chapter 28

Bargain Fulfilled

It is not down in any map; true places never are.

—Herman Melville, Moby Dick

The jaguar’s jaws descended around the skull of the chief’s only son. Pax lunged and sank his teeth into the exposed flank of the attacker. Snarling in pain, the ferocious jaguar turned to rip the dog to pieces.

The Manton spoke with a sharp report.

Nate looked up in time to see the enormous creature drop, motionless, killed by a single shot to the brain.

As soon as Pax had growled, William had reacted instinctively, withdrawing his only remaining weapon—the Manton dueling pistol. Without hesitation, the British officer calmly fired into the great head of the beast.

He stood with a dead man-eater to either side of him, one less than ten feet away, and the other even closer.

Nate exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. The Brit had made probably the finest shot under pressure with a pistol he had ever witnessed. There wasn’t the slightest tremor in the officer’s hands. With a shock, Nate suddenly realized the British officer had intentionally put that bullet through his shoulder at the duel.

Picking up his rifle, Nate said, “Next time I challenge you to a duel, you son of a bitch, it’s with bows and arrows.”

That night, Cusi told the story of the hunt at a great feast attended by the entire village. To the boundless delight of the tribe, he elaborated every detail of the pursuit, proudly displaying his bandaged arm and the wounds on his shoulders for all to see. Cusi now sported the heavy, dangling silver and gold earlobe ornaments of a warrior, which his father had presented him earlier. The chief beamed as if his son had single-handedly eliminated every present and future threat to their tribe.

That there had been a pair of otorongos, preying on the tribe, hunting together, was practically unheard of. The enormous man-eaters lay dead on the ground, lending extra credence to the tale. It had taken four men each to carry the animals back to the village.

The British officer and the American sat slightly to one side with the chief and the shaman. The chief offered the liver of a tortoise to William, much prized for its fat, a sign of the cacique’s great respect for the white sorcerer. Nate shook his head in amusement. The Brit was the furthest thing from a shaman he could possibly imagine.

They had fulfilled their part of the bargain, and it was time to talk. Cusi joined them so he could translate.

The chief took William’s hand and spoke directly to him. Cusi told them how grateful his father was for the killing of the man-eaters. The shaman also said something and pointed at the British officer.

Cusi translated, “He says he knew you were a powerful warrior, sent to help them. He knew this because of the golden amulet.” Nate looked questioningly at William.

The British officer shrugged.

Cusi said, “My father says you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. Now they will fill theirs and tell you what they know of the black orchid and the god-stone.”

The chief spoke for several minutes. Every so often, the shaman would nod in agreement. At one point, the medicine man appeared to clarify something.

When they finished, Cusi said, “Many years ago, a white man came through here wearing the same charm you have. The medal was a powerful talisman to our people. The man was looking for a sacred plant. As long as we have been a people, this plant had been known as the most potent healer, but it is rare—very rare. The shaman said he was sorry, but his only son went with the white man to bring the plant back for the tribe.”

“What’s he sorry about?” William asked.

Cusi said, “The shaman’s son took the tribe’s god-stone to trade for the plant.”

William said quietly, “They were never seen again. This is why the shaman was upset by seeing me. I must remind him of his misfortune, of the son he lost.”

The American wasn’t listening, he was shocked. “He lost El Jefe? His son lost an emerald the size of my fist? They must be joking. Or mistaken.”

“Can you understand now, Bidwell,” William asked, “just how much they treasure the black orchid?”

Nate ignored him. He asked Cusi, “Where can I find that damned plant?”

Cusi translated, “The chief will honor the bargain. In the morning I will take you to see someone who knows everything about the plant.”

The next morning, Cusi arrived with two warriors. The warriors were there to ensure that only the white shaman went. No servants.

“Too bad, Yank,” William said, “looks like you’ll just have to trust me.”

The chief’s son led William along a small, winding path ascending a steep hill. The British officer was intrigued. He wondered if this was just another wild-goose chase, hardly daring to hope that he might finally be getting a solid lead on the location of the black orchid.

After several hours of climbing, they arrived at a shack at the edge of a clearing in the forest. A clear stream close by rushed down the mountain.

Cusi said, “You wait. Sit.”

Cusi clucked once, and an ancient, wrinkled wisp of a man emerged from the hut. Pax wagged his tail, then ran up to the old man and licked his hand.

With tenderness and respect, Cusi assisted the man in making his way to sit near the Brit. When William moved aside to make room, he noticed the old man’s eyes. He was blind.

Cusi said, “Capac, this is William, a great shaman come from far away. He killed the otorongo.”

Capac felt William’s face, then followed the chain around the British officer’s neck to the Saint Christopher medal. When he rubbed the raised impression between his gnarled fingers, he smiled.

Cusi filled a wooden bowl with chicha from his gourd and placed it in the withered mahogany hand. The old blind man lifted the bowl full of fermented maize to his thin lips, drank deeply, then drank again. He put the bowl down carefully. Then he started to sign while speaking in his harsh language.

Cusi translated, “Capac has been here longer than any other. Seen much before they take my eyes.” The old man smiled a broad toothless smile.

“My oldest brother left many, many years to go with the white man to look for the black orchid. When he came back, he was ashamed he left, and sorry he took the useless things of the white man. Disgraced, he would not live in the village. Only to me did he speak of what he had done, and of the Sacred Land.”

His voice tinged with disbelief, William asked, “Cusi, wait. Can you ask him the white man’s name? Was it Jussieu?”

Cusi translated dutifully, but the old man merely shrugged. Yet who else could it be? William remembered every detail of the story about the Frenchman and the orchid. He said to Cusi with great urgency, “We must go to the place where his brother lived.”

The site was not much further up the mountain.

All that remained was a wretched roofless hut, and an overgrown, partially cleared field, with a few withered fruit trees. Pax closely sniffed at everything and everywhere, but nature had reclaimed all other signs of occupation by Capac’s older brother. No trace of Jussieu’s servant endured, nor remnants of the French scientist’s writings. Another wild-goose chase.

William was growing angry for the faith he had placed in the natives, when a distant rumble accompanied by a faint vibration of the earth startled him. It subsided quickly, but left him unnerved; he’d heard of earthquakes, but had never before actually felt the ground shake. He wondered what it meant.

When they returned, the blind man was still sitting where they had left him, seemingly asleep. He looked up and spoke when he heard his name.

Cusi said, “Capac says Pachamama, wife of the dragon and the ruler of earthquakes, is angry. This is only the beginning.”

This is no time for superstitious nonsense. He asked Cusi, “Does he know how to get to the black orchid?”

When Cusi asked Capac, the old man spoke for several minutes. “He said there are two ways to the Sacred Land,” Cusi translated. “Most fast is to use the Spanish roads, lower down, below the mountains. Go south for many days until the sun sets behind the biggest hill, then go east seven days between two big volcanos, down through the jungle into the great bowl, take the snake-stream for many days, then come to Big River. But there are many enemies that way, and much danger.”

“The Big River is the Amazon, Cusi?”

“Yes. The other way is slow, but no Spanish. Go by the south trail up to the high plain, walk until the sun sets behind the biggest volcano, then take the path down to the jungle. Cross many rivers and small valleys for six more days. Climb to the last, highest country. Walk toward rising sun, keep the sunset behind ariq, until you come to the edge. Go down, enter great bowl of Big River.”

The old man spoke again, and Cusi translated. “Once on the Big River, you float for many days until meeting with big brown stream, then soon you see them on the side of the river.”

“See who on the side?” William asked.

“That is all he knows. He says you are brave and with luck, you will keep your head.”

“The only thing these directions will do, Cusi,” William said, frustrated, “is get me killed. I need more information.”

The British officer pressed, “Please tell him I seek this plant not for myself, but for my daughter, who is very sick and will not survive much longer without the black orchid.”

The old man held out the empty chicha bowl. Cusi refilled it and gave it back to him. The dark-brown hand slowly lifted the bowl; he drank fully, smacked his lips, and put the drink down. Then he spoke, Cusi translating. “Many years ago, when I have eyes, the young white man comes seeking the plant. He goes with the son of the shaman. They never return. I am blamed for the loss of the shaman’s son—so they take my eyes.”

William watched the lids close over the empty eye sockets in satisfaction as the old man drained the chicha. He started to slowly rock and sing to himself.

“And only to me did my brother tell of the sacred boxes.”

William was riveted. “What do you mean? What sacred boxes?”

Cusi said, “Never show anyone.”

“I must see them,” William insisted.

The old man was silent for a long moment. When Capac finally spoke again, Cusi said, “He knows you look for Sacred Land with or without his help. But if he helps—shows you these things—you might have better chance of living. He is old and has no fear if the tribe brings death to him. Not for you, but for your daughter, Capac will show you.”

The old man stood and told them to bring torches. They started through the woods, Cusi holding Capac’s hand.

What could possibly be left? The tropical climate would quickly destroy anything of value. But William had nothing to lose.

William asked, “What did he mean by saying I ‘might have a better chance of living’?”

Cusi said, “No one who sees the Sacred Land and the black flower ever comes back. Monsters there live on human flesh.”

“But his brother and the Frenchman survived.”

Cusi said, “Come, we follow him.”

They cut through the vegetation until the jungle ended at the bottom of a sheer mountainside. The rock face appeared unbroken.

Capac walked to a thick acacia bush resting against the base of the cliff. Despite the sharp two-inch thorns, he reached in and pulled the bush back. Behind was a split in the rock, several feet wide, high enough for a man to stoop down and walk through.

Not knowing what lay beyond, they bent down and cautiously followed the old man through the opening in the mountain wall.

While William met the blind man on the mountain, Nate went to the shaman to see if he could coax out of him any additional information about the emerald. He just couldn’t believe the old priest had lost the gem.

A handwoven reed mat covered the dirt floor. In the pale light of the semidarkness of the priest’s lodge, Nate recognized the skins of a jaguar, cougar, and huge anaconda adorning the near wall, while a pair of flayed monkeys stared with lifeless eyes from the top shelf of a roughly carved wooden rack off to the side. The other shelves held a variety of colorful minerals, dried butterflies, the skull of a small caiman, and the shells of a hairy armadillo and several turtles.

Most conspicuous was a shriveled human head. The stitched and permanently smiling face of the diminutive pate sported a thin mustache, a slight goatee, and long black hair. The trophy sat atop an upturned wooden bowl in the center of the shelter.

The American had spent time in the company of many different tribes throughout the Americas, most of which he got along with fine, although there might have been a few that would have been happy to get their hands on him. But Nate had never seen, or even heard of, a shrunken head of a white man.

The shaman interpreted the white man’s fixation as admiration. He smiled and patted the top of the grisly object affectionately.

They shared a bowl of potent chicha, and through signing and a few words of Quechua and the common language, Nate illustrated his knowledge of herbs. He also admired the old man’s collection of potions and questioned him about healing plants, learning enough to know that many of the shaman’s cures were from the Amazon—a knowledge which would soon prove invaluable. He pretended to be interested in every sign the shaman made and every word he spoke, some of which Nate couldn’t understand.

Flattered and charmed by the American, the old Indian decided to help him. He stood unsteadily and began to speak with his eyes closed, at times seeming as if he were in a trance; at other times, he became animated, even interrupting his narrative by singing a song while slowly shuffling.

It was difficult to interpret much of the old shaman’s story. But Nate understood enough to confirm that the tribe had lost their most treasured and sacred object when the shaman’s son took the fabulous emerald to the Sacred Land to trade for the orchid.

“The Sacred Land is where both the black orchid and our god-stone are waiting.” The priest stumbled, and Nate reached out to steady him.

“Since the loss of my son, that way is forbidden to us.”

So, El Jefe was real, and waiting for him somewhere in the vastness of the Amazon. Hopefully, the Brit has discovered enough on his little excursion up the mountain to lead them to this so-called Sacred Land.