"I can't!"
"Nadia, listen to me," Alex said, taking her shoulders and forcing her to look into his eyes. "Take a deep breath. I will teach you to use your fear. I trust you and I trust myself. I will help you climb; we will do it together, I promise," Alex assured her.
Nadia's response was to burst into tears and rest her head on Alex's shoulder. He didn't know what to do, he had never been that close to a girl. In his fantasies, he had put his arms around Cecilia Burns a thousand times; she was his dream love, but in reality, he would have run for his life if she had touched him. Cecilia Burns was so far away that it was as if she didn't exist; he couldn't remember her face. Almost as a reflex, Alex's arms closed around Nadia. He felt his heart pounding in his chest like a stampede of buffalo, but he had enough sense to realize how absurd the situation was. Here he was in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by strange, gaudily painted warriors, with a terrified girl in his arms, and what was he thinking about? Love! He pulled himself together, pushed Nadia away, and faced her with determination.
"Stop crying, and tell these guys that we need rope," he ordered, pointing to the Indians. "And remember that the talisman will protect you."
"Walimai said it would protect me from people, animals, and ghosts, but he didn't mention the danger of falling and breaking my neck," Nadia protested.
"Well, my grandmother always says that you have to die of something," he consoled his friend, trying to smile. And he added, "Didn't you tell me that I should learn to see with my heart? This is a good opportunity."
Nadia found a way to communicate Alex's request to the Indians. When finally they understood, several of them sprang into action and soon produced a rope made of braided lianas. When they saw that Alex was tying one end of the rope to the girl's waist and rolling the rest around his chest, they showed signs of great curiosity. They could not imagine why these foreigners would do anything that crazy: if one slipped, the other would be dragged down, too.
Now they were right by the waterfall, which tumbled freely from a height of more than a hundred and sixty feet to explode at its base in an impressive cloud of water crowned by a magnificent rainbow. Hundreds of black birds swept through the waterfall in every direction. The Indians greeted the river that falls from the sky by waving their weapons and yelling; they were very close to their homeland. Once they climbed to the high country, they felt safe from any danger. Three of them went briefly into the rain forest and returned with balls of a substance that when inspected turned out to be a white, thick, and very sticky resin. Imitating the Indians, Alex and Nadia rubbed the palms of their hands and soles of their feet with the paste. When their feet touched the ground, the humus stuck to the resin, creating a rough surface. Their first steps were difficult, but as soon as they were beneath the mist from the fall, they recognized its usefulness: it was like wearing rubber boots and gloves.
Following the edge of the water that formed into a lake, they quickly came to the fall itself, a solid curtain of water that arched several yards away from the cliff. They were soaking wet, and the roar of the water was so loud that it was impossible to communicate. They could not sign to one another since visibility was almost zero; the water vapor turned the air to white foam. They felt as if they were feeling their way through a cloud. Following Nadia's command, Borobá was clinging to Alex like a large, warm, hairy Band-Aid, while she followed behind—only because she was tied to Alex, otherwise she would have turned back. The warriors knew the terrain and moved forward slowly but without hesitation, knowing where to set each foot. The two friends followed as closely as they could, because falling only a couple of steps behind would mean losing sight of their guides altogether. Alex saw why they were named the People of the Mist, for the heavy spray formed from the impact of the water.
This and other waterfalls of the Upper Orinoco had always defeated outsiders, but the Indians had turned obstacles into allies. They knew exactly where to step; they used natural toeholds, or notches they had hollowed out and used for hundreds of years. Those grooves in the cliff formed a stairway behind the cascade that led to the very top. Unless you knew of its existence, and the exact location, there was no way you could climb those smooth, wet, slippery walls with the thundering noise of the falls at your back. One slip and the fall ended in sure death, surrounded by roaring foam.
Before they were isolated by the noise, Alex had instructed Nadia not to look down; she was to concentrate on imitating his every movement, holding where he took hold, just as he imitated Tahama, who was in front of him. He also had explained that the first part would be the most difficult because of the mist rising from the foaming water, and that as they climbed farther, it would not be as slick and they would be able to see better. That did nothing to encourage Nadia; her worst problem wasn't seeing, it was dizziness. She tried not to think of the height and the deafening rumble of the falls, but to convince herself that the resin on her hands and feet would help her cling to the wet rock. The rope that joined her to Alex gave her a faint sense of security, although it was all too easy to imagine how one false step by either of them would pitch them both into empty space. She tried to follow Alex's instructions: concentrate on the next move, on the precise place where she was to put her foot or hand, one at a time, without hurrying and without losing the rhythm. As soon as she was certain of her balance, she made a cautious move toward a higher crack or protruding stone, then felt with a foot to find another and inch her body upward. The fissures in the cliff were deep enough to get a good hold, the greatest danger was pushing away from the rock; you had to keep pressed against it. Borobá passed through her mind in a flash: if she was that frightened, imagine what the poor monkey clamped on Alex's back was feeling.
As Alex and Nadia moved upward, the visibility improved but the distance between the waterfall and the cliff decreased. The water fell closer and closer to their backs. Just when they were wondering how they could finish the last part of the climb, the notches in the rock curved off to the right. Alex could feel nothing but smooth surface, then he felt someone take his wrist and pull upward. He gathered his strength and landed in a cave in the side of the mountain; the warriors were all waiting there. Pulling on the rope, Alex brought up Nadia, who landed on top of him, stupefied by strain and fear. Poor Borobá didn't even move; he was stuck to Alex's back like a barnacle, frozen with terror. The black birds swooped through the solid curtain of water before the mouth of the cave, ready to defend their nests from invaders. Alex could only admire the incredible courage of the first Indians who had ventured behind the fall, maybe in prehistoric times, and had discovered some toeholds and chipped out others, found the cave, and opened the route for their descendants.
The long, narrow grotto was not high enough for them to stand; they had to crawl or pull themselves forward with their elbows. A milky-white sun filtered through the waterfall; it barely lighted the entrance, and farther on it was dark. Alex, holding Nadia and Borobá tight, watched Tahama come over to him, waving his arms and pointing to the falling water. He couldn't hear, but realized that someone had fallen or stayed behind. Tahama showed him the rope, and finally he understood that the Indian wanted to use it to go down to look for the missing person. He was heavier than Alex and, regardless of his athleticism, he had no experience in mountain rescue. Alex was no expert himself, but at least he had accompanied his father on a couple of risky missions; he knew how to use a rope and had read a lot on the subject. Climbing was, after all, his passion, comparable only to his love for the flute. With sign language, he indicated that he would go down as far as the rope would reach. He untied Nadia and signed to Tahama and the others to lower him over the precipice.
The descent, hanging by a fragile rope above the sheer drop, with a sea of water roaring around him, seemed worse to Alex than the climb. He could scarcely see and had no idea who had fallen or where to look for him. The operation was one of a practically pointless daring since anyone who had taken a false step during the ascent would by now be a bloody pulp at the bottom. What would his father do in such a circumstance? John would think first of all of the victim, then himself. John would not be defeated without trying everything possible. As Alex was being lowered, he struggled to see farther than his nose and to breathe, but it was all he could do to open his eyes and he inhaled more water than air. He was swinging in empty space, praying that the liana rope would hold together.
Suddenly one of his feet touched something soft, and an instant later his fingertips were following the shape of a man apparently hanging from nothing. With a shock he realized it was the chief, Mokarita. He recognized him by the crown of yellow feathers that was still planted firmly on his head, even though the unfortunate old man was hung up like a steer on a thick root growing out of the cliff that had miraculously stopped his fall. Alex could not find a purchase for his feet and he was afraid that if he added his weight to the root, it would break and Mokarita would plummet to the rock below. He calculated that the only possible salvation was for him to grab the chief, and he knew he would have to do it with precision, for as wet as he was, the Indian could slip through his hands like a fish.
Alex pumped hard, swinging almost blindly, and wrapped his arms and legs about the limp figure. Up in the cave, the warriors felt the tug, and the added weight on the rope, and began to haul it in, carefully, very slowly, to keep from fraying the rope or swinging Alex and Mokarita against the cliff. The young rescuer had no idea how long the operation lasted, perhaps only a few minutes, but it seemed hours to him. Finally he felt himself seized by several hands and lifted into the cave. The Indians had to pry him away from Mokarita: he had locked onto him with the doggedness of a piranha.
The chief adjusted his feathers and smiled weakly. Threads of blood trickled from his nose and mouth, but he seemed otherwise intact. It was clear that the Indians were greatly impressed by the rescue, and they passed the rope from hand to hand with admiration, but it did not occur to any of them to attribute their chief's rescue to the young stranger. Instead they congratulated Tahama for having had the idea. Exhausted and aching all over, Alex wished that someone would thank him, but even Nadia ignored him. Curled up with Borobá in a corner, she was not even aware of her friend's heroism because she was still recovering from the ascent.
The rest of their journey was easier. At a certain distance from the falls, the tunnel opened onto a place where it was possible to climb with less risk. The Indians used the rope to pull Mokarita up, because his legs were weak, and Nadia, because her spirit was shaken. Finally all of them reached the top safely.
"Didn't I tell you that the talisman would save you from dangerous heights?" Alex joked.
"You did!" Nadia admitted, convinced.
Before them lay the Eye of the World, which was what the People of the Mist called their land. It was a paradise of magnificent waterfalls, a vast rain forest filled with animals, birds, and butterflies, with a benign climate free of the clouds of mosquitoes that tormented them in the lowlands. In the distance strange formations rose like very tall drums of black granite and red earth. Lying on the ground, unable to move, Mokarita pointed to them with reverence: "
Tepuis
," he said in a thread of a voice as Nadia translated, the homes of the gods. Alex recognized them immediately: those impressive mesas were identical to the majestic towers he had seen when he'd faced the black jaguar in Mauro Carías's courtyard.
"They are the oldest and most mysterious mountains on earth," he said.
"How do you know that? Have you seen them before?" Nadia asked.
"I saw them in a dream," Alex answered.
The chief did not exhibit any pain, as befitting a warrior of his stature, but he had little strength left; at times he closed his eyes and seemed to have fainted. Alex couldn't know whether he had broken bones or unidentifiable internal injuries, but it was clear he couldn't stand. Using Nadia as an interpreter, he was able to get the Indians to improvise a litter from two long poles with some lianas woven between them and covered by a large strip of tree bark. The warriors, troubled by the weakness of the ancient who had guided the tribe for several decades, accepted Alex's guidance without arguing. Two of them picked up the stretcher and they continued along the riverbank for half an hour, led by Tahama, until Mokarita indicated they should stop to rest.
Their ascent up the side of the waterfall had taken several hours, and by now everyone was exhausted and hungry. Tahama and two other men went into the forest with their bows and arrows and returned shortly afterward with a few birds, an armadillo, and a monkey. The monkey, still alive, but paralyzed by the curare, was finished off with a rock, to the horror of Borobá, who ran over to Nadia and crawled beneath her T-shirt. The Indians started a fire by striking two rocks together—something Alex had vainly attempted when he was a Boy Scout—and roasted their prey on sticks over the fire. The hunter never tasted the flesh of his victim, because it was bad manners and bad luck; he had to wait until another hunter offered his. Tahama had caught everything but the armadillo, so the meal was delayed while the strict formalities of the exchange of food was carried out. When Alex finally had his portion in his hand, he devoured it without a thought for the feathers and hair that remained, and it tasted delicious.
It was still an hour or two until sunset, and on the altiplano, where the vegetation was less dense, the light lasted longer than in the valley. After long consultation with Tahama and Mokarita, the group again started walking.
Without warning, Tapirawa-teri, the village of the People of the Mist, appeared right in the middle of the forest, as if it had the same ability as its dwellers: to make itself visible or invisible at will. It was protected by a clump of gigantic chestnut trees—the tallest in the jungle—some of whose trunks measured more than thirty feet around. Their domed tops covered the village like enormous umbrellas. Tapirawa-teri was not like the typical
shabono
, which confirmed Alex's suspicion that the People of the Mist were different from other Indians and had had very little contact with other Amazon tribes. The village did not have the usual circular hut with an open space in the center, the place the entire tribe lived, but was composed of small mud, stone, stick, and straw constructions roofed with branches and shrubs that blended perfectly with nature. You could be ten feet away without having any idea that a human habitation stood there. Alex realized that if it was this difficult to see their small settlement when you were standing right in the middle of it, it would be impossible to sight from the air in the way that the large round roof and cleared central space of a
shabono
could be seen. That might be the reason the People of the Mist had been able to remain absolutely isolated. His hope of being rescued by army helicopters or César Santos's little plane went up in smoke.