Shadowline Drift: A Metaphysical Thriller Read online

  Jake’s heart hammered, but he kept his eyes on Mawgis and said nothing.

  “I and the men of the tribe will help in the search,” the Tabna said. “I will tell Joaquin that we concluded our trade before you disappeared and that I will honor our agreement. The film crew will call London on the satellite telephone. London will call World United, and they’ll send bureaucrats to wrap up the business. They’ll bring me presents. Won’t that be nice? I will supply benesha. Everyone will be happy.”

  The dryness in Jake’s throat turned his voice into little more than a whisper. “The doctors will figure it out. As soon as people start falling sick, they’ll know benesha caused it.”

  Mawgis shrugged again. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Benesha meat eaters don’t get sick right away, and only we Tabna and the unfortunate tribe we just visited have seen benesha sickness to recognize it.”

  “What is the sickness like?”

  A half smile crossed Mawgis’s lips, then fell away. “The people who will distribute the benesha meat want to be heroes. They’ll move quickly, dispensing it to the famished everywhere. Even if they do discover why people are dying, it will be too late. By then enough people will have eaten benesha meat to accomplish the goal.”

  Jake blew out a long, slow breath. “What are you going to do about me?”

  “Nothing.” Mawgis untied the pouch on his hip. “In here are nets, a knife, a sling for throwing stones, some fishing line, and your can of insect repellent. I wish you well. Knowing you gives me pleasure.”

  Jake didn’t take the bundle. “Why did you tell me about benesha meat’s effect on people? Why not keep it secret?”

  Tears suddenly clouded the man’s dark eyes. “I have heard many, many stories, but none so beautiful and wondrous as yours. A boy with heart enough to stop his body’s growing, even if by accident, is worth respect.”

  Jake took that in. Were it not for his history, Mawgis wouldn’t have told him the truth about benesha. It was the first time Jake was grateful for what he had done when he was five.

  “Tell me something else,” he said, his mind spinning, stalling, hoping for information and for time. For a brilliant idea that would stop Mawgis from leaving him here. “Where does benesha come from?” No one but the Tabna knew whether benesha was mined, was found in the forest, or fell from the sky.

  Mawgis spread his hands, palms up. “That,” he said, “is a secret.”

  Mawgis stood, tossed the bundle on the ground, and dusted his hands against his thighs. “Some advice. When you come to shallow rivers with slow waters, stay out. Piranha. If you keep going, you will come to where you need to be.”

  Fear twisted Jake’s belly. Mawgis was going to leave him here. Lost. With nothing but a knife and a slingshot he didn’t know how to use. Piranha? What about caimans, every bit as fast and deadly as their alligator cousins? Jaguars? Starving to death?

  Mawgis held out his hand. “The translator.”

  Jake shook his head.

  Mawgis smiled. “You’re wondering why I want it. God is in the details, one of your people said. Or is it the devil? No matter. You wandered off alone; there would be no reason for you to take the translator. It should be found in your tent along with your things. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll say it must have been in your clothing, that you didn’t know you took it, but it would be better if you were reasonable and gave it back.”

  Jake pulled the tiny machine from his ear and dropped it into his pocket—a small and useless act of defiance.

  Mawgis shrugged. He turned and loped into the dense trees, lost to Jake’s sight in seconds. Chasing him was useless. The older man moved too quickly and knew the forest too well.

  Four

  The forest, hot and green, pressed in on him like a predatory animal. Enormous trees swallowed the light. Creepers twisted around the trunks, choking the trees that choked the sun from the sky. Unseen birds squawked and screeched. His pulse hammered and Jake heard it like words—Alone, so small. Alone. So small. He’d left his boots behind—they’d felt tight, blisters and chafing waiting to happen—but had taken the kit Mawgis had prepared. He’d tied it around his waist with the same string Mawgis had used, fashioning a surgeon’s knot to secure it, and then knotted the string again.

  Jake’s mind had churned. Straight north or follow the river’s course? Mawgis had brought him to this spot on purpose—to get him where he needed to go, the man had said. Jake had a pretty good idea that if he followed the water he’d likely come to a settlement. From there, he could get to a city. The sooner he got anywhere with a satellite phone, the better his chances were of stopping Mawgis.

  He’d walked until the river had bent and the forest had come up, cutting off the little clearing where he’d sat with Mawgis, hiding it completely by the time he’d gone maybe fifty feet further. Now he’d lost the sound of rushing water that had been a touchstone, a way to know he was going in the right direction—some direction, not in circles.

  He slowed his steps and then stopped, his gaze darting around, seeing the same thing everywhere he looked—trees with thick air roots hanging from their branches like dangling nooses. Underbrush, low and spiky, with tiny, wrinkled brown leaves. Thick growths of ferns, solid as walls. He thought maybe he should turn back, retrace his steps, try to find the Tabna village. The Brits and Joaquin were there. He’d be safe with them. But that was useless, and Jake knew it. He was already far too lost to find his way back. Forward, whatever lay ahead, was his only choice.

  Underbrush tore at his clothes and skin. The sun climbed higher in the sky. He felt its heat, the passing hours marked in tiring muscles and rising air temperature. Sweat rolled down his brow, dribbling into his eyes, making them sting. He dragged his hand across his face. It came away streaked with dirt.

  The trees broke and he found the river again, the sound of the current like a friend, a guide, and it wouldn’t be long now, he hoped, before the river would surely lead him to a village. He followed a broken path that wormed along the bank. The spongy ground pulled at his bare feet as though it were alive. Bits of rotting leaves and fruit clung to his ankles. Land mines of sharp twigs and hard seeds battered his soles.

  The air was sultry, thick with dust and leaf mold. His skin itched and his lungs ached from breathing air so wet it was like inhaling dirty water. A haze of insects, each no bigger than a fleck of pepper, wheeled around his head and dove at his eyes. Mosquitoes buzzed past. Carapanás. Foot longs. A whine like a jet engine in his ears. Mosquitoes carry malaria, he’d been warned before he’d left the States, and biting flies can leave eggs and microscopic worms beneath your skin that can cause blindness. Jake slapped at the bugs, driving them off or smashing them on his face and arms. Red stains bloomed like bloody roses.

  It was hard to stop walking now—as if stopping even for a moment was giving up—but he knew he needed to. His fingers fumbled at the knots he’d carefully tied in the string around his waist, undoing them. He dropped the pouch onto the dirt. Crouching, he untied the knot that held the fabric closed. The can of insect repellent rolled away on the uneven ground. He clamped his hand on top to stop the roll, lifted the can, and shook it. Nearly empty. He sprayed his arms and legs, repacked the pouch and retied the string, and walked.

  And seemed to make no progress, to pass the same tree, the same creepers and climbers, to throw his arms over his eyes and push through the same column of whirling insects time and again. The only certainty was time passing, marked by the shadows stretching deeper across the river.

  The river ran swiftly here, the current churning the bottom, the water dark as espresso. Whirlpools spun near jagged rocks, each vortex spiraling down and down. Decomposing leaves and moldering fruit on the path made the ground slick and slippery, no matter how carefully he stepped. Dead things didn’t last long in the forest—living ants and vultures and fly maggots and all the rest of nature’s cleanup crew made short work of them.

  He felt the stumble the moment his foot went wrong, sl
iding to the side, knees buckling. His arms windmilled, but he couldn’t get balanced. Falling, he crashed against a tree and wrapped his arms around it, sagging against the rough bark, panting like a runner. Sweat stung his eyes. A broken arm, even a badly twisted knee, and it would be over.

  It was a while before he felt ready to start out again. The sodden earth sucked at his feet with every step. He slipped on leaf-slimed divots and stumbled over hidden rocks. His foot caught in a concealed root and he tumbled again into the mud. Angry, Jake spat the wet dirt out of his mouth. A bright yellow frog with bulging eyes croaked, then hopped away. Something chattered gleefully in the trees. He told himself it was a monkey, and not Mawgis laughing at him.

  At night the forest was as dark as the devil’s soul, all light from the stars and moon blocked by the nearly solid leaf ceiling of the canopy. The air smelled of death and decay, of fur and feathers, of shit and rain. Sound carried: The incessant, maddening chatter of crickets. The earsplitting croaking of frogs. In the dark, fear ignited the animal portions of his brain, the dendrites and axons carrying the will to live—the synapses of survival. His senses sharpened, making him aware of minute changes in scent and the direction of the breeze. He tried to sleep but mostly couldn’t. When he did, he dreamed of dead bodies stacked so high, he couldn’t see the top.

  Heat woke him. Heat and parrots squabbling overhead in the trees. He was thirsty, hungry, and still alive. The trunk of the palm Jake leaned against was rough and uneven, but he was grateful for its support. A parrot flock took flight, a hundred wings beating almost as one. He drank it in, the tapestry of red and blue against the incessant green of the trees. When the birds had gone, he rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks in muscles aching from the night spent sleeping on the wet ground. He had no idea where he was, but still believed that if he followed the river long enough, he’d come to a settlement. If he came to a bigger river, he’d veer off and follow that. The bigger the river, the more chance of people living along it.

  Mawgis had told him, “If you keep going, you will come to where you need to be.” He needed to be somewhere with a phone. Needed to call Ashne Simapole at World United and stop benesha from ever leaving the forest. But Mawgis needed something else. Mawgis needed him as far away from a phone as possible. Where did Mawgis need him to be, and why?

  Last night’s rain still dripped from the ends of the fronds that sheltered him. He cupped his hands and held them still until they filled. Rainwater was less likely to make him sick, though he was thirsty enough he would have drunk from the river if it’d had a quick current. He drank and filled his hands again and drank that. He needed to find food. His feet were bruised and sore, but he could walk. Had to walk. Had to reach a phone, to tell people the truth about benesha. He picked up the kit, tied it around his waist, and started another day’s journey.

  There were thorns in the underbrush, some kind of shrub. The thorns snagged his clothes, ripping his shorts and scratching his legs—ratcheting up the anger he had walked with yesterday, and lain down with last night, and awakened with in the morning. He courted the emotion, swearing out loud each time he had to yank his pants or shirttail free from the barbed tip of a briar. Anger was a friend. It pushed him forward.

  Pushed him, eventually, out of the undergrowth into a sudden, glorious circle of light—sunshine streaming through a small gap where there were no trees. He stood in the late morning sun, his face tilted toward the sky, and let the sight of blue sky and white clouds cheer him. He could think then, take stock of his situation, consider alternatives. But there were none, really—only to keep moving and find a phone.

  The sun was well up, nearing noon, by the time Jake spotted something he recognized as food—a fig tree, its tantalizing fruit dangling from branches too high for him to reach. It’d been two days since he’d last eaten. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled. He stood beneath the tree and wanted those figs as much as he’d ever wanted anything.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, his mother used to say.

  Think! his father would say. God gave you brains and imagination. Use them.

  He opened the kit and pulled out the fishing line. It was nylon, hundred-pound test. Who knew where Mawgis had gotten it? The Tabna didn’t trade, but maybe they raided and stole goods like they stole potential mates. It didn’t matter now. Jake found a rock about the size of his fist, unwound a couple of feet of line, and wrapped the line around the rock in several directions. He pulled on the line, testing it. It was wound on good and tight.

  Gnats so thick they formed a living haze flitted around his head. He waved them away and heaved the rock as high into the tree as he could. Fat-fingered leaves shimmied where the rock knocked against the branches. Half a dozen bright-green parakeets took noisy flight from the tree. The rock crashed back down, thudding on the ground like a hollow laugh.

  He threw the rock again. It came back down. In the hot, dense air, every motion was a struggle. He threw a third time, and a fourth. Sweat poured down his face. Fifth throw, sixth, seventh—the line caught in a branch.

  Slowly, carefully, Jake gathered the line in his hand, then yanked, shaking the limb. A reward of ripe figs fell to the ground and he clapped his hands in joy. Large black ants came tumbling down, riding the fruit. Jake flicked the ants off and ate figs until his hands and face were sticky with their sweet, dark juice.

  Making himself stop eating was torture. He held a fig in his hand and could have cried for not devouring it, but he knew that too many at once would make him sick. He stored the rest of the fruits in the pouch for later.

  The flies and gnats grew bolder as the day got hotter. He held the insect repellent up to his ear and shook the can. Nearly empty. He sprayed on what little was left and hoped it would be enough. The river had calmed, the water no longer churning but placid—not the color of overcooked espresso anymore, but a more gentle shade, watery milk chocolate. Fish swam and leaped in the peaceful water. He stood on the bank watching them. Hunger gnawed at his belly and bitterness chewed at his heart. Mawgis had given him fishing line, but no hooks.

  “Watch this then, bastard,” Jake said, and cut a thin branch from a nearby tree and lashed the knife to it with the line, making a spear. He made a rope of sorts from strips torn from what was left of his ragged shirt, and tied one end to the spear and the other around his wrist. At the river’s edge, he waited until a good prospect swam by. He drew in a breath, gauged the fish’s speed and direction, and took careful aim—and missed.

  No matter, he told himself. Another would come along.

  A leopard-spotted fish with an orange tail swam near the bank. Jake recognized the type. They’d eaten them for breakfast in the Tabna camp. He remembered their taste—light and slightly buttery—and the firmness of their flesh. His stomach twisted and whined. He took aim again and missed again, the spear clattering on the rocks. Patiently he waited for another fish, and tried another shot. And missed again.

  This was stupid, he thought. What did he know about spearing a fish? He would have gotten into the water, stood in the shallows, probably have had a better chance there, but Mawgis had warned him about the danger of slow rivers—piranhas.

  He steadied his aim and threw the lance. And missed.

  Tears sprang to his eyes. He let the spear fall to the ground and stood, shoulders slumped, as still as the rock he’d perched on. Flies landed on him fearlessly, as if he were already dead and rotting. Jake snapped his spine straight and slapped at them, driving them away. He licked his lips, tasting sweat as salty as blood.

  Five

  Night stole his courage. Especially the second night, when he learned how the vibrating darkness filled the world with things that crept, and scuttled, and prowled. Darkness leaping up too soon, the sun sinking toward the horizon like a boat surrendering to the sea. He uprooted small bushes and dragged them to a tiny clearing next to the river, broke off the branches, and ripped away the leaves. The rough bark tore at his damaged hands.
He couldn’t afford to worry about infection—surviving the coming night was all that mattered. He scattered the leaves on the ground for insulation and piled the branches around until they formed a barrier he hoped would block the night wind. And hide him from any jaguars, snakes, or wild boars passing by.

  Darkness came with the suddenness of a switch being thrown. Jake huddled in his makeshift den listening to croaking frogs—as loud as New York traffic outside an open window—and the pounding of his own heart.

  Fireflies came out, thousands of them, lighting the blackness to dim shadows. Fireflies, and loneliness. Loneliness and fear. Lost in the jungle, with no means of protecting himself beside the knife. Alone, with no one to hear if he screamed or cried. His stomach knotted with hunger. A few figs were not enough for a day spent sloughing through the forest. He ate two more, saving the last three in his pack. He’d been lucky today and found food. Tomorrow he might not be so fortunate.

  In the distance an animal screeched—a terrified sound, ending in a scream.

  On the third day, he found each step harder than the one before. His skin was torn, his shirt gone, and his shorts turned to rags. Insect bites festered, oozing pus and blood. Flies swarmed around the wounds, looking for a feast. Shooing them away wasn’t worth the energy it cost to wave his arms. Jake ate the last of the figs and kept walking the thin trail beside the water until it disappeared.

  Vines as thick as his arm dangled like snakes from branches jutting from tree trunks as broad as three men. Roots too high to step over tangled with thorny scrub to form a living wall as solid as any made of brick. Jake stood and stared, laughing under his breath. The forest was dense, dark, and filled with things that could kill him, but the river was calm here—and filled with things that could kill him. There was a certain symmetry to it, and a dark humor. The forest or the river? The devil or the deep blue sea?