Shadowline Drift: A Metaphysical Thriller Page 5

  A parrot screeched in a nearby tree. Jake was surprised to see it was alone. Parrots, he’d been told, usually traveled in flocks. He watched the green bird watch him, turning its head from side to side, and realized the parrot had only one good eye; the other was gone, leaving a dark hole. He wondered if its flock had turned the damaged bird out. If he’d had any figs left, he might have offered it some. Instead he picked up a thin, almost-straight, fallen branch to use as a staff and waded into the water.

  It was shallow near the banks, sometimes up to his knees, sometimes up to his waist. The current was swift but didn’t feel dangerous, even when the water reached almost to his chin, and it flowed the direction he wanted to go. He moved slowly, using the staff to test the bottom for holes before taking his next step. The mud pulled at his feet and small fish banged against his legs, but the water soothed the constant itch of the insect bites.

  Finally he saw a path beside the river again, a clear area to walk. He hauled himself out of the water, back onto the bank, and screamed.

  Fat, black, river leeches, bloated with his blood, hung from his chest and legs like perverse decorations. Vomit rose to his throat. He forced it back down, grabbed a leech, and tried to pull it off. It was disgusting to touch, soft and slimy, a slug with teeth. He couldn’t get a hold on it. His fingers slipped and slipped.

  He knew he had to get them off, or he’d go crazy. With one hand over his mouth to keep from gagging, Jake dug the heads from below his skin with the dulling knife. His eyes watered and his nerves howled with each cut, but he dug out the leeches and cut them into pieces, one by one.

  When it was done, he walked.

  Old memories began to churn. He thought about women—Sara McGreeley, who, when Jake had asked her to the senior prom, had shaken her head in horror and run away, not even bothering to make up an excuse for her refusal. And Sara’s friends, who, for a week after, had snickered behind their hands when he passed by.

  And Trisha Harper, in college, who had said yes to a date and danced with him as if he were the captain of the football team—and showed him a thing or two in the back of the van she’d borrowed from her parents for the night. Trisha, who’d said yes to a second date, and a third, and a fourth—until he’d realized she saw him not as himself, but as a somehow noble and tragic figure that only she could save.

  Memory dredged up, too, the look on his father’s face, tears behind stone, when he finally gave up hoping Jake would turn out to be the tall, strapping son he’d wanted. He was twelve that year and his father, forty-two. Yet another doctor had reviewed Jake’s case history and run tests, prescribed treatments that didn’t work, and finally thrown up his hands in frustration. Jake’s father had played semipro baseball during and after college. He’d hoped for athletic sons, children he could brag about. He’d scored high with Jake’s brother, but in Jake he’d gotten a shrimpy kid who read a lot and gave up sports for good as soon as his parents let him.

  Memory also gave Jake his mother’s smile, her unconditional love. In that respect, he guessed he’d gotten his wish. And the guilt that went along with it—as clean, cold, and pure as an icicle to the heart.

  On the fourth day—was it the fourth? He was stupid from hunger and lack of sleep, and was losing count—he spotted them, their rounded sides just barely showing in the dirt, like Easter eggs hidden by a doting parent, concealed but not well, meant to be found. Turtle eggshells, as leathery as old tennis balls. He sawed through them with the knife and greedily sucked down the contents.

  It tasted good—warm and rich. He wiped his finger around the inside of the shell, like a kid scraping the last of the brownie mix from the bowl, and licked his finger. He wanted more, but there were no more to be had. He thought a moment of the turtles that wouldn’t be born because of him, then shunted the thought aside. The world was full of turtles.

  Maybe that was how Mawgis saw things too, he thought. The world was full of people. Sacrificing some so others could thrive made a twisted sort of pragmatic sense. The thought left him feeling sick and empty.

  A squawk in the branches overhead made him glance up. The one-eyed parrot was looking back at him. It had to be the same bird. How many one-eyed parrots were there? A strange coincidence, them being twice in the same place at the same time. What were the chances of that? Jake worked up a thin smile and saluted the bird. The parrot flapped its wings and disappeared into the leaves and tiny patches of sky.

  A different sudden noise made him stiffen. Something was snuffling in the forest. Something big, with heavy footsteps, moving toward him. He glanced around, wondering if he should run, worried that it would make him look like prey to whatever was coming through the brush. He crouched in the clearing, knife in hand—not that it would do much good. A beast close enough for him to use the knife would probably rip out his throat before he could plunge in the blade. A spear would have been better. He’d made one. Tried to stab a fish with it. Stupid to have taken it back apart.

  The surrounding shrubs quaked and a wild boar dashed into the clearing—a big male, with tusks a mile long and teeth as sharp as a chef’s blade. The stench of his musk filled the air. Jake stood statue-still, his heart pounding. The forest had gone silent around him, as if all the birds and insects had fled. He knew boars had no fear of people and could attack. The animal stopped and snorted. Flecks of froth flew from its snout. It dropped its head, its black eyes locked on the small, scared thing in front of him.

  The bushes shook again and three more boars appeared, then two young shoats. The new five also came to a quivering halt when they saw Jake. The big male didn’t shift his watch. Jake was between them and the river. He took a small and slow step backward. Mud sucked at his feet, making little popping noises. The male snorted and shook his head, but didn’t charge. Jake tried another small step. One of the boars took a tentative step of its own. Then a shoat, thirsty probably, young and impatient, bounded forward, followed in seconds by the others. Jake turned and jumped into the swirling water.

  A strong current dragged him under. Jagged rocks scraped his skin. He dropped the knife. The pack was ripped from his waist. He hit the bottom and pushed himself up, gulping at the air as he broke the surface, only to be pulled back down again. The current hauled him along, throwing him up against the bank, then back into the depths. His leg smashed into a submerged log and his shoulder against protruding stones in the bank. He clawed at the water, as if he somehow could pull himself to the surface.

  His hand hit a tree root and he grabbed hold. The current tugged at his legs, trying to wrench him back into its fury, but he held on. Inch by precious inch, he pulled himself forward until he made it onto the bank.

  Exhausted, he lay on his belly in the sweet, firm mud. His ragged shorts felt tight across his hips, uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he was still wearing them. The button had broken off and the zipper didn’t close anymore. He wriggled the shorts off, irritated. On his wrist, the watch still ticked off the seconds. One by one, a thousand small black ants paraded by.

  Five minutes passed—maybe ten, Jake didn’t know how many—his watch tick, tick, ticking. He could lie here forever—let the ants carry him off, one bite-size morsel at a time. He could. He would. If it weren’t for benesha.

  It was crazy, him being here—lost in the damn rain forest, shoved out by Mawgis for some reason Jake couldn’t grasp. There had to be a reason. “You will come to where you need to be.” That was looking less likely by the minute.

  A young sloth wandered out of the forest and made its way toward the river, moving as slowly as ice melting in winter. It seemed not to see him—at least it paid him no mind. Jake’s stomach twisted and groaned in hunger. Slowly he pulled himself up to his knees and then to his feet. The sloth plodded toward the river. Jake crept forward. The animal poked its nose into the water and lapped. Jake came up from behind and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, the way a mother dog would grab her pup, and held it up, its feet dangling.

  The slo
th yipped and swiped its sharp claws at empty air. Something broke in him, the rulebook chucked aside. He threw the sloth to the ground, and before it could right itself, grabbed a large rock and smashed down as hard as he could on the animal’s skull. The sloth was dead, but Jake kept banging the rock on its skull until the dirt was red mud and the sloth’s brains had oozed into the ground.

  It took a long time to skin and gut the sloth with a sharp stone he’d found, his knife having been lost in the river. He imagined the sloth roasting slowly over a fire, an apple in its mouth. He saw it on a platter in a fine restaurant, smothered in mushrooms and onions. His belly cramped and tears ran down his face. Toucans, marmosets, and others were particularly fond of benesha, Mawgis had said. Others. Jake couldn’t eat the meat, not without knowing if sloths, too, had a taste for benesha. Not if he believed benesha was poison.

  He’d killed it for nothing.

  Six

  It was a trick of the haze. Of exhaustion. Of hunger. Jake quietly moaned, pained by the cruelty of the dream. Five days he’d walked, eating nothing but a few figs and turtle eggs, sleeping hardly at all. He should have expected this—that awake, he’d dream of what he desperately wanted to see. There must have been flowers nearby, something that smelled like oranges and cinnamon.

  He stood, rocking on unsteady feet, staring at it. A sugarcane field—the canes thick, like too many candles on a cake, and splintered from burning. In the distance, across the scorched field, a large mud-sided building gleamed impossibly white in the equatorial sun—a school maybe, or a hospital, set out in a squared U shape that opened onto a courtyard.

  In the field, three Indian women sat cross-legged, cutting the charred canes into pieces small enough to fit into their woven baskets. They’d surely heard him coming. Jake hadn’t learned to walk with the stealth Mawgis managed so effortlessly. He’d crashed through the forest with all the grace of the boars that had scared him the day before. They’d heard, perhaps, his moans, low and sorrowful, and now they saw him and stood up. Two of the women stepped back in alarm, but the youngest came forward. She looked twelve or thirteen, with thick, straight black hair that hung loose over her shoulders, small bare breasts, and a short skirt made of fresh green leaves. Twine or something like it was tied over her left shoulder and under her armpit, or maybe it was a tattoo. The same decoration circled both her wrists. She glared at Jake, holding her machete tight in her hand, not like a weapon, but with caution, as though ready to use it if necessary.

  Jake held out his hands like a beggar.

  He must have looked a sight to them—a tired, dirt-smeared white child with several weeks’ beard on his face, stumbling alone and naked out of the forest.

  “Please,” he said, or tried to say, or thought he said. He took a couple of steps forward.

  The two older women’s mouths dropped open in alarm. They turned and ran toward the building, calling out loudly in a singsong language. The young one stared at him a moment, then wheeled and walked away with slow grace in the direction the others had gone. He watched them go, unable to take one more step now that rescue seemed at hand. They would bring help. Dear God, Jake prayed, let them bring help. Let them bring people, voices, hot food, a pillow. Let me rest.

  Only one of the three women returned. Not the one with the machete, but one of the older ones, with hair chopped off short and thin lips. She wore a leaf kilt, a faded green T-shirt, and plastic orange flip-flops. She’d brought a nun.

  Not a nun. A woman—dark-skinned and pretty. European features, no-nonsense eyes. Her blouse probably had been white once but was now stained a shade of river-water brown. Her long black skirt kicked forward with each step. A once-white scarf covered her hair. Jake waited, limp with exhaustion, joyful, and nervous. The Indian stopped several feet away, but the other woman kept coming.

  “Good grief,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  English. Thank God she spoke English.

  “Where am I?” It seemed a miracle to find himself still alive and once again among human company. He blinked back the tears starting behind his eyes.

  “At the shaman’s compound,” the not-nun said, holding her hands out in front of her as if ready to catch him if he fell. “I’m Pilar Ramirez.” She nodded back over her shoulder, toward the Indian. “That’s Fant.”

  “Jake . . . Kendrick.” His legs felt wobbly. He feared the woman might have to catch him after all. “I’ve been . . . lost for days.” Later he would have to explain. Later he would come up with a lie or tell the truth, depending on how things played out. When he knew more about these people and could think straight.

  Pilar cupped his elbow in her palm. “Well, Jake, let’s get you out of the heat and into a bed. You look like you need it.”

  The Indian was shorter than Jake, but Pilar was barely taller than he was—which was strange, since he could tell by her voice that she was American. Except for dwarves and midgets, he’d never seen an American woman as short as he was. She must have thought he was jungle-crazy for asking, “How tall are you?” but she said, “Five-four,” as though it were a reasonable question. The blood rushed from his brain and his knees buckled. Everything went black.

  Rain clattering on the roof over his head woke him. Water hit his back and shoulders but not his face. Something was wrong with that, but he couldn’t reason out what. A mosquito buzzed near his ear. Jake swiped at it groggily, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

  He woke again slowly, confused about where he was, and forced open his eyelids. He was lying on a small green canvas cot. A thin, gray-blue blanket that felt rough against his skin covered him. Sweat prickled his forehead in the hot air, but he drew the blanket close.

  The room was small, maybe nine by nine feet. Dun-colored mud walls—probably part of the U-shaped mud-brick compound he’d glimpsed across the cane field, but not white inside, not gleaming. One small glassless window was cut into the outside wall. Mosquito netting over the rough-cut hole was held in place with rusted screws. Below it, water stains formed abstract art spreading out down the wall where the rain must have come in. A huge centipede was making its way across a blue-and-brown-striped rug lying on the hard-packed dirt floor. Something about the bug made him queasy—too many legs pumping along. Other than the cot and rug, the room was empty—a cell. It was too much. He slept.

  When Jake woke again, Pilar Ramirez was sitting near his cot in a plastic chair that might have been bright blue once but was now sun faded and discolored with ground-in dirt. She must have brought in the chair; he felt sure it hadn’t been in the room before. The scarf she’d worn the day they’d met was gone. Her head was down—she was writing in a notebook perched on her bare legs. Her thick, wavy black hair fell forward, hiding much of her face and neck, flowing down over her chest. Jake counted her up in pieces. Sleeveless off-white shirt. Shoulders freckled from the sun. Nice breasts. Denim shorts. Good legs. A faint glaze of sweat on her skin.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice rusty from lack of use.

  Pilar pulled her head up and glanced at him, stood, and set the notebook on the chair. Hands on her hips, she looked him over with a practiced eye, as though she’d seen plenty of half-dead men stagger out of the rain forest and had become good at judging their survival rate. A small smile crossed her mouth.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  It was a relief to know that he was going to live after all. He tried to nod. His head felt heavy, hard to lift. “How long . . .” It was all he could manage.

  “Have you been here? Six days.”

  Five days in the forest, six lost to unconsciousness. Eleven days for Mawgis to work his scheme. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

  “Phone,” he said. “The States.”

  She shook her head and turned her hands palms up. “I can’t help you there. We don’t have one. Or rather, I do, but it doesn’t work. The batteries went out weeks ago. The heat and humidity ruin them.”

  He struggled up onto his elbows. Pain shot
up his side, followed by crushing leg cramps. He yelped and doubled up on himself. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

  Pilar took the few steps to the cot and dropped to her knees. “Where is it worst?”

  “Legs.”

  She pulled the blanket up—an Ace bandage, ripped and tied first aid-style, was wrapped around his ankle—and pressed her thumbs into the balls of his feet. Jake focused on the pressure from her hands, pulling his mind away from the searing, knotted pain in his calves. She moved her thumbs, applying pressure to his insteps, then back to the balls of his feet. The knots began to untie. His ragged breathing grew smoother. He stretched out his legs slowly, fearful that the movement would bring back the pain.

  “Thanks.” He drew in a breath and let it out in pieces. “Nurse?”

  People went by outside—women’s voices floating like petals on the breeze.

  Pilar glanced toward the window, then lifted herself back up to her feet. “My grandmother used to get dreadful pains in her legs. One day I got the idea that if I pressed on the bottoms of her feet it would help, and lo and behold, it did.”

  “How old?”

  “Ten or so. Still young enough to try any old foolishness that jumped into my head.” She smiled shyly, as though embarrassed at the girl she’d been.

  Her voice was light and sure. Not condescending, uncomfortable, afraid—the kind of reactions strangers usually had. It gave him confidence. He tucked the blanket back around himself, closed his eyes, and thought through what he wanted to say, to get it out without stumbling. When he thought he’d got it, he opened his eyes. “I need to call the States right away. What’s the closest village or town with a phone with global reach?”

  “Oh, complete sentences,” she said. “You’re improving.” She laughed once, lightly, under her breath. He liked the sound of it, easy and unforced.