And so on that next night, as my body healed and my children lay ill–Amaru came alone, and at night. He was plainly dressed and wore no mask, which might call attention to himself.
When I told him my tale, his face darkened with anger. For a moment I wondered if it might be directed at myself, for thievery, but that was mere anxiety. Amaru finally said, “So this vaccine is now in the possession of the Incan people. We have no more need for this greedy bargainer.”
“I do not wish to see him killed,” I said hesitantly, wondering if that was his thought.
“Nor I,” he said, “for the Americans might not take kindly to that. Yet I also do not wish to see him profit on the suffering of others, even if they are mere children.”
“We can refuse his deal now, provided we keep the vaccine alive in our people.”
“Refuse his deal, certainly. He has negotiated in bad faith. There are worse punishments for a man such as he,” said Amaru.
And with that, we discussed a plan.
The next day, Amaru and I visited Loddington, where he had encamped in the palace’s waiting chambers. He was speaking in broken Spanish to anyone who understood and would listen, begging for audience with the Sapa Inca. I kept my hands clasped behind my back. When he saw me, his face brightened with a generous smile.
“Lanchi Ronpa!” he exclaimed. “I asked for you, but no one would bring you.”
Amaru said, “The Sapa Inca is unavailable, but he has authorized me to finalize our bargain. Here is a measure of faith.” He opened his purse and poured out golden beads, more than I had ever owned myself, which tumbled into Loddington’s hands and scattered across the floor. He crawled around after them, scooping up handfuls like a monkey gathering food.
Amaru said, “I have gathered more, and my warriors will bring it to your camp. Let us go there, and we will bring you–as promised–at least a tenth of what you requested, with the remainder to follow tomorrow. We would bring the entire amount today, but it is simply too much gold; the warriors must return tomorrow with it.”
At my translation, Loddington’s eyes narrowed. “This is a sudden change of direction for the Sapa Inca.”
“He is busy,” said Amaru smoothly. “He deals with matters of state and cannot attend directly to this business. He does desire the vaccine, now that it’s been proven.”
Loddington looked directly at me and said, “Lanchi, tell me the truth. Is the Sapa Inca really ready for the vaccine?”
“I assure you,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that the Sapa Inca will be delighted to know the secret of this vaccine.”
Loddington smiled and got to his feet. “Then we shall do business together,” he said. “Come, let us go to my camp.”
And so we went, a processional of warriors led by the American, who did not know he was already defeated. Loddington led the parade on an imperial riding-llama, his head held high, as if he ruled all the land. I kept to the middle, not wanting him to see my hands, to know his ruin was already upon him.
When we arrived at the camp, Amaru murmured to me, “Here we go. Good luck.” He assumed a haughty expression and said, “An emissary of the Sapa Inca requires all people in the visited realm to present themselves and stand forth for viewing.”
I translated these words for Loddington and added, “All men may of course retain their weapons; we know you are not a fool.”
Marco stepped out, carrying his musket. “What’s going on?” he asked me.
I addressed him directly. “The Sapa Inca’s representative asks that all persons be visible as he enters.”
Marco glanced at Loddington, who said, “Humor them, Marco. They bring gold in exchange for our vaccine.”
Marco looked at me, but to his credit did not show surprise. Around twenty American men appeared from the woods, all heavily armed, ready to shoot us. Amaru subtly dug his knee into his llama, and the beast reared back and spat.
“There are more,” he said calmly, which I translated.
I added, “You had best bring forth all persons here, since the llama smells the presence of many who remain unseen.”
Loddington frowned, then signaled with his hand. Ten more American men slid into view. Clever man. But Marco had caught on, and said, “John Fernando, shall I bring all the–”
“No!” exclaimed Loddington. “This is my encampment. Now let us close this deal.”
Amaru said, “You have not been honest with us. I can smell the children as clearly as this llama can.”
At these words, Loddington paled, and Marco ran off to open several tents. He flung aside canvas to show the children huddled together like clustered pebbles, staring at us with enormous eyes. Amaru frowned at the sight. He said, “Who are these children?”
“They help me with the vaccine,” said Loddington angrily. “They are my property.”
I counted our warriors. We had nearly a hundred men. Amaru had enough wealth to command an army. “Come here, Marco,” I said. The boy came, and I grasped his shoulders firmly like a father.
Amaru waved his hand commandingly, and I addressed Loddington. “The Sapa Inca has changed his mind,” I said. “He wishes to buy your children instead of the vaccine. That purse which his emissary gave you is more than the amount you paid for them. These children will now be the Sapa Inca’s subjects in the Land of the Four Quarters.”
“But…” Loddington sputtered, “but–why?”
“The Sapa Inca’s word is law, and his representative merely implements it. We do not question his decisions and neither can you.”
“But they are mine!”
“These children were free the moment they stepped onto our soil,” I told him. “Any damage to your finances is repaid with gold. A few beads in exchange for a few children, clearly neglected. How could that not satisfy you?”
“You will never get the vaccine,” said Loddington, his face red with anger. I could tell he wished to order an attack, but didn’t dare, in the face of so many armed Incan warriors.
Marco spoke up defiantly. “They already have it,” he said. “Look at Lanchi’s hands.”
I held them up. Loddington stared in disbelief. I feared he might order me shot, regardless of consequence, but Marco added, “By now he has transferred the vaccine to others, and those others can be used for vaccines. Most likely they already have been.”
“You may leave this land,” said Amaru. “Our deal is done.”
“You–you thieves,” Loddington screamed. “You have stolen what is mine!”
“You have tried to sell what should be any man’s,” I said. “It is not a crime to take it.”
Loddington suddenly went white. He raised his gun and aimed at Marco. Before anyone could react, he shot. Marco reeled back, collapsing against the llama. Four Incan warriors shot Loddington where he stood, but I held Marco, pressing his shoulder where blood poured out. I hardly noticed Loddington fall, nor his men staring in shock. We are all lucky they did not shoot back; perhaps they too had some doubts about the circumstances. Or perhaps the gods guided our hands that day. I cannot say, nor can any man.
“Marco!” I shouted.
“It is–” he gasped for breath– “It is not so bad. Bind the wound tightly.”
I ripped my tunic and obeyed. Oh my grandson, my heart broke–I thought I would lose Marco. But I crushed his hand in mine, and said, “Marco–stay strong. Let my hand keep you in this world. My hand, which you have marked with a blessing–stay here with your gift, and with me.”
Marco smiled through his pain, and I thought that this boy had much left to do. He would not leave this world–not yet.
And he did not, for you know who Marco became.
So my child, that is the story of you, which I tell you on your fifteenth birthday that you might know yourself. And you know the rest of the tale–how the Americans fought their war without our funding and achieved their freedom anyway, though they still suffer the schism of slavery in a so-called free land. The boys we freed from
Loddington were adopted into the Empire; the childless Amaru and his wife adopted three boys themselves, and rewarded me richly. I built a school with those funds, so that all boys might attend and learn.
Marco stayed in the Land of the Four Quarters and became my son. He took my name, and then traveled the seas to foreign lands as the great explorer Marco Ronpa. Your father opened the prosperous trade we now share with China, by sailing the Lanchiacross the vast ocean. All this shortly after marrying my darling Chaska, now a beautiful woman in her own right, who had honorably left the temple for love’s sake. Your father gave you his features and his voice, and blessed you with your proud strong face–the face I love as much as my wife’s and my children’s and my own, for you belong to the Incan people with all your soul. Someday I expect you will explore further than your father, in our faster modern ships, and visit your grandmother’s homelands in Africa. But that day is not here, and you, my grandson, must find your own destiny.
And my child–the interesting thing about China is that they’d already solved the smallpox problem with a technique called variolation, which they’d learned from India. But our vaccination was safer and more effective, and Marco found that technology vital in opening China to trade. But that is another story, child, and not the story of you. Sleep now, and in the morning you must tell me your new name, the one that marks you a man in the Land of the Four Quarters.
CHARLIE FISH
Charlie Fish is a popular short story writer and screenwriter. His short stories have been published in several countries and inspired dozens of short film adaptations. Since 1996, he has edited www.fictionontheweb.co.uk, the longest-running short story site on the web. He was born in Mount Kisco, New York in 1980; and now lives in south London with his wife and daughters.
Bleeding Jungle, by Charlie Fish
"Ollin!"
A sudden burst of sound and movement rocked the rainforest as three hundred of Atl's fellow tribespeople sprang out from their hiding places, hollering and chanting to scare away any dangerous animals. They started making their way towards the clearing in an impressive procession, surrounded by a mass of panicking wildlife scattering noisily away. At the front of the long line was a tall, imposing man, with wizened dark skin. His height was boosted to an unfeasible level by his expansive, flat elongated forehead. It looked almost as if he had a fez tucked underneath his scalp. He wore many necklaces made of seeds, stones and teeth over a fine, diaphanous net covering most of his otherwise naked body. He walked up to Atl.
"Ollin," repeated Atl respectfully, bowing his head slightly to the leader.
Ollin's withered face broke into a smile. "Atl. You have done well. This is a fine site, and tonight you and I shall celebrate with a puma's skin sheltering our heads and its flesh in our bellies." The leader turned to address the approaching crowd: "Let the two thousand nine-hundred and ninety-eighth Movement proceed!"
Ollin then proceeded to direct a hive of activity, assigning each person that arrived at the clearing a different job. "Atl, scout the area. Coatl, Quiahuitl, gather firewood. Tecpatl, skin the puma. Acatl, Mazatl, unload the ark of skins. Malinalli, begin building the hospital. Calli, search for herbs and honey."
The end result was like a meticulously directed opera; or like a giant play with each actor busily following through a finely rehearsed part, working towards a grand and harmonious whole. A crude building was erected between three large trees, with skins for a roof, and boulders and logs acting as furniture inside. It was designated as the hospital. A pharmacy and a maternity unit soon appeared by it, followed by a temple, some stores and residences, and other scattered structures until the forest turned into a village, and the village grew into a town. A large fire was being constructed in the centre of it all.
It seemed that everybody was doing something. Wood was being carved, fruit and water were being collected, baskets were being woven, skins were being stitched together to make sleeping bags that would protect the tribespeople from snakes and insects during the night. Soon hunters started returning, laden with freshly killed game ranging from monkeys to wild pigs, from tapirs to armadillos. And everyone was chatting or laughing or singing to each other. The virgin wilderness was turned upside-down until it seemed as though it had never been lonely.
Just as the buzz of noise and activity seemed to reach a crescendo, an inhuman scream erupted from the edge of the dwelling, near the stream. The entire tribe froze, falling deathly silent in an instant, for the scream was one of unadulterated fear. And the scream was Ollin's. All eyes turned to behold their beloved leader. Ollin was on his knees, frantically burrowing into the layers of dead leaves and twigs on the ground, his extensive brow deeply furrowed. All eyes filled with a sudden dark foreboding at the sight of their revered leader in such a desperate panic. Something felt very, very wrong.
For a moment time froze as all onlookers held every muscle taut in anxious anticipation. Then, as if the huge build up of tense energy was concentrated on him alone, Ollin leapt up to full standing height, emitting another agonising howl. He held the object he had dislodged from the ground high above his protracted head.
As each person saw the small black box that Ollin held, they fell to their knees with shock and fear. Ollin watched as his proud tribe prostrated themselves before him, weeping and shaking. He firmed his jaw and pressed the box against his chest. He allowed only a single tear to escape from his hard eyes.
*
"I wish to be initiated," ventured Atl proudly. "I want to become a man."
"Then I am sorry for you," asserted Ollin without moving, "because it is impossible."
"Why should it be impossible, father, when I have proved my worth and finally come of age? What more must I do?"
"We must accept our fate, embogi." Ollin stood up to tower above the boy. "We must submit to the prophecy."
"Let us go on," insisted Atl forcefully, "and let the prophecy fulfil itself! I deserve to become a man!"
"Impudence!" Ollin growled. "The prophecy cannot be ignored. It is our heritage. It is our time. Its story has sustained us for more generations than memory serves. It is inevitable. It is said that the first tribe was created with the earth, and was ended by the standing lizards who's heads reached above the green. The second tribe was destroyed by a wind that picked up trees. The third tribe was burned in a fire that dried all the rain. Then the water avenged and drowned the fourth tribe. We are the fifth; the last; the ultimate. The world will end with us. Nature will come full circle. And it is said that our apocalypse will be contained in a simple, mysterious black box. A paradox. Something so small, yet with the power and the destiny to turn Mother Earth against us. It will signal that she has finished creating, and she will begin her destructive balance. This box is no longer a mystery. I honourably hold it in my humble hand. The prophecy is absolute truth; it cannot be ignored. Therefore we must prepare to die. These things are bigger than your manhood, naïve little Atl."
Atl's proud stance briefly wavered as Ollin's diatribe ended. Slightly fazed, Atl quickly glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met with Calli's. She gave him a sombre nod of encouragement. He resisted a smile and faced Ollin with doubled intent.
"I hold our heritage dear to my heart, as any tribesman does," began Atl. "Our tradition is what sustains us, it has allowed me to live and it is my life. That is exactly why I want to continue it, to show my faith -- especially in this time of doom."
"The prophecy is our tradition. It is our heritage. It is our life. It is our death." Ollin turned his head and stared menacingly at Calli and her obvious pregnancy. She bravely met his gaze, despite the bulb of fear growing in her throat. Ollin turned his stolid gaze back upon Atl. "We shall not go on. The prophecy cannot be ignored."
"Let the prophecy fulfil itself. Meanwhile, we must go on! I don't want to die like this!"
"If you are afraid of death, you are certainly not worthy of becoming a man."
Atl was stuck for words. He blushed and hung his head. Calli
walked up and put her arm around him, gently pulling him away from Ollin's imposing figure. Ollin's massive flat head gave a stern nod, and he sat down again. He hardly noticed or cared when Atl broke away from Calli's tender embrace and ran off into the treacherous forest.
*
Ollin held the black box high above his tall head, so it nearly scraped the ceiling of the structure that had been designated as the temple. Nearly 600 eyes watched intently as he chanted and danced around the rock altar in the centre of the open temple. His words were chilling. He spoke of history, prophecy and doom. He sang of final sacrifice. His dance consisted of more and more violent spasms until he could not form his words clearly anymore. Suddenly, he collapsed to his knees. His vicious chant was replaced by the angry call of a thousand birds.
With his head down, he held up the black box again. He silently placed it on the altar. His tribespeople stared, sitting quietly in a large circle surrounding the unglamorous temple. Ollin raised his head and displayed a bestial expression, picking up a spear that had been lying by the altar. The crowd around him shifted uncomfortably.
Ollin sprang to his feet, roaring at the top of his powerful lungs, and brought the heavy spear down on the head of an elderly tribesman. He swiped it back up, cracking a young woman on the chin. Ollin continued relentlessly, swinging and hitting and sometimes killing until he had no energy left. Groans of pain and sobbing filled the air. When his frenzy finally abated, Ollin surveyed his handiwork and regained his breath. His eyes rested on a pregnant young girl. Calli's eyes filled with tears of sorrow, but she did not resist when Ollin grabbed her and manhandled her onto the altar.
Ollin raised the spear above Calli's helpless, supine, naked body and yelled: "Who better to be our final sacrifice than my own, unborn child? We shall save him the shame of being born into a time in which he cannot inherit his rightful title as my successor. We shall save him the shame of not binding his soft head to show that he would be your Eruaregi. He will not be born into a time without a future." With that he brought the spear down into Calli's womb and wrenched it out sideways, gouging out a mess of blood and an unidentifiable mass of infant flesh. Calli did not scream or protest until she lost consciousness.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 465
