1771: spanish empire of south america

Joseph de Jussieu wasn’t going to leave South America alive. It was a suspicion he’d felt from the moment he’d stepped beneath the forbidding canopy that marked the entrance to the Sacred Land in his search for the black orchid. Now, with his hands tied to the reins of his donkey, her hind legs dangling off the side of the narrow mountain path as his own feet scrabbled for purchase, his suspicion had become a certainty.

“Help me, damn you!” Jussieu cursed the porter who stood back, leery of approaching the side of the path that seemed a touch away from disintegrating in the torrential downpour. The donkey brayed. The stupid, insistent honking competed with the noise of the storm and made it impossible for Jussieu to make himself heard. The servant hesitated, unable to decide whether the donkey or the Frenchman was the bigger ass.

The servant had been with Jussieu for over two and a half decades, ever since the Frenchman’s colleagues had returned to Europe and the naturalist remained behind to continue his explorations. The two men had lugged the Frenchman’s crates over mountains and down valleys, through swollen rivers and endless forests.

However, when they came to the cursed jungle, the servant had declined to enter. He waited on the border, expecting to never see the Frenchman and his donkeys again.

But Joseph de Jussieu did return from that land, a little paler, eyes a little wilder. Since his return, he had developed the habit of looking over one shoulder and rubbing the small of his back. He carried a canteen that he sipped from, the potion making him visibly more relaxed, the panic in his eyes ebbing for a few hours.

He drove them out of the jungle with a haste that bordered on recklessness. The porter warned Jussieu to wait until the weather cleared—one month, maybe two at the most—but the Frenchman had refused. He insisted on pushing ahead despite the danger of traveling over the Andes in the rainy season. After so many years idling in South America, Joseph de Jussieu was pressing for the coast, for a boat back to Europe, like a man possessed.

Lightning cracked directly overhead, immediately followed by growling thunder. The donkey’s hooves pedaled madly, searching for traction. The narrow path crumbled beneath the animal, rocks and clay falling to the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet below. Digging his own feet into the mud of the rain-drenched path, Jussieu felt himself slide toward the edge.

“Grab that rope! Quickly, you fool!” Jussieu yelled after the thunderclap.

Coming to the realization he would be unable to plunder Jussieu’s corpse if it were at the bottom of a ravine, the porter rushed to the European’s aid.

The wind hurled pea-sized hail against their exposed flesh. Pulling together, they finally managed to haul the flailing animal onto the path. The servant pressed against the cliff face, but Jussieu grabbed the animal’s halter. An unquenchable fire burned in the Frenchman’s bloodshot eyes.

“Get your beast!” he yelled above the squall. He put his head down and pushed forward. The donkey advanced with hesitant, unsure steps.

But the Frenchman wasn’t focused on the treacherous path—he was not afraid of the way ahead. He was gripped by an unrelenting terror, knowing what pursued them from the unknown land. He again sipped the elixir from his canteen to muffle the cackle of unearthly voices.

As they struggled onward, the porter’s sole thought was of the treasure Jussieu had obviously found in the Sacred Land. The squall intensified, the lashing rain blotting out all but the trail at their feet. A flash of lightning abruptly revealed a glade.

The Frenchman stopped. “Yes, yes, I know this place,” he muttered to himself, rubbing the small of his back. “Stop!” he cried, whipping around toward the porter. He hastily took a draft from the flask, then pressed his palms to his eyes. When he let his hands fall, his face was calm, his eyes clear.

How could he secure passage home without exposing his invaluable trunks to the thieves in every port? He would have to push his fear aside. “I shall be gone a couple of days,” he told the servant. “Wait here for me. Guard the trunks with your life.”

As soon as Jussieu disappeared in the driving rain, the servant examined the trunks by the unremitting flashes of lightning. Every box was locked. They must surely contain the most precious of treasures, he thought. Why else would the Frenchman risk so much? He even sleeps with them.

At the port, Jussieu secured passage aboard a ship bound for Europe. He anxiously awaited the conclusion of the transaction, wishing every moment that he could hurry back to the glade and retrieve his precious trunks. When his business concluded early, Jussieu returned to the glade at last, thanking his good luck. When he entered the clearing, however, he froze, ignoring the rainwater that streamed down his back.

The clearing on the mountainside was empty. The trusted servant, the donkeys, and the trunks that contained his diary and an irreplaceable trove of scientific specimens gathered over the previous decades—all were gone.

He darted from one end of the clearing to the other, circling back again and again until he fell to the ground in frustrated exhaustion. He tore at his hair and wept.

Neither the servant nor the trunks were ever seen again.

Jussieu returned to France from the wilderness where he had just wasted thirty years of his life. Shortly after his arrival, he was committed to an insane asylum on the outskirts of Paris. He would never leave. He died eight years later, alone, trapped in his cell with the memories of his precious trunks, lost somewhere in that impassive green jungle on the far side of the world.