He must have looked a rather striking figure as he cantered those first
pleasant miles. No doubt some of the Jesuit fathers, trekking along that same
forest-path two centuries before, had worn a similar aspect, that of the
scholar-adventurer; but the Jesuits did not travel alone. Mirsky, however,
was inclined to be especially happy for that very reason. He had always lived
a rather solitary life, and he could always thoroughly enjoy his own thoughts
and introspections. As he pushed his way on through the suave green tunnel,
with the gathering sunlight scarcely visible above the tree-tops, he felt
quite entranced with the prospect before him. He was not much of a
nature-worshipper, but he perceived that nature here was certainly at her
best and liveliest. He gave her, as it were, full marks and a nod of
approval, feeling that she would do very nicely as a background to his
satisfying emotions during the next few days. And perhaps when he DID get his
sensational message through to New York it would still further add to his
credit that he had performed this journey as a romantic prelude. Yes, he felt
particularly serene as he appraised this shaded loveliness after the hot,
dust-blown ruins of Maramba, and his own silences after the friendly but
foolish conversation of his fellow- journalists.
And his scoop would be a memorable one. He pictured the placards:
“Raphael Rassova Killed in Earthquake. … Sensational Discovery at
Maramba…. Our Special Correspondent’s Graphic Cable….” Yes,
this business would certainly establish his reputation, and it mattered to
him tremendously that it should. Yet there was another sense in which he was
quite certain it did not matter at all. Cinemas and cheap journalism and all
that stuff—it wasn’t art—a single square millimetre from
a canvas by Ribuera or Morales was worth all the celluloid in Hollywood. He
was, indeed, in the position of a man desperately trying to score a goal in a
game he rather despised. But there was no doubt of the desperation. It was
nourished by a private conceit that made him anxious to show how easily a man
of higher intelligence could succeed at a job that was really beneath him.
This chasing of news, this seeing of everything from the “human”
standpoint, this persistent titivation of the mental palate of the
multitude—it was all confusing at first to any man of culture, because
he couldn’t bring himself down to its level; but when and if he did,
why, it became child’s play.
Mirsky was a highbrow by disposition. Born amidst a society that had since
collapsed, he was sincerely convinced that the inroads of democracy upon the
aristocratic principle had been the inroads of the new barbarism upon
civilisation. The world of 1931 seemed to him full of proofs of
this—so full, indeed, that he had long given up contemplating them.
The most resounding proof, to himself, was naturally the personal
one—that here he was, forced to do quite ridiculous things to earn a
living, when all the time there was in him the capacity to write a great book
on Spanish painting, or perhaps a few sonnets. His demands, surely, were not
excessive—a roof over his head, food, clothing, a few cultured
luxuries—in dollars equal to perhaps a hundredth part of the earnings
of this Rassova fellow, whose death was to plunge so many millions in
despair. Yet the world, to whom Spanish painting and sonnets were much less
important than a film-star’s eyelashes, would not yield him even that
minimum tribute. In an aristocratic society, of course, all that would have
been different; he would either have had money himself, or would have found a
patron. An excellent system, he considered, under which the arts had
flourished as perhaps never under any other. His own family had themselves
been patrons of such a kind during pre-Revolution days; which seemed to
indicate a double loss to the world as a result of their downfall.
But Mirsky, though a highbrow and an artist, was by no means devoid of
robuster qualities. It was merely that, unless he were compelled, he did not
bring them into use. He was a good shot, for instance, but he did not care
for the more murderous forms of sport; and though his body was strong and in
good condition, this was through careful living rather than any attention to
athletics. Perhaps also he had a little more than the average man’s
personal courage.
He needed it, even during that first morning in the forest. Suddenly, in
the midst of his comfortably meandering thoughts, his horse started violently
beneath him, stopped dead, and began to quake with fear. He patted the animal
reassuringly, but without effect; the shivering continued, though, so far as
he could take in at a rapid survey, there was no reason for it. The vista of
dark green thickets festooned with trailing lianes was quite unchanged from
similar scenes that he had been traversing for some hours. There was
certainly, now that movement of man and beast had stopped, a curious
tenseness in the air, and a hint, more than a statement, of the terrific heat
that was pouring on the tree-tops a few dozen feet above. And a hum of
insects filled the silence, as of a million small instruments tuning up for a
symphony. But otherwise everything seemed to Mirsky quite unremarkable.
All at once, however, there came from somewhere in front a faint,
slithering rustle, and his heart gave an immediate jump, for not more than a
score yards away, in outline scarcely to be seen against the background of
undergrowth, there appeared an enormous snake. Its flat, spoon-like head
swayed with nonchalant grace about a man’s height above the ground,
while its body, thickening and thinning as it drew itself forward, showed yet
no visible ending.
The tremors of the horse were verging now on pitiful collapse. Mirsky
tried to coax the animal to turn tail and run, but it would not stir; it was
almost hypnotised. The blood was pulsing in his own veins quite as
disturbingly, and as he stared at the advancing monster, with its glittering
eyes and wide, drooling jaws, he felt a swift sympathy with the beast beneath
him as well as a spasm of personal panic. He knew very little about reptiles,
except that not all were poisonous, and that most were more timid than they
looked. He knew, too, that the South American anaconda, or boa-constrictor,
killed its prey by crushing; and from its size he thought it likely that the
creature facing him was of this species.
But there was no time for speculation in the matter. With scarcely any
plan of action in mind, except that it was probably better to do anything
rather than nothing, he dismounted, drew his revolver, and took a few paces
forward. The long procession of curves halted, like a chain of vehicles held
up suddenly by a policeman. For a fraction of a moment the ill-matched
adversaries faced each other as if in mutual uncertainty; then Mirsky fired,
aiming for the head. Owing to nervousness, he missed, but the sound of the
shot evidently frightened the anaconda, if it were one, for with a sort of
disdainful hurry it swerved sideways and disappeared into the
undergrowth.
After pacifying his horse, Mirsky continued the journey. The incident had
broken into the serenity of his thoughts, and though he felt he had acquitted
himself well enough, he was left with a small sub-current of uneasiness. He
kept glancing about him, determined not to be taken unawares again, but the
effort was physically as well as mentally fatiguing, though he was rewarded
with many gay glimpses of parakeets and macaws, and superbly marked orchids
trailing from branches overhead. The track was often hard to trace, and
nowhere did he come across any sign of human visitation, much less a fellow
traveller. He was somewhat surprised not to reach some native village, for he
had expected the country to be fairly well populated with Indians. At an
absurdly high figure he had bought from a Maramba woman a string of coloured
beads, with which he had some idea of mollifying a hostile tribe if he should
encounter them. It was the sort of thing he had read of in travel-books, and
he thought it rather enterprising of him to have remembered it.
But there were no Indians, or, at any rate, he did not see any. Far more
troublesome were the myriads of small stingless bees that buzzed around his
head as he rode, and tried to fly into his mouth when he ate; and there were
ticks that got under his skin and caused intense itchings; and once, when he
paused to give his horse a rest, he noticed a giant spider halted on the
ground beside him, its attitude one of obscene curiosity. When he rode on, it
moved also, waddling alongside at an equal rate, and this, after a time, got
on his nerves so much that he used his revolver again. This time his aim was
good and the monster seemed to cave in like a pricked blister, its hairy
tentacles waving in impotent malice as he passed out of sight.
He was satisfied that he was covering the miles, however, and as evening
came and he was able to fill his water-bottle at a stream, he felt that he
could easily endure a couple more days of it. An hour later, in the sudden
twilight, he halted at a convenient-looking spot and pitched his camp. For a
short time, then, his satisfaction recurred; the flame of the sky had
quenched itself quickly, and night would be cool under trees that were
themselves under the stars. He set about to make a fire, for he had always
read that fires keep off wild animals; but he soon found that much of the
wood lying to hand was completely unburnable, and the search for the right
kinds used up a good deal of his spare enthusiasm. At length the fire was
lit, and he made coffee and cooked some rice, those being the only human
foods it had been possible to buy in Maramba. He ate, drank, smoked a pipe,
looked after his horse, and then rigged up the mosquito-net, under which he
crawled with his sleeping-bag. Then he made the disagreeable discovery that
mosquito-netting did not keep out the smallest and most troublesome insects.
He kept waking up with the buzz of wings in his ears, to find new bodily
irritations as he waved the intruders away. At such moments he was impressed
with a peculiar quality of awe in the silence that surrounded him; beyond the
light of his small, flickering fire the trees began their sable mystery; he
felt that the whole forest, though silent, was not asleep, but watching. The
moments on his radium-pointed watch crawled more slowly than he had ever
known, and long before midnight he was eager for the dawn— eager to
push on and cover more miles. Probably, he thought, he had already traversed
the worst section of the journey; for San Cristobal, being railhead, was
likely to be the centre of more developed country. At any rate, he had done
twenty miles or so in the right direction. When he woke up after short spells
of sleep he found himself so badly bitten and stung that he decided it was
worth while to stay awake and protect himself, and he tried to kill time by
reciting verses in Russian, French, and English; after which he set himself
various mental tasks, such as the enumeration of a certain number of places
in various countries. …
When dawn at last appeared, he made more coffee, packed his gear, and rode
away with much relief. But it was soon noticeable that his horse was jumpy
and unable to maintain such a good pace as on the previous day. The track,
too showed a tendency to curve northward; yet it was so clearly a track that
he was reluctant to leave it. But after it had taken him for at least a mile
due north, he came to the conclusion that the parting must be made, and
plunged accordingly into the more difficult terrain to the left. Here the
path, such as it existed at all, was encumbered with rotting tree-trunks and
masses of dense undergrowth, while the foliage above was often so thick that
he had to dismount. It was pretty hard work to traverse even a few yards in
this sort of country, and he was uneasily conscious that he was not ticking
off the miles as he had hoped and planned. Moreover, the air was quiveringly
hot, with a moist and sickly-scented heaviness; yet, despite the moisture,
there was a scarcity of water. Both he and his horse were suffering from
thirst by the time they eventually reached a pool whose water was cold but
very brackish. It was a rather lovely, tree-fringed pool, and he longed to
take off his clothes and bathe in it; yet something prevented him, a curious
inward warning as he saw his reflection in its ebony depths. He passed on
without discovering why or even whether he had been wise to do so.
By the second nightfall he was definitely unhappy behind a mask of
peevishness. The forest, so far from giving any hint of approaching
civilisation, seemed to grow denser and less hospitable with every yard. He
was utterly tired out, and though he estimated the day’s mileage as ten
or so, he had a private misgiving that it might in reality be very much less.
He was also worried about his horse, which seemed rather more than fatigued.
He suspected that insect-bites, which the beast had rubbed into open sores,
had set up some kind of fever. He doctored the sores with salt and water
before preparing his small and not very appetising meal. There was no
pleasant excitement now as he gathered wood for a fire and rigged up the
mosquito-net. The preliminaries to the long vigil of darkness had lost all
their picnic flavour, and he was deeply depressed as he saw the forest,
changeless all around him, merge swiftly from grey into black. He was
dreading the night, and, with even greater fear, he knew that he was dreading
it. Perhaps, after all, it would have been better to have made some enquiries
at Maramba about the sort of country this was—better even, it might
be, to have invited a companion. And he was already beginning to be aware of
certain deficiencies in his equipment. He could have felt easier in mind, for
instance, with a few extra boxes of matches, for the firelighting had not
been so simple as he had counted on. And some good ointment for sores and
bites would have been another boon.
He was so tired that he fell asleep rather quickly, despite the stinging
ticks; but some time later he woke up suddenly to hear his horse whimpering.
The fire had gone out, and when he looked at his watch he saw that it was
still hours from dawn. He felt instinctively, from the note of the cry, that
something quite terrible was happening. After a few seconds of indecision he
got up, took his revolver, and felt his way through the darkness. He struck a
match, but the blackness after it went out made everything more impenetrable
than before, and he dared not empty the box by striking others. Clammy fronds
brushed his face as he stumbled through the foliage, guided by the continual
whimpering; the unseen vegetation touched and recoiled as if it were alive in
almost an animal sense. He was alone on the stage of a vast, pitch-black
theatre, acting a pitiful little play before an audience that could see in
the dark and was just beginning to be attentively hostile. That was how it
felt. At last he reached his horse and patted its flanks; it was trembling,
and he was thoroughly alarmed when his hand came away wet and sticky. Then,
with a sinister commotion of wings, something cold and leathery struck him in
the face and disappeared into the branches overhead.