Anhingas. Moriches. Araguaney. The captain pointed to the jungle as he spoke. The names were meaningless yet resonant. Ursula savored the words. Savored their mystery. A flock of bright red birds rose from the tree canopy in a swirl of color.
The ship prowled along the river. A blue-and-gold macaw flew overhead. Now and then Ursula would catch a glimpse of a hut on stilts, perched on the muddy banks. The river became wider and the sun so relentless it beat down through her jacket and shirt until she was soaked in sweat. Lord Wrotham was standing at the back of the boat, looking every inch the colonial man in his white flannel trousers and panama hat. The forest was now crossed with patches of dry grasses, and there was evidence of rough cultivation in the banana trees and tin-roofed farmers’ shacks. Ahead in the waters, a pale pink dolphin raised its head and bobbed. A cayman slid its way off the bank and into the current.
Six hours later they saw the flat-roofed houses of Ciudad Bolívar, the town once know as Angostura. The steamboat pulled in against the gray pier that led to a white stone plaza.
Lord Wrotham booked two suites at the Colonial Hotel just behind the cathedral, and it was here that Ursula made her final transformation. She had brought one dress with her (in case of an emergency), a white short-sleeved day dress. As she made her way downstairs the following morning, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway and was quite startled. Her face was tanned and freckled, her hair wavy and curling about the nape of her neck—she was a stranger to herself. Lord Wrotham made no comment, and though the concierge looked twice at her as they checked out the following afternoon, no one else seemed to notice.
They walked down the hill toward the river and found themselves on Paseo Orinoco, struggling through a dense crowd of traders shouting the prices of their wares. There were cattle being loaded onto a barge, the shrieks of fishermen as they moored alongside the quay, and the unmistakable stench of rubbish lying in the sun. Ursula was soon being jostled and pushed in the crowd. Lord Wrotham held out his hand for her, and, reluctantly, she took it and allowed herself to be led by him. First, Ursula bought herself some much needed clothing and provisions. They then found themselves in a narrow passageway that ran along the back of a row of traders’ offices, where they organized their passage back down the Orinoco, into the heart of the delta.
They left Ciudad Bolívar in a rainstorm, huddling beneath an umbrella as it was pelted by the thick droplets, before struggling to get into the shallow-bottomed boat that would take them down the river. There was only a small wheel room, and so they had to content themselves with sitting on deck beneath a tarpaulin made of oiled cloth.
The captain of the boat was one of the canoe people, or Warao, who lived in makeshift piling houses along the banks of the Orinoco River and the smaller caños. The boat made its way down the river, the rain lashing at them from all sides. Lord Wrotham gave his jacket to Ursula, who was soaked to the skin through her fine cotton dress, while they sat, arms barely touching, on the bench seat beneath the tarpaulin.
Slowly they wended their way through the labyrinth of tributaries. The jungle pressed in on both sides, dark and dank and dripping. After nearly five hours on board, Ursula caught sight of their destination: an abandoned outpost of the Capuchin order of monks, who had once tried to establish a permanent mission here in the delta to covert the Warao Indians. Only one elderly monk remained, and the mission itself now consisted of no more than the remains of a wooden chapel built on stilts above the riverbank and the living quarters, which were a series of small rooms surrounded by a large wooden veranda that jutted out over the dark, still waters of the river. The monk greeted them from the veranda and, once Ursula was safely up the ladder, provided a brief tour of the rest of the mission. There was a kitchen and dining room, which backed out onto the jungle itself. A parrot hung from the ceiling in a wire cage above the rough-hewn table. Each of the bedrooms consisted of a single wrought-iron bed draped in mosquito netting. A jug and basin were provided in each room, and these rested on a stool placed in the corner, with a chamber pot beneath it. Ursula found it hard to believe these conditions, yet with the sunlight streaming through the slatted windows and the furious noise of birds and monkeys all around, she found herself strangely drawn to this place. It seemed familiar somehow, as if she had seen it in her dreams.
That night she woke to find everything damp around her. The sheets were clammy and soft, her nightdress sticking to her legs and waist. She felt trapped beneath the mosquito net. A terrible smell of mud and decay rose from the river and permeated the entire mission. She dreamed she had been running through a sea of tall grass, a hot sun beating down upon her. She stumbled and fell, the earth beneath her starting to smother and consume her. She was sinking into the earth, suffocating in its darkness. Now all she could hear was the drumming of the rainwater on the tin roof above. Lightning flashed on the horizon, lighting up the room through the chinks in the shutters. Howler monkeys screeched in the trees. The rain started to lash down. She could not return to sleep.
Ursula rose from her bed and dressed quickly. Perhaps some time outside on the veranda overlooking the river would help clear her mind. The fan above her head beat a slow, steady rhythm, but still the heat inside the bedroom was stifling.
Ursula felt like the only person awake in the world. Outside, there was a slight breeze that provided some relief. She stood barefoot on the wooden floor of the veranda, which stretched out over the riverbank on stilts. The storm lanterns flickered in the wind. Beneath her the river advanced and retreated against the muddy shore.
She leaned against the railing, the breeze lifting her white dress so it billowed up and out with a slow, monotonous rhythm. Her arms were bare and seemed to reflect the dying light of the storm. It was passing to the west now, with only an occasional rumble and glow on the horizon. The jungle was once more alive with sound and movement. In the daylight I might well be afraid, she thought. But this night, with darkness as her cover, she felt fearless.
She felt his footsteps through the floor before she heard the distinctive strike of a match. He hadn’t seen her as yet, and all she could see was the distinctive blue-orange glow of a cigarette end. As he approached, his tall, dark shape became visible against the shadows.
She turned back to look out over the river. Her eyes, having adjusted to the darkness, could make out the currents as they swirled along the river. The moon was rising above the clouds.
She heard his footsteps now—heard him stop as he saw her. She didn’t turn around. She wanted to wait to see what his next move would be.
He paused, as if deciding whether to approach.
“I remember storms like this in Guyana,” he said.
Lord Wrotham remained standing there, his face submerged in shadows. Ursula longed for the moon to appear from behind the clouds. She had only a tentative thread of self-control to hang on to. The night was surreal and strange, the darkness intoxicating. All her senses were heightened. She perceived layers of shadow and shade; it was as if she could peel back the layers of darkness itself. The hairs on her arm felt the soft touch of the breeze. I have to be strong, Ursula thought. I cannot keep showing weakness. It leaves me too exposed.
“Guyana?” She savored the word.
Lord Wrotham inhaled on his cigarette but still made no move to approach. He was like a black cat keeping his distance.
Ursula leaned back against the railing, stretching out hands to her sides and sliding them back and forth along the polished wood.
“I didn’t know you’d ever been to Guyana.”
Lord Wrotham came and stood beside her on the veranda. He looked out over the river. Ursula’s hand was only an inch away from his.
“I’ve long wondered about your so-called Foreign Office contacts. Like the revolver I found in your chambers”—Ursula reached over and pulled the Webley revolver out of his jacket pocket—“a mystery.”
Lord Wrotham leaned in toward her. “Oh, I’m not sure there
are many mysteries to you that are left unsolved.”
He caught hold of her hand, took the gun, and slid it back into his pocket. Ursula closed her eyes. His sudden closeness was potent.
“Be careful,” she murmured. “You may start to intrigue me.”
“I think there’s very little danger of that.” His voice low and tremulous, like the water beneath them, lapping against the soft-edged shore.
“You may be surprised,” she answered.
Their fingers touched. His hand closed over hers. Ursula held her breath. Firm, near, his flesh pressed against hers. Slowly she yielded, lifting her fingers lightly and gently till they clasped his. Meanwhile his eyes sought hers. She saw a flash of lightning, far off on the horizon, reflected in his eyes.
“I thought you still suffered from a broken heart,” Ursula said, and yet her words seemed so far away, fluttering above her in the night.
“I fear you will be the only woman to truly break my heart.”
She expected his kiss to be deep and dark, irresistible and crushing, but instead it was tender, even hesitant at first, and it filled her with yearning. His was a kiss of sadness, like a haunting dream. She felt lost. Adrift. She had these images, all these images, of herself in her mind. Those formed by her dead mother, those instilled in her by her dead father. The dead were ever present. They breathed across the rain forest as the heat of the day, as the rain that fell, as the mist that rose. Always there. She could not quell their voices or silence their breath.
Ursula returned his kiss fiercely. The ghosts of the past receded, the sounds of the jungle retreated, and all she could hear was the beat of blood in her ears.
Drowsy, she was being carried back to her own bed. The sheets felt cool against her legs as she was placed down. She saw Lord Wrotham standing silhouetted against the pale moonlight that now filtered into her room through the gauzy netting above her. Then an intense sleep slipped over her, soothing and calm.
As she hugged the pillow to her, curling her knees in tight, she hazily murmured, “Love me again….” more to herself than anyone else.
She felt his warm breath against her cheek, his hand gently moving back the strands of her hair.
He moved nearer and whispered in her ear: “Always.”
So dreamlike and strange that when he was gone, when she felt his presence no more beside her, she wondered whether he had said anything at all, or whether imagination had taken hold of her completely.
The morning light broke through the slats of the shutters early. Ursula lay under a cool cotton sheet gazing up thought the mosquito net. She watched the ceiling fan as it whirred and let her hand drift across the bed, tracing the indentation of a dream beside her. The sounds of the jungle were muted, the tree frogs had ceased croaking, the squawk of the macaws had faded into the distance.
She rose and washed herself with water from the jug, opened her trunk, and dressed quietly. The morning air had a calm coolness that was refreshing. She buttoned up her blouse and started to comb her hair, which now reached just above the nape of her neck.
She walked out onto the veranda. Everything was unrecognizable in the day. At night all had been swathed in darkness, the residue of humidity and heat hanging in the air. The morning, with its sharply focused sun and clear sky, had swept aside the night. Everything was new and different.
Ursula found herself standing alone at the long wooden table which had been set for breakfast. A small boy darted in from the rear door.
“Buenos días,” he said with a wide white smile.
“Buenos días,” Ursula replied, returning his smile. The boy motioned for her to sit, and soon she found herself seated in front of an array of food that still seemed unfamiliar. There was a woven basket full of fruit: bananas, mangoes, and papayas. In another basket there were cornmeal arepas with some kind of cheese, and on a chipped white plate there were fried plantains.
Ursula finished eating quickly, wondering what had become of Lord Wrotham. Only now was she feeling the first tremors of trepidation. The night seemed such a long time ago. She heard the sound of boots on the main jetty leading to the mission. Lord Wrotham was suddenly speaking.
“I told the comandante to wait until I contacted him. I made it quite clear that no one was to come here!” Ursula peered around the corner and saw a short, dark-haired man in a double-breasted blue uniform standing beside Lord Wrotham. The elderly monk from the mission was trying to act as intermediary, translating Lord Wrotham’s words when his rudimentary Spanish failed him. The man in uniform was talking and gesticulating widely.
“He says that they must act quickly. They are afraid Bates will not stay in the delta long,” Ursula heard the monk translate.
“Please tell the comandante here that I am quite aware of his concerns, but as I told his superiors, we must wait until Miss Marlow is well away from here before we act.” Lord Wrotham paused, listening to the monk try to explain, before continuing. “Tell him we wait. Miss Marlow leaves tomorrow. Then, tell him, only then do we go and arrest Bates.”
The elderly monk looked bemused, but his translation seemed to placate the young commander, who nodded, saluted Lord Wrotham, and turned to make his way down the jetty to the small skiff moored at the edge.
Ursula backed away along the narrow veranda toward her room. She needed a cool place to think, to quell the turbulence of emotions within her. The arrogance of that man! Once again he chose to make decisions behind her back. Was she never to find out the truth for herself? Would Lord Wrotham have Bates arrested before she could speak to him? Ursula was shaking with rage. There was too much at stake for her to be treated like some lovesick schoolgirl. There were too many questions she needed answered. Too many deaths that needed to be avenged.
Ursula felt a tug at her skirt and, looking down, saw the same boy from breakfast with his wide white smile.
“Bates?” the boy asked, and Ursula froze in midstep.
“Bates?” he repeated. “You see Bates?”
Ursula looked ahead to where the boy was pointing. He tugged her skirt more urgently. Ursula nodded unthinkingly and took his hand as he led her to the rear of the mission, to a small gangway and ladder jutting out over the muddy brown waters of the river.
Below, sitting in a dugout canoe, was a man who looked like the Warao Indians she had seen living along the banks. He was squatting at the back of the canoe gesturing for her to come down.
Ursula didn’t hesitate; she swung herself over the gangway and onto the ladder (heartily wishing she were still wearing trousers rather than a cumbersome white dress) and awkwardly clambered into the canoe.
Then, without a word, they pulled out from the jetty and the canoe set off down the river to find Bates.
In front of Ursula, the Warao paddled strongly and silently through the narrow tributaries. They made their way slowly down a long canal, skimming over brackish water the color of dark tea. The crooked limbs of submerged roots and branches protruded above the surface now and then, like spectral hands reaching up to clasp the canoe. The Indian stopped for a moment and let the canoe drift as they entered a small lagoon. Above, the sky was luminous, but the water bore no reflection. Ursula gazed across at the banks. The mud was dry and hard on the shore, and she could see the silver flecks of insects skimming above. To her left, though, where the light could not reach, gnarled mangrove roots reared up and the mud was thick and oozing as the water lapped alongside. Deep within, Ursula realized, the sun could no longer penetrate. I would be lost in there, she thought. Lost to the darkness of this place. Forever.
The Indian resumed paddling with strong, swift strokes as he steered the canoe into a narrow channel, almost hidden by vine-choked trees. The brooding heat closing in upon her, Ursula wiped her forehead with her sleeve but could feel no respite. The impatience and anger that had caused her to be here had now dissipated and in their place was a deep and wretched panic. How could she have been so foolish as to have journeyed here alone? She was totally vulnera
ble now, and the realization of it was like a river swelling within her, threatening to burst the banks. As she tried her best to hide her fear and anxiety, they continued their slow progress, Ursula ducking now and then to avoid the overhanging limbs of trees and vines. As they drifted, she stretched out her hand to see what the black water below would feel like, cool and dripping from her fingers, but the Indian grabbed her arm and stopped her.
“Piranha,” he said with a toothless grin.
Ursula began to feel faint. The Indian handed her a leather water canteen, from which she drank gratefully.
Suddenly they were drifting out into a wide waterway, and ahead there was a clearing in the jungle. An island of grass swaying in the sunlight. At the edge there was a hut on stilts, with the skeleton of a wooden boat of some kind rotting on the bank alongside the remnants of old kerosene drums rusting in the sun.
As they pulled up to a small jetty, she presumed she had reached the end of her journey. The Indian helped stabilize the canoe as Ursula gingerly rose to her feet, stepped onto the ladder, and pulled herself up onto the wooden jetty. Before she had even got back on her feet to turn around, he had departed, the canoe leaving as silently as it had come, winding its way back along the curve of the caños.
The hut had a corrugated iron roof and an open entrance. It consisted of one large room, and the walls, such as they were, were nothing more than weathered reeds and tree trunks stacked side by side. They were held together on the makeshift frame by vines and rope. It seemed as if they had been hurriedly placed there, for shafts of light were visible between the beams, each of varying width. Like all of the Warao dwellings along the banks, it stood high up on stilts above the mud and water.
Ursula walked carefully along the jetty—the gaps between the slats were wide and precarious. She could see the dark brown mud of the riverbank and the lapping brown water beneath her. Should she call out? she wondered. No doubt someone was already aware of her presence.
Consequences of Sin Page 18
