‘I just wanted to get you round the back of the water tank,’ he said, grasping her by the hand and drawing her along the edge of the forest to the back of the camp. Uncharacteristically, she thought that she had loved him once and perhaps could again. Perhaps Spinelli could take away the sharp pain and anxiety she lived with all the time now that she knew her husband loved another woman and her children were threatened. That was what she thought that night.
In the morning, as she stolidly stumped along the track out of the camp at dawn, she felt confused and unhappy. Sex behind the water tank, on ground which poked and, worse still, actually bit her back was bad enough. But sex anywhere, when you wanted it to give you love, or security, or a brand new life was even worse than that. She, Hannie Richards, had been silly enough to make that mistake. Probably Spinelli had the same idea, she thought, slogging on through the heat, then changing direction onto an even narrower trail. He had probably hoped for something that would make him want to marry for the fourth time. Their joint hopes had been dashed, come to nothing behind the water tank.
And she’d come out worst. Her sweaty back, on which she carried a pack, was still stinging and aching, thanks to the missionary position. After a restless night in her hammock she had thrown back her mosquito netting and got up to go and find the tree. Perhaps, she thought, sweating gloomily in the green sauna of the jungle, it was just another example of what Julie and Elizabeth had, in their different ways, complained about. She would not sit still in hard times, would not accept depression and sadness, would not deal with normal things in a normal way. Sir Walter Raleigh, she knew, had done the same thing in this land of high hopes and bitter endings. He hadn’t sat still in the Tower, asking James I for pardon. He’d set off for El Dorado and come back empty-handed, without his son, who had died on the venture, and had been executed anyway. She stumbled, tripped into an ant heap, fell over and rose quickly, dashing scurrying ants from her face and hands. She heard Julie’s voice crying out, ‘Hannie—you’re feeding your fucking pride!’ Like Sir Walter Raleigh, she thought, and slogged on. She was obstinately set on walking sixteen miles from base camp, all alone, along a track which might have disappeared, and which, if it were still there, might be open only because Indians were using it. Indians or mad sectarians or possibly diamond hunters. At least she hadn’t been completely irresponsible. She had made a note of her direction and departure time in the book under the plastic cover outside the expedition leader’s hut. Presumably, if she did not return next day, they would come looking for her or, she thought gloomily, what was left of her.
She bent down and scratched furiously behind her knee, where an insect had crawled between her trouser leg and her boots, or down her neck. There wouldn’t be much left, she thought, once the ants got at her. She checked her compass, checked Roderick Kyte’s map of the area, hoped his compass bearings were as good as her ability to follow them, and carried on.
Three hours later, because of the meandering trail and the impossibility of making any speed over the tangled vines and through the hanging, often spiky branches on the trail, she straightened up and checked her bearings again. She had come only seven miles as the crow flies. She might have to camp overnight in the jungle. She went on.
She glimpsed a vast red snake, lying over her head along a branch. She hacked continually at the vegetation growing across the trail, made detours to avoid trees which had grown up on it or fallen across it, had often to search for the marks of where it had once been. Each venture into the solid jungle alarmed her. Snakes rustled near her feet. Every leaf she brushed had the power to bite or sting.
She could hear nothing in front of her and nothing behind, only the birds, the odd, weird scream of a monkey, the rustlings and scratchings from either side. She could turn back, but she was determined not to. ‘I’ll go on,’ she thought to herself. ‘I’ll find that tree. I’ll get a bit of root from it, whatever happens. I won’t turn back.’ She remembered Duncan Kyte’s face and the healthy skin with the underlying, wasted look. She remembered the distanced, creepy girl, Serena, whose eyes, even in bed, had the same blank, frightening expression they had had at the lunch table and when she looked up at her employer and lover in the library in Suffolk. They were uncommunicative eyes, eyes that did not respond but instead looked into people to discover their hopes, their fears and their hidden beliefs so that the owner of the eyes could profit by them. Serena was afraid, thought Hannie. She was always afraid. That was why she had to use people. To protect herself. And it was for this little set-up—Kyte, the rich man in his rich house, terrified of death, and Serena, his vampire—that she was sweating through this dark, green place which smelled of vegetation and rot.
Not long after, just as she was thinking she would have to stop soon to rest and eat, she noticed a slight thinning out of the trees and a small increase of light and realized she must be coming to a clearing. There, she thought, she would take a break, out in the reassuring openness. As she pushed through the last of the vines and stared into the blinding light, she saw an Indian village. To the right lay the river, broad and sluggish. In the centre of the encampment stood a long hut. There were other, smaller huts dotted about. A fire smoked in the middle of the clearing, which was about 200 metres wide. But there was no one there. She stood in the shadows of the jungle, knowing that she must have been trailed for many miles by the Indians, moving like ghosts through their own underworld, and that now, as she stood there, feeling alone, she must be watched by many eyes. Even the women and children had been cleared out. They suspected her.
And, across the clearing, on the other fringe of forest, there was the tree, tall and spindly, reaching for the light, dark-leaved and covered with the purple flowers she was seeking. She almost laughed as she stood there, expecting an arrow to hit her, or a body holding a knife to hurl itself at her at any moment. Then, knowing that in doubtful situations unambiguous actions are best, she took a few deep breaths and walked into the centre of the clearing, dropped her pack near the fire, knelt down, unbuckled it and began to take out the gifts. Perhaps greed, or sheer curiosity, would draw the Indians to her. It might hang on whether they had contacted white people before and what those contacts had been like. Just as she was taking out a bundle of knives from the pack, her left arm leaped. Putting the knives on the grass she looked down slowly at the arm. A flightless arrow, just a stick of wood, jutted from the back of the arm, a little above the elbow. She waited, expecting more arrows to follow, or a crowd to come out of the forest behind her. She said to herself, ‘Oh, God. Don’t let me die here, now.’ She saw her children’s faces clearly, even Fran’s grin and the missing top front tooth. Then, because nothing happened, she twisted her right arm, set her teeth and pulled. The arrow eased slowly out through the flesh. A gush of blood stained her jacket. Some trickled down her arm. She put the bloody arrow carefully on the ground. She thought that it could be poisoned That would be why no one had emerged and no further arrows had been fired. They would stay under cover, watching her until she dropped.
Then the noise began. It was a gentle clatter, which grew slowly louder. Still on her knees in the grass, she watched a stream of ants heading towards the blood on the arrow in front of her and thought, they’re banging on their shields to work themselves up. When the noise gets loud enough, they’ll rush me and kill me. She knelt there, breathing shallowly, waiting for the end. The noise increased and increased.
It was only when she saw the grass in front of her rising and swishing to and fro that she realized the noise had become far too loud for the sound of club on shield. Even then it took her some time to work out what it was. Slowly, she looked up and around. The helicopter came low across the river and landed near the bank, not far from the forest edge. The rotation of the propellers stopped. The noise died away. She looked at the purple flowers swinging on the branches of the tree opposite her. Then, slowly, she stood up, clutching the bleeding wound in her arm with her right hand and walked towards the helicopt
er. As she went the blood dripped through her fingers to the ground. She was not curious as to who was in the helicopter, or why. She merely saw it as safety. She was therefore unsurprised when an elderly man with a shock of white hair stepped out of the door. He gave her a hostile stare and shouted back, ‘Martin—chuck the stuff out quickly!’ He said to Hannie, ‘Are you alone?’ She nodded.
At that moment a plastic-covered bundle, the size of a small suitcase, landed beside him. Someone in the helicopter was content to push things out but not so keen to come into the doorway of the machine. The man said to Hannie, ‘More fool you. I suppose you’re with Davis’s party?’
She nodded again as another bale landed on the ground outside the helicopter.
‘That’s enough, Martin,’ said the man. To Hannie he said, ‘Can you get hold of that one with your good hand and follow me?’
Hannie reluctantly picked up one of the plastic-covered packages with her right hand. He picked up the other and she followed him to the middle of the clearing, where they set the parcels down next to her abandoned haversack. He said, nodding at the scattered knives and the blood-stained arrow, ‘Well, you tried.’
Hannie said, ‘What makes you think they won’t start shooting again?’
He called out something in a guttural tongue and said, ‘I’m known to them, through their parents. I was here before.’
‘Is it the same lot?’ Hannie asked.
‘I’ve checked,’ he told her. ‘I’m not as stupid as Dr Davis.’
‘Davis didn’t send me here,’ she said sulkily.
He was opening the packages with a sharp penknife. He produced three machetes, some knives, some packages of beads and some clothing. He turned a torch on and off. Hannie stood clutching her wound and watching.
He said, ‘Go back to the ‘copter and get Martin to look at that arm. He’s got a first aid kit in there.’
She said, ‘Do you think it was poisoned?’
He shook his head. ‘You’d be dead by now. It’s the germs which’ll get you. I should clear off—these Indians are a chancy lot. There’s always a risk, and I hear they’ve run up against some religious fanatics who’ve tried to convert them to a fire and brimstone form of Christianity—been rushing them with Bibles and trousers and trying to point out the errors of their ways. That sort of thing causes confusion in the primitive mind and confusion, I always say, is dangerous.’
‘I think they’re coming out of the forest,’ Hannie said nervously.
Her companion looked round. ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘you’d better stay by me.’ Hannie watched the village, naked men, women and children emerging from the thick, green cover of the forest. They were very small, only a little over five feet. They were naked and their thick, dark hair was cut pudding-bowl style, framing dark faces and slightly slanted, very black eyes. The men, she was relieved to see, dropped their bows to their sides as they advanced.
The old man picked up a machete and held it out to the man who headed the main party of Indians. He took it, as about thirty men and women converged from all sides of the clearing and stood round her and the old man, crowding closer and closer to see what was available. A man pointed at the old man’s hat. He lifted it from his white hair, sprayed it with a small aerosol can he took from his back pocket, and handed it to the Indian, who put it on. As the Indians drifted slowly off with their gifts—the old man, like some peculiar Santa at a Christmas party, had managed to make sure everyone had something—Hannie heard him say in a low voice, ‘All right. You can get back to the ‘copter now.’
‘I came here for something,’ she said. ‘It’s that tree, over there.’ She nodded towards the tree bearing the purple flowers.
‘Ha!’ he said, not troubling to keep his voice down, ‘So after all he’s said, Davis has decided to take an interest in it, has he?’
Hannie turned to face him. ‘I told you, Davis didn’t send me. Who are you?’
He dropped his voice again. ‘More for me to ask who you are, I think. As it happens, my name is Kyte—Roderick Kyte.’
‘Good God,’ said Hannie. She stared at him in amazement, then remembered herself and said, ‘I’m Hannie Richards.’
‘That tells me little,’ he said. ‘What do you want with that tree?’
‘I heard of your work on it,’ she told him. ‘My boss, immediate boss, that is, won’t hear of anything like that. I decided to come and collect some samples on my own.
‘Foolhardy,’ said Roderick Kyte. ‘But I suppose I have no exclusive right to the flowers—there’s plenty for everybody. Since you’re here, you might as well help. The sooner we’re out of here the better.’
As they crossed the clearing towards the tree the Indians did not look up. They were grouped around the big hut. One hacked at a stump with his new machete. Two traded sets of beads. The children were passing Kyte’s hat from hand to hand, head to head. None of them apparently even watched the man in the helicopter, Martin, as he slowly and nervously crossed the campo to join Kyte and Hannie. He carried a small revolver in his hand.
‘We won’t stop too long, Martin,’ Kyte told him, as they all walked towards the tree. ‘They could turn nasty after the horrible time they’ve had with those Christians—and we could be carrying a germ which will wipe them out. The less we get involved, the better for all concerned, I think.’
They paused right under the spindly, thick-leaved tree. The purple flowers, fleshy and bell-shaped, hung over them. Several lay on the ground. Some had turned completely brown, others were withering.
‘I’ll have to go back for my pack,’ Hannie said. ‘All my jars are in there.’
‘Walk slowly and look at ease,’ advised Kyte. Turning to Martin he said, ‘Up you go, laddie.’ As Hannie went back for the pack she saw the Indians still occupied with their new things. She picked up the bundle containing her specimen jars and plastic packs and carried it back to the tree. Her left arm was now throbbing and useless, even though the bleeding had ceased. When she got back, Martin was seated on a low branch, shaking the branch above him to dislodge the flowers, which began to rain down. Two lodged in Kyte’s snow-white hair, giving him an oddly festive look. Hannie dropped her pack on the ground and took out a plastic jar. With only one arm she was awkward. The map she had been using, the one purloined from Kyte’s laboratory, came out of the pack with the jar. It fell on the ground. Although it was crumpled up and sweat-stained, she guessed that if Kyte saw it he might recognize it. She picked it up and tried to push it back into the rucksack. But Kyte had leaned over and grabbed it. He straightened up and smoothed it out. He looked at it for several seconds. Hannie, like a child, stood by and said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Then Kyte said, perfectly gently, ‘You got this from my brother, Duncan?’
Hannie said, ‘Yes.’
Roderick Kyte nodded resignedly. Hannie said, ‘Dr Davis isn’t responsible. I was hired by your brother to get the flowers and roots of this tree. Will it really cure him?’
Kyte said in the same gentle tone, ‘He’s a fool. I told him it would do him no good in its present form. What do you think I’m doing here—a man of over sixty, standing in a clearing full of Indians of uncertain temperament? I need fresh plants in order to make a fresh synthesis. Last time, I was foolish. I relied on my own analysis of the plants and let the plants themselves go hang. This time I shall start all over again with the chemistry, and this time I shall try to grow fresh plants also. That way I can go back to the source. What I have can sometimes correct cell malfunction—I’ve seen it restore damaged tissue—but the effects are arbitrary and often grotesque. I have to go back and start again—resynthesize from the original plants, make fresh compounds, test every possibility again and again in a variety of ways. I’ve no idea how it works. It may trigger immunities through the gland system but that doesn’t explain how it can restore tissue, if it does. I’ve discovered to my cost, that what works, seemingly permanently, on one animal can produce a horrible escalation
of the disease, with side-effects, on another. And if it works here, among the Indians, it may be due to exterior factors—diet, other immunities they’ve built up, anything. If you want to know, I’m not here because I’ve found a cure for cancer but because several months ago I gave up trying. I was bitter because of the uncertain nature of the results. They weren’t results—just a stray collection of phenomena. I was tired of being a crank scientist, always derided, without any professional standing. I thought I’d let it alone and die in peace. Then I found I couldn’t. So I came here, at my own expense, to collect more specimens and start again from scratch. I might,’ he said wearily, ‘find something which will be of value to others who come after me. That’s all I hope for now.’
Hannie looked at the old man with the flowers in his hair. She plucked the blooms from his head and looked at them. She said briskly, ‘Well, your brother paid me to come here and get these flowers. I’ll do it.’
‘I can’t stop you,’ said Kyte. ‘But while you’re here you can help. Start digging around to find the roots of the tree. We’ll need them.’
Martin, now down from the tree, Kyte and Hannie started digging in the hard ground to find the roots. Hannie’s arm ached badly now. She found one of the roots of the tree about a foot below the ground and began to follow it out to where it was thinnest. Two feet away Kyte was doing the same. He grunted. He said, ‘This isn’t going to help him, you know. He’s going to need a big team to get any results. He’ll probably die a very horrible death.’
‘His choice,’ said Hannie shortly.
‘If he manages to save his life, with your help,’ Kyte said conversationally, while hacking at a root, ‘do remember how he got the money. He controls companies everywhere in the world there’s labour to be underfed and exploited. South American mines, tea plantations—men, women and plenty of children, too, have died to feed Duncan Kyte. If he does recover, it’ll be in order to go on doing the same. It’s odd, don’t you think, that these people whose ambition is to eat up the world are always the most reluctant to slacken their greedy grip when the Reaper comes to call? Or maybe it’s not odd at all.’
Hannie Richards Page 19
