knowing that with the slightest sound from the ink-black room, she’d bolt like a rabbit. She was already quivering inside like a nervous rabbit.
Before mounting the steps she scanned around her one last time. She peered into the dark underside of the house. And there was a lumpy shape. She froze, all her senses focused on the dark shape. A man? She eased back from the steps, moved to the right still staring. Something drew her. She looked at the door, then back at the shape. Edging slowly under the house, she silently drew out her flashlight. Cupping her fingers into a tunnel to shield the beam, she switched it on; aiming to the side so direct light wouldn’t hit the man’s face. Jay sat against a stilt, his legs stretched out before him, his arms behind the post, his chin resting on his chest.
She switch
ed off the light and listened for sounds above her. They were so close she could hear snoring. Jay’s ankles were bound with cord. Slinking forward, she eased her left hand over his mouth like she’d seen in countless movies, and gripped his shoulder with her right.
Jay jerked awake with a muffled grunt. He struggled for only a moment as she whispered, “Karen,” in his ear. He didn’t move, but was breathing hard.
She pulled the multi-tool out and looked around. Something caught her attention. Over to the left hung a bloated blob; an evil black cocoon. A hammock hung there. She froze. There was no movement. Her breathing quickened. Easing open the knife-blade, she felt Jay’s hands. His thumbs were tied together. She cut the cord. Then she cut his ankle bindings. She actually breathed easier despite the menace of the cocoon only feet away. If anything happened now, they had only to run for everything they were worth.
Karen motioned Jay toward the back of the house. A few yards, they’d be in the trees. On all fours they crept out. Jay urgently crawled past Karen and rose to his feet, too soon. His head struck the horizontal log supporting the floor’s edge with a solid thump. Karen abruptly felt like her chest was hollow.
“¿Qué fué eso?”—What was that?
“¡Mario, alguien está afuera! ¡Despiérta!” —Someone is outside! Wake up!
The cocoon stirred. “¡Ellos están aquí! ¡Alto!”—They are here! Stop! There was a thump when the man rolled out of the hammock, still disoriented.
Jay was crouching under the house rubbing his head. Karen darted past grabbing his arm and shouting, “¡Corre!”—Run! in Spanish for some frantic reason.
There was crashing and shouting above them. Karen heard a thump behind them and turned to see one of the Others rising from the ground after jumping out the back window. More thundered down the stairs, shouting.
The man recovered from his leap and lunged at Karen, clipping her hard enough to make her stumble. She went into a roll and bounded to her feet. The guy threw himself at her again, caught her around the knees and brought her to the ground with a numbing crash. The breath was knocked out of her in a vision-blurring blow. She rolled, trying to twist out of his grip. She couldn’t. He was shouting. The flashlight was in her hand. She hammered it on his head. The light came on. He let go with one arm and tried to grab her hammering wrist. She twisted again and hammered for everything she was worth; a scream was paralyzed in her throat and crazy flashlight beams somersaulting all about. She was on her back now, broke her left leg free and jerked her knee up. She kept hammering. She was free!
Tears of the River Page 13
