Grantville Gazette, Volume XII

by Eric Flint

  Now that the pursuit was in front of them, they could take it easy for a while. But not too easy. There were other soldiers, after all.

  * * *

  Corporal Bernaldo and his men, with six impressed Indian rowers, strained at the oars of their longboat, fighting against the current. They had set aside their helmets and cuirasses, so their heads were bare, and their torsos protected only by leather vests. These exposed the sleeves of their shirts, cotton dyed with red urucum.

  As the western sky darkened, they beached their craft and wandered inland, looking for a suitable campsite. They couldn't see more than fifteen feet or so in front of them, so it wasn't an easy task.

  They gradually became aware of a rumbling sound.

  "Sounds like rapids," Joam suggested.

  "Perhaps it's an elephant," said Antonio.

  "There are no elephants in the Amazon."

  "That's what you think."

  The Indians became agitated. Bernaldo tried to figure out what they were talking about, but their excitement made them more difficult to understand, and Bernaldo was the sort of person who felt that if you couldn't understand his question, the solution was to repeat it, louder.

  After a few verbal exchanges which satisfied no one, the Indians fled.

  "What's was that all about?" Joam asked.

  "What do you expect?" Bernaldo shrugged. "They're cowardly savages."

  Antonio wondered whether the natives knew something that they didn't. He also knew better than to say anything.

  They could now hear a clicking sound.

  "Giant crickets?"

  "What's that stench? Some kind of skunk?"

  Several dozen white-lipped peccaries burst out of the undergrowth. They were pig-like animals, each about two feet high and about fifty pounds. They weren't happy to discover the Portuguese party. Had they not been clicking their tusks to warn other creatures to get out of their way? The herd included several youngsters, which made the adults especially temperamental.

  Peccaries are also known as javelinas, because of their formidable weaponry. They charged. Manuel stumbled, and was gored to death. Antonio and Joam tried scooting up the same tree. Antonio, already on edge, had made his move earlier, and made it up without difficulty, but Joam lost his hold, and slid down. An angry male swung its tusks, slicing open his leg. Joam screamed, but was able to get hold of Antonio's outstretched hand, and was pulled out of the immediate danger. The other three soldiers were on the periphery of the peccaries' axis of march, and they simply ran out of the way.

  It was hours before they were reunited. The survivors congratulated each other on their narrow escape.

  "Where are the Indians?" asked Bernaldo.

  Antonio was studying the river bank. "More importantly, where's the boat?"

  "Dios mio!" Plainly, the Indians had decided to row off without them. The five survivors were stranded in the rain forest.

  * * *

  Despite his perilous situation, Henriques was happy. According to his reckoning, today was a Friday, and at sunset he intended to celebrate the Sabbath as best he could. He had improvised Sabbath candles from the stems of a resinous plant, and he had allowed a fruit juice to ferment to make wine. He would have to use the concavity of a stone as a kiddush cup.

  He had no bread, let alone challah, unfortunately. But he had a tortilha made from manioc flour, and that would have to do. The Lord would understand when Henriques uttered the prayer, "Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth".

  "So, do I pray, too?" Mauricio asked.

  "Sure."

  "I don't know. Is it a good idea for me to call God's attention to us? You're a heretic, after all."

  "Mauricio. . . ."

  "He might send an angel to tell those idiot soldiers where to find us."

  "Mauricio. . . ."

  "Or perhaps he'll just hurl down a lightning bolt." Mauricio darted a quick look at the threatening sky.

  "Or—"

  Mauricio's mouth was open, and Henriques deftly thrust a tortilha where it would do the most good.

  * * *

  "Just a little further," Henriques said.

  "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  "That's what you said about the 'short cut' through the varzea."

  "This is different." Near the mouth of the Maicuru, they had made a detour north, to find a small hill overlooking the Amazon. There, in a patch of upland forest, Henriques had prudently secreted a cache of trade goods and other useful items. Just in case he ever had to make a run for it.

  "I wonder if this hill of yours should be considered an outlier of the Serra de Tumucumaque. According to that fabulous map of yours, the source of the Maicuru is there, about one hundred miles to our north.

  "You know, perhaps we should backtrack to the Paru. We could cross the mountains over to the Litani, and the Maroni, and end up in what the map called French Guiana. Not that the French are there yet."

  Henriques grunted. "Keep walking, I want to reach the cache by nightfall." The sun was just setting. And night came quickly in the tropics.

  "Or perhaps," Mauricio continued, we should head up the Trombetas and the Mapuera, cross the Serra do Acarai to the Essequibo, to Dutch territory."

  "Serra up, serra down," Henriques muttered. He stopped for a moment to adjust his warishi, his backpack. Mauricio walked past him; they were on a well-defined game trail.

  "According to the maps," Mauricio said, "they can't be much more than three thousand feet high. That can't be hard, can it? Hannibal took elephants across the Alps, after all.

  "Not that I've ever climbed a mountain, mind you. Unless this hill counts. Have you, Henriques? Climbed a mountain, I mean?" Henriques didn't respond.

  "Henriques?" Did you hear—"

  "Freeze!" Henriques shouted.

  Mauricio froze.

  "Don't move your arms, or your head. Not even a muscle. You can move your eyes . . . slowly. Look a little above, and slightly to your left."

  Mauricio scanned the foreground. Then he saw it, a jararaca verde, a leaf-green colored viper, perhaps two feet long, hanging from a branch nearby. Close enough to grab. Not that grabbing a fer-de-lance of any kind was one of the options Mauricio was considering.

  "Very slowly, put your left toe back . . . not so far . . . now slowly, bring your heel down, without bobbing your head. Good, now, same with the right. Keep your eyes on the snake at all times."

  The fer-de-lance, untimely awakened by Mauricio, was eyeing him suspiciously.

  "Can't you kill the snake?" The words were mumbled; Mauricio was trying not to move his jaw as he spoke.

  "With a machete? While it's hanging on a tree? Not a chance. Need to club it on the neck, while it's on the ground. With a long club, mind you.

  "Keep up your little dance backward, please."

  Gradually, Mauricio inched away from the serpent.

  "Okay, you can relax."

  Mauricio fainted. Henriques poured a bit of water on his lips and forehead. After a few minutes, Mauricio revived. "How did I miss it?"

  "In the rain forest, you can see perhaps fifteen feet ahead. But you can cover that distance in ten seconds, even at a walk. You can't afford to relax your vigilance, even for a moment."

  Mauricio, his spirits somewhat restored, harrumphed. "You're just looking for an excuse to keep me from talking."

  * * *

  Benito Maciel Parente grinned. "So dear Henriques is a pig-loving Jew. Well, it is my duty, my sacred duty as a son of the church, to bring him home and teach him the error of his ways. Or perhaps the other way around, yes?"

  His fellow thugs laughed. Benito had just returned to Belem from a slaving run down the Tocantins, and in town there was much gossip about Henriques' disappearance, and the stymied search for him.

  "We'll take three boats, I think. Might as well do a little enlistment of native labor, while we're up the Amazon. Be
ready to leave at the crack of dawn, tomorrow."

  * * *

  "Sing, Mauricio."

  "I thought you didn't like my singing."

  "I don't. But you have a loud voice, and that's what we need right now."

  "How come?"

  "We've never been in this part of the sertão. This is a well-marked trail, almost certainly leading to a village. We want them to know we're coming."

  "But wouldn't the Indians sense us? Being wise in the ways of the bush, and all."

  "Let me rephrase that. We want them to know that we know that they know we're coming."

  "I am not sure that was an improvement. You are as clear as a philosopher."

  "If they think we're trying to sneak up on them, they'll think we are up to no good. And either flee, or prepare an ambush for us. Whereas, if we approach them openly, they'll assume we've come to trade."

  A couple of dogs came down the trail and barked at Henriques and Mauricio. They stopped, and left the dogs sniff them. Then they continued walking, and the dogs, still barking occasionally, followed.

  The village was just a circle of conical huts. Various animals milled about the central clearing, but no people were there. Occasionally, a head would look out of a hut, then pull back in.

  "Hey, that was a pretty girl, over there," Mauricio exclaimed. "Hope she comes out again."

  And, a moment later, "Ugh, look at that crone. Hope she's not the mom, wouldn't want her for a mother-in-law."

  Henriques didn't respond; he was studying the village. "Mauricio, we need to leave. Now."

  "What about trading for food? What about getting better acquainted with the young ladies?"

  "Didn't you notice? There are only women in this village."

  "Hey, you're right. Wow, we found the village of the Amazon women warriors. The ones Father Carbajal wrote about. And Sir Walter Raleigh. There are only two of us, so we will certainly enjoy favors of their queens. For a whole month. And—"

  Henriques grabbed Mauricio by both shoulders and forcibly rotated him about-face. "What it means, dear Mauricio, is that their men are off on the warpath, and we really, really don't want to be here when they come back."

  * * *

  Henriques and Mauricio made it safely back to their canoe, and pressed on. They felt safe enough, at this point, to erect a makeshift sail, so they could travel more quickly. It didn't seem likely that they were still being pursued.

  A few days later, they saw a large canoe overtaking them from the south. They hastily took down their mast, but it was a false alarm. The canoe was crewed by Manao Indians. The Manao were great traders, and one of the dominant tribes of the region where the Rio Negro fed into the Amazon. They traded with the Omagua in the west, and, occasionally, the Munuruku on the Tapajos in the east. Rumor had it that they also ranged to the north, up the tributary which Henriques' map called the Rio Branco, but no Portuguese had gone that way before.

  Henriques raised his hands, palms open, signaling peaceful intent. The Manao greeted him, and, politely, asked his business in their region. He said that he was looking to trade and, perhaps find a path to the Great Water in the north. He gave them a few beads, and they offered him some cachiri.

  They invited Henriques and Mauricio to follow them to their village; they were returning from a trading run up the Madeira, one of the tributaries on the right bank of the Amazon. That night, they camped together, on an island, and Henriques questioned them about what tribes lived there, and what goods they had to offer.

  Mauricio eagerly asked them whether they had seen any women warriors there, and they told him that it was a nonsensical idea. "No more cachiri for you," one suggested kindly.

  Mauricio whispered to Henriques. "Perhaps these Manao haven't traveled widely enough. Someone else at the village may have heard of the Amazons. After all, Acuna and Raleigh reported them. "

  Henriques was unimpressed. "Perhaps Father Cristobal de Acuna and Sir Walter Raleigh were a pair of bald-faced liars."

  Summer, 1634

  Henriques raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want to go through with this?"

  Mauricio continued painting himself for the ceremony. "Coqui told me that I have to, if I want to marry Kasiri. Or any other of the village girls, for that matter."

  Henriques knew who Kasiri was. Wherever she walked, she was followed by a crowd of admirers. Including, most recently, Mauricio. Henriques did have to admit that Mauricio seemed to have eclipsed the former favorite. The lure of the exotic perhaps.

  As soon as Mauricio discovered that Kasiri's name meant 'moon,' he had started composing poetry in her honor. Fortunately, it was all in Portuguese.

  These ruminations only occupied a fraction of a second. "Uh, huh," Henriques said. "Kasiri's older brother really wants to help you get inside her loincloth. Right."

  "He's always been polite to me."

  "Are you sure you understand what this ritual involves?"

  "I just have to let them put a few ants on me. And not complain. No big deal, I've had ants crawl onto my hammock and bite me. Thanks to you. If ants are so bad, why did you try to get me to hang my hammock on that 'greenhorn' tree?"

  Henriques decided not to answer with the truth, which was that after years in the wilderness, he had acquired the native taste for practical jokes. "Have it your way. At least you're doing the ant ceremony, not the one which uses wasps. Remember, it's all a waste if you cry out in pain, or flinch away."

  Mauricio went off the join the other initiates; in other words, to dance and get drunk, not necessarily in that order. The village maidens brought them gourd after gourd of cachiri, which was made from fermented manioc root. And encouraged their dancing and drinking with flirtatious looks and gestures. At first Mauricio was self-conscious about being in the company of youths little more than half his age. But the cachiri soon took care of that problem. Well before the three days of ceremonial boozing were completed.

  * * *

  On the third day, Henriques went off with the party that was to prepare the marake. The Indians had picked out, in advance, a likely ant colony, and their first task was to drive the ants out into the open. They blocked all save two tunnels, and blew tobacco smoke into one of them. That did the trick. The ants emerged and were carried, on top of leaves or sticks, to a calabash. They were dumped inside, and found themselves awash in an infusion of roucou leaves. This dulled them satisfactorily.

  One of the shaman's apprentices used a parrot feather to carefully position each of the two hundred or so somnolent red ants into the mesh at the center of the damp marake, their heads all facing the same direction. It dried, tightening the mesh about them, before they recovered. The apprentice gingerly carried the armed marake back to the chief's hut, where it would remain until noon.

  * * *

  Mauricio felt like he was flying through the air as he danced in the big circle. I wonder what they put in the cachiri? "I am a bird," he shouted. "A kokoi, a hawk." He looked at Kasiri. "Shall I swoop down on you?" he cried. She giggled. Her brother, Coqui, also seemed amused for some reason.

  The initiates were called into a line, standing in front of a great trench with bark stretched across its entire length. They rhythmically beat upon the bark with sticks, summoning the Sun God.

  At noon, with the sun at the zenith, the oldest woman in the village tottered forward. She picked up the marake, and pointed at Mauricio.

  "You first. Arms up, feet apart." He complied, still in a hallucinatory daze.

  She raised the marake, and put the business end against his cheeks for a few seconds. Then his arms. His dreamy expression started to show signs of uncertainty, but fortunately he didn't show any pain. His chest. The outside of his thighs.

  "Did they warn you that some initiates die in this ordeal?" she asked. He didn't respond.

  She paused. Then, very deliberately, she put the marake against the inside of his left thigh. She gave the back a tap, and then held it in place. Ten seconds. Mauricio's eyes widened. T
wenty seconds. Each ant bite was a lance of fire, mortifying his flesh.

  "Kasiri is supposed to marry my grandson, did you know that? Her grandmother and I had it all planned out, when they were both little. You, a stranger, of no great wealth or skill, are trying to spoil our plans."

  Mauricio's eyes were tearing now.

  "I can't help feeling a bit . . . resentful."

  Thirty seconds. His breath was unsteady.

  "Of course, if you fail the test, there's no problem."

  Forty seconds.

  "And I take this marake away, and the pain will be over."

  Mauricio didn't notice it, but there was angry muttering in the background. And suddenly he heard Kasiri's voice, strident with rage, but he couldn't understand what she said.

  The old woman pulled the marake away. "Passed," she acknowledged regretfully. "Next."

  Mauricio looked at Henriques. "See, that was nothing," Mauricio declared. Then he fainted.

  * * *

  It had taken a week for Mauricio to recover from the vicious bites. His only consolation had been the solicitousness with which Kasiri had applied oil to the inflamed areas of his body. Still, he had had to be real careful how he walked until the salves did their work.

  Mauricio and Kasiri, arm in arm, strolled down the sandy beach where her people went bathing. They passed a small stand of palm trees and, abruptly, Coqui stepped out in front of them.

  They halted. Coqui, his lips compressed, arms akimbo, watched them silently. Mauricio waited for Coqui to say something. Kasiri, for once, was also quiet.

  Suddenly, Coqui started hopping about, bowlegged, his hands on the inside of his thighs, yelling "ahh, ahh, ahh." After a minute of this, he exclaimed, "You very funny. You now my friend, Ant-Man." He walked off, laughing.

  * * *

  "Wake up, Mauricio." Mauricio didn't stir. Henriques gave the hammock a push, and it started swinging wildly, to and fro, dumping Mauricio to the ground.

  "What the hell, Henriques!"

  "Time to pack. A trading party came back from down river. Said that they saw a whole fleet of canoes coming upstream. Best guess is that they'll be here soon, perhaps tomorrow or the next day."