Shadow Play (21 page)

Due to the rising water, campsites that did not need clearing were becoming harder to locate. Each day the hour grew later, the sky darker, before they were able to beach their crafts on one of few remaining sandbars looming up from the black-red water of the Rio Negro, the northern tributary of the Amazon they'd chosen to follow into Japura.

On the evening of the seventh day of their journey up the Negro, Morgan and Henry had given up all hope of finding a sandbank on which to camp. Dark was descending rapidly, and with it swarms of mosquitoes that made their presence on the river intolerable. Any chance of weaving their way through the marshy undergrowth to solid land was out of the question without daylight to guide them. The tangled vegetation was too dense to hack their way through by boat. The strain of expectation mounted, for they knew if they did not find a campsite soon, they would be forced to travel throughout the night. Tempers grew short with the bombardment of insects and the effects of fatigue. Even Henry, who was always so mild-tempered, had begun to curse.

Early in their journey up the Negro, Morgan had rescued a tiny marmoset that was stranded on a floating tree. It balanced now on the brim of his hat as he turned to Henry and said, "I wish you'd do something about these damn mosquitoes."

"You don't say," Henry replied. "And what do you suggest I do?"

"You're the savage. Rattle some bones or somethin' at 'em."

"I don't have any bones."

"What's wrong with the ones in your nose? They gotta be good for somethin'. They sure as hell don't help your looks any."

' 'You're an ass, Morgan. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Every day of my life."

"So why don't you do something about it?"

"Why don't you grow another foot or two so I don't get a backache when I try to talk to you?"

"That's low, Morgan. Real low. At least people like me."

"They think you're funny-lookin'."

"Someday you're going to regret how you talk to me."

"I doubt it."

Morgan flicked his cigarette into the water, where it made a soft hiss and smoldered. He went back to paddling the canoe. Sarah thought, but she couldn't be certain, that she heard him laugh. Then he said, "Henry?"

"What?"

"Know what the cannibal said when he came home one night and found his wife chopping up a python and a pygmy?"

"What?"

"Oh, no, not a snake and pygmy pie again."

Sarah bit her lip as there came a smothered chuckle behind her. "You're disgusting," Henry finally managed in a bland voice.

' 'Yeah,'' Morgan replied. ' 'I know.''

Soon night was upon them. Maneuvering the canoes closer together, each man strained hard to see through the darkness, alert for signs of impending disaster. Sarah felt her body tense with each dip of the oar in the water. She, too, searched the river for any churning that might signify the approach of night-hunting alligators.

They had just rounded a bend in the river when Kan, who rode in the next canoe, called out and pointed to some object off the bow of the American's boat. What appeared to be a great mound of floating leaves was fast approaching. Lacking" time to change course, Morgan rammed his oar into the middle of it in hopes of shoving it aside. For an instant it appeared to disintegrate completely, but as he drew the oar back into the boat and leaned forward to get a better look at what they had hit, the mass exploded in a frenzy of

inch- long fire ants that shot up the paddle and swarmed over his hands and arms before he could move.

He appeared stunned at first. Half turning toward Sarah, he opened his mouth to say something, yet as she reached for him, he jumped to his feet and yelled, "No!"

The canoe rocked perilously, causing Sarah to cry out and Henry to react with blinding speed. Shoving her down in the boat, he hit the ant-covered paddle with his own oar, knocking it into the water. Looking up at Morgan, his face void of any emotion, he ordered, "Jump! Jump, damn you, jump!"

In the instant of hesitation that followed, the ants began injecting their venom into the flesh of Morgan's hands, and began pouring in a writhing stream up his neck and over his face. Only then did it become terrifyingly clear to Sarah what was happening. As he reached to claw at the small demons, knocking his hat from his head, she screamed. The next seconds were horrifying as she, too, attempted to leap to her feet and reach for him, her only thought to help him wipe away the furious insects. Yet Henry grabbed her back down, spilling her to the bottom of the canoe, which was hazardously close to overturning. "Jump!" she heard him yell. "For God's sake, man, jump!"

The next fraction of a minute passed like an eternity as Morgan, bending at the waist, groaned and rolled toward the water. He hit it with hardly a splash and sank beneath the surface.

Silence. It was deafening, hovering like a mammoth weight as the canoes gathered about the place Morgan had disappeared, each man ready to grab him the instant he resurfaced. With each second that ticked by, Sarah's panic grew; her eyes ached from the pain of trying to see through the night and dark water, waiting for him to emerge. Henry, on his knees and gripping the edge of the hull in his fists, swore through his teeth in frustration. "Damn you!" he yelled. "Morgan! Where the blazes are you?" He dove into the river, leaving Sarah alone in the canoe. Kan maneuvered his boat near hers and leapt aboard, grabbing up Henry's oar and plunging it into the current to avoid being swept into a partially submerged tree.

Again they waited. Her heart in her throat and her body burning with fear, she searched the watery void, every night- mare she had ever imagined lurking under the surface looming up before her mind's eyes. "Please," she whispered, swallowing back the rise of panic. This wasn't possible. He was there somewhere and—

Henry broke the surface farther downriver, calling out for the others before sliding under again. Time after time he dove until he reached out for Kan, who dragged him into the canoe.

Again the silence descended. Hands pressed between her knees, Sarah huddled in the bottom of the boat, staring sightlessly into the river. The overwhelming emptiness and shock were staggering. Just two minutes before, Morgan had been sitting in front of her, doing his best to antagonize his friend... and now he was gone.

She groaned. Not until she looked down and found the little marmoset quivering against her leg did the full impact of the American's disappearance hit her. Agony drove like a fist into her chest. A scream burned up her throat as she covered her mouth with her hands, squeezed closed her eyes, and rocked in such misery she thought she might die. With trembling fingers she retrieved his hat from the bottom of die canoe and, crushing it in her hands, covered her face with it and sobbed, "Oh, my God. Oh, God. No!"

Their boats drifted as the Indians, apparently at a loss without Morgan, seemed confused and as stunned and shaken as Sarah and Henry. With no warning, Henry stumbled to his feet, only slightly rocking the boat. His black hair streaming down his face and into his eyes, he glared down the channel and, doubling his fists in fury, shouted, "Morgan, if this is some sort of joke... Morgan! Mooor- gaan!" And then he crumbled, buried his face in his wet palms, and cried like a baby.

"It's my fault," Sarah said. "All my fault. Had I never persisted in this ridiculous venture, Morgan would be alive." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she looked over at Henry. He stood on the verge of the campfire light, the yellow glow reflecting off his bronze back as he stared into the dark. The pygmy had not spoken since Morgan's disappearance two nights before. Her own grief had not diminished in the least either. Over and over in her mind she conjured pictures of his heart-stopping image in white, that hauntingly beautiful light in his eyes, and the disturbingly poignant smile that would briefly cross his mouth at the most unexpected moments.

Feeling the grief rise inside her again, she held out her hand to the marmoset curled up in Morgan's hat, which lay close to the fire. The monkey had refused food and water the past two days. It peered up at Sarah with black eyes, yet as her fingers reached to touch it, it shrank away.

Kan brought her a plate of fruit, while another Indian brewed tea. A kettle of rice bubbled on the fire, and a spit of
tucunare,
fresh from the river, baked over the flames. But the idea of food made Sarah ill. She could not shake free of that moment when Morgan had turned to her with confusion and fear on his handsome features. She had reached out to help him, yet...

She understood now why he had jumped up and cried, "No!" Had the insects swept upon her, she would have been inflicted by the stings. He'd saved her the only way possible, by throwing himself into the river.

Sarah had a sudden vision of his face ravaged by the treacherous river creatures, and she shuddered once again. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes, and with little care as to what the others would think, she threw herself to the ground and wept aloud. Then, succumbing to weariness, she drifted to sleep.

Sometime during the night Sarah decided to forget the rubber seeds and her desire to force a confession from King, and return home. Sleepily, she huddled near the fire and attempted to record her feelings, but the words wouldn't come. Turning back through her diary, she read each entry, beginning with the one she had quickly scribbled the

night before her arrival in Georgetown, before she had learned of her father's death. Line after line was devoted to Norman and her dreams of becoming his wife. There were wedding and party plans, long lists of guests she hoped would attend the ceremony. But nowhere was there a mention of love.

Next there were pages filled with grief, desperation, and the ramblings of a young woman, spurred on by a need for revenge.

Then there was Morgan. Little by little, her writings spoke less of Norman and more of the "infuriating, obnoxious, and passably handsome American" who made her blood boil in anger. Gradually the anger changed to respect. Then admiration. And finally...

She took a long breath and released it. Somewhere along the way he had worked a sort of magic upon her, as he did upon everyone. She hardly ever thought of Norman any- more. She had managed to put aside her grief over her father. Now that she was being completely truthful with herself, she could admit that her frantic battle up the Amazon in order to catch up with the American after he'd deserted her in Manaos had been due more to fear of losing him forever than to fury over her abandonment. His presence had calmed her these past many weeks. His was the first face she would search out when she arose at dawn. Through the miserable hours of the day her eyes would continually come back to his, searching for reassurance, strength, hope, some subtle sign that he was with her, spiritually as well as physically. And then she recalled his kiss, which was a little like drinking fire, consuming in its burning race through her body, blazing her mind, searing her soul.

Opening her diary to the first blank page, she penned:
"Morgan is gone. And I am heartbroken."

Henry didn't appear surprised by her decision. He simply nodded and ordered the natives to prepare to return to Manaos.

The Indians didn't move, forcing Henry to repeat himself.

Kan said, "But we must continue to wait for the American's return."

"The American is dead!" Henry replied angrily.

The Indians spoke among themselves before addressing Sarah. Unable to understand, she looked to Henry. His face was furious. "I have given you orders to break camp," he repeated.

"What are they saying?" Sarah demanded.

Henry stalked to her tent, which he proceeded to take down himself. "Stupid bastards," he grumbled. "They believe Morgan is alive. A
boto
cannot drown, they say. His magic will protect him. Christ." He flung the canvas en- closure to the ground, then swung toward the men again. "Get this through your superstitious heads: my friend is dead. God knows what got him in that water, but he's gone. No ridiculous belief in magical fish is

going to bring him back!"

Kan, staring hard at Henry, argued, "But he is
boto\
You told us yourself. You said you saw the pink dolphin walk from water as the man called Kane. You said he is capable of anything, even crossing Japura on foot."

Standing by the fire, Henry kicked the pot of boiling water, spilling it into the flames. Sarah stared hard at her friend as one minute dragged into another, her own anticipation mounting. Odd how she had come to believe in— in fact, to rely on—the very superstitions she had once scoffed at. But then perhaps it wasn't so strange. Everyone needed something, or someone, to believe in. Morgan had seemed magic, and invincible. Believing in such stories had given her the courage to face danger and hardship on this journey. As long as he was there to lead the way, she could accomplish anything.

Henry turned and, refusing to look at her, said in a quiet, defeated voice, "We've camped in this place for two days, Sarah. If Morgan were alive..." Finally he lifted his gaze to hers. He appeared childlike and forlorn, and greatly grieved. "He was special, Sarah, and he didn't even realize it. To most people I am an object of curiosity. Having spent most of my life in England, I returned to Brazil and found that I no longer fit in with my own kind. Yet Morgan accepted me for what I was and never tried to pretend that I was something I'm not. 'So what if you're short and ugly?' he once said. 'I'm tall and not too bad to look at, but where the hell has it gotten me?' "

Henry walked away, leaving her to face Kan and the others alone. Taking a deep breath, she finally said, "We cannot remain here forever hoping for miracles. It's time to go home, Kan. Please follow my orders and let's get out of here."

She walked to the fire and picked up Morgan's hat. She cooed to the marmoset while behind her, Kan carried on a heated discourse with the Indians. Within the hour they were steering their canoes back to Manaos.

A long while passed before Henry spoke. "I wouldn't like to think that you're blaming yourself for Morgan's death. I'm the one who coerced him into bringing us here. He didn't want to do it. He was afraid of King, despite his loathing of the man. Hate for King had become so central in his life that I thought by confronting the bastard he could at last live in peace. But I don't think I would ever have convinced him to go had he not been so frightened of your going alone.'' He sighed. "He wasn't nearly as disreputable or dislikable as he seemed."