Authors: J.H. Kavanagh
Ten
At first it’s just a penetrating hum, the steady note of an engine, the vibration through your body all the way to your gums. The chewing helps. In front the night’s blackness is softening to grey; storm clouds peeling away. Below, the greyness is ripening to a ghostly green, now is green. A framed view bisected by a vertical line, a strut, the centre of a windscreen, an aeroplane windscreen. The distance is deepening. A blur that takes the texture of moss, moss resolving to…treetops, all that way down. The engine misses a beat, gathers again, threatens. You’re lower now, banking hard over and seeing the same drop to the treetops through the window in the door, a flimsy door that barely closes. Its twin is your ceiling now, moonlight defining its edges. You straighten up, lower still. Now the treetops show branches, gaps, deeper darkness within. The wooden dashboard is small and the dials ancient, like a boat, the needles drifting leftwards. Steam. Sinking. Engine fluttering like a stricken bird. The trees leap closer every time you look, seem to open, showing you the lower branches, occasional patches of ground. There! On the horizon, a seam in the forest canopy, a greener line in the green, too far away but widening. Pulling on the stick does nothing, jerking, jerking but only the steady sinking; the growing trees. Spluttering and shaking, tail sagging, so close to the trees. Twigs, leaves, only a jump away, but the ground still so far below, dark inside the forest, and branches in between to smash and wreck. Willing, willing the plane to scramble on, to stay up, the green horizon rising to wrap, to claim. The first snicker of twigs on the wheels, tup, tup, thrrrrrllll…a hillside pulls them down. Brief respite. Another useless wrench. The engine dying…dead…. Silence…. Gliding like a bird. A shadow on the jungle. Ahead the notch in the trees where the clearing was. Nothing to do but wait and hope and will…. Tup, tup thrrrrllll…Any moment they’ll catch. You’re going to crash. You know how to brace. Thrrrrrlllll…Swishing of leaves and snatching now of branches. The notch is there! Not a notch, a bowl, a corridor, a…zzzzhhhhh…ground closing in. Not grass but bushes. Screaming, tearing under the floor. Trees rushing by at ground speed, the coming impact bulging in your mind…any second…the forest exploding into detail, the windshield suddenly turns to frost…wheels gouging under and OVER! Cart wheeling; the snatch of straps and weight lurching in odd directions. Dashboard butting and reeling. Darkness. Silence. A drip. The cabin smells of petrol. Moonlight bleaches the window above, the window that should be a door at your side. Something viscous trickles sideways across your face. Not blood but oily when it reaches your lips. You turn the world and re-orientate. The plane is on its side and you are hanging in straps. You think of fire and decide to get out. It takes two hands to work the release. You throw the door open, kick out the broken windshield for a foothold and step up into warm sweet air.
You look at your brand new Sharman watch. Hold your wrist high and press the light. The snake symbol stands out in a flower of blue light. You turn the slim housing into silhouette against the sky. God it feels good! You love that Sharman!
You want to get away and you scramble through coarse plants, feet sinking and snagging in loose leaves. The plane is a broken dragonfly, a fuselage with torn stubs for wings. A trail of body panels and wounds of black earth amongst ransacked foliage define its final chaotic moment of life. The forest presses so close you can no longer understand what opening you ever saw. It is as though the canopy overhead has closed again.
You force a pathway into the jungle. The plants pull damp fronds over you as you move but the ground feels dry and firm. You can only see for a few feet but the vastness of the jungle is sculpted in sound. A thousand birds are singing the distance; troupes of monkeys howling terraces of invisible trees; innumerable insects humming and whistling the profusion of leaves and vines. A croaking frog opens a pocket in the night ahead. You walk for several minutes, pushing on slowly, planting your feet gently and with elaborate caution to avoid making any sounds beyond the soft slide of leaves as you move. Your caution is justified. There is a new set of sounds ahead, movement and an opening in the forest canopy. You catch a whiff of wood smoke and a crackle of fire sends a bouquet of orange sparks into clear air. Raucous male voices ring out. You approach the edge of the cover and crouch behind a bush. The clearing is big and deeply rutted where large trucks have turned. On the far side a Toyota flatbed sits deep in tyre tracks that lead into the jungle. A log fire at the centre of the clearing throws dancing shadows around the overlooking trees. Three men are prancing around in front of the flames. Two are naked with smooth muscular bodies and long dark hair. One of these is waving a machete; the other is swigging from a bottle, head thrown back and his free arm out wide like half a crucifixion. The third man is white, stocky and dressed like a logger in peaked hat, denims and heavy boots. He is cranking out laughter and pistoning his fists. He seems to be egging the others on, perhaps to fight, probably to dance. Then the firelight finds another figure, sitting in the shadows by the truck, brown legs doubled and clasped in slender arms, long black hair thrown forward as though to hide the scene in front. It’s a young woman.
The Indian with the bottle spits a stream into the fire and it flares. He hoots with deranged delight. The young woman raises her head and her face is lit for an instant, it’s the singer, Missy Jay, her eyes flashing. You can see by the way that she holds her hands together in front of her knees that she is bound. The white man laughs and takes a last puff from a cigar, flicks it into the flames and makes towards the girl. He calls out to the natives. They appear not to hear. They are facing one another now and raising their knees like prancing horses. First one then the other tosses his head back and lets out a long wavering shriek. You feel the prickle down your back.
You check around your belt slowly. At your right hip you find the bone handle of a knife. You pull it free of the sheath and run a finger down six inches of steel blade – over the embossed lettering of the Falke logo.
The logger walks to the girl and stands over her. He says something. She looks up and then looks away. He speaks again but this time she doesn’t react. You watch him lower himself to sit beside her. She stiffens. Her head points away. He checks the two Indians again. They are lost in their dance, both high. They are circling the fire and howling. Their dance is taking on a swagger. The logger turns his face to the woman and puts an arm out around her back. She leans away. Another hand tries to pass amongst the tangle of her limbs in front. She writhes and spits and he sneers angrily and lets her go. The Indians pass by the woman, strutting and flaunting themselves. They gesture to the logger and he rises and joins them in an unsteady imitation of their movement.
You back away and make a wide circuit of the clearing, moving as quietly as you can and keeping a constant bearing on the whooping of the Indians and the crackle of the fire. The firelight reaches deep into the jungle over your head. For a moment there’s a reflection somewhere high up, like glass. You look quickly away. You check once to see where you are, approaching the edge of the clearing by crawling flat on your belly under thick fronds. The logger is drinking from the bottle and both Indians are waving machetes and chanting. The young woman sits in the same position. From this closer range you can see how beautiful she is. She has a determined dignity in her wide cheekbones and defiance in her uplifted chin. Her hair is down, quite unlike the style in her videos of late, more natural. She is dressed in the remnant of a shiny green dress and a flimsy shift, barefoot. Her hands are tied together and the rope runs to the bull bars on the front of the truck.
You retreat and make your way around in an arc until you reach the tyre tracks. The entrance to the clearing and the black shape of the Toyota are a stencil for the orange firelight. You approach softly down the track on the blind side. Your heart is not playing along; it wants to give the game away. You can see the fire by looking at an angle through the side window and windscreen of the truck. You plant your feet carefully. If the woman ducked down she might see your feet under the vehicle. You press your face against the metal panel of the door with your eyes just able to see through. One of the Indians shouts at the logger. All three figures are standing on the other side of the fire. The stocky figure holds up the bottle and up ends it to show that it is empty. The Indian looks angry and yells something, then passes a quieter complaint to his companion. The logger calls back and gestures to the girl, a suggestion in his tone. He repeats the call. The Indians stop their dancing and seem suddenly serious. There is another sharp demand from one of them. The logger calls out ‘Okay, Okay’ and heads towards you. You duck down. You can hear his footsteps and his swearing as he approaches. He is on the other side of the truck and he opens the door. He must have done something to the woman as she gives a brief cry of complaint. There is another gruff oath, the sound of rummaging in the cabin, glass clinking and then the door slams shut and he is walking away and calling out. You step quickly around the back of the truck and along the other side. The young woman is directly in front and hears you at the last minute. She turns her head and you put a finger to your lips. Her eyes are wide and her mouth open in surprise. You point to your eyes and then to the Indians. The three figures are huddled together close to the fire, passing the bottle between them. You see her take it in, trust the lesser of two evils and turn her head. You step into firelight and alongside her. She is shaking her head as you put the blade to the rope. It is tough and you saw for several seconds before it gives way.
‘They’ll kill you. Who are you?’ Her voice is heavily accented with Spanish but the English is clear. Then she cries out: ‘Look out, they’re coming.’
All three in a line. They are cautious at first, disbelieving, and they approach steadily. The white calls out. ‘Hey, what you want, man?’ Then as an afterthought ‘We got guns.’
You pull Missy Jay to her feet. She is unsteady and holds your shoulder. Her face is close. ‘They are bad men. They will kill you. You must run.’
But you don’t. The Indians are looking beyond you. They want to know if you are alone. The machetes are held tight, pointing towards you. They are speaking quickly to one another and looking about the edge of the clearing.
Stocky again: ‘Hey, Mister, You come to join our party?’
‘Party’s over. We’re leaving.’
The Indians have divided and are passing on either side of the logger, headed into peripheral vision. He is coming towards you, cautious, curious. ‘Leaving already? But you’re gonna miss all the fun. We had something special planned. Matter of fact, that little lady is part of the plan….How’d you get here anyway, eh?’
‘I flew. Now I’m leaving. We’re leaving.’
He looks left and right behind you and forces a grin. He’s close now but doesn’t move forward. ‘Oh, right, you’re leaving. You don’t like our little party, eh? Well maybe we can find another thing you…’
You move away from the girl and turn. It comes overhead and your reflex meets it; crossed hands catch the Indian’s arm in descent, fingers twisting his wrist, a step inside his arc and your hip has him off balance as you stretch the machete wrist forward, his elbow reversed on your shoulder. His body rises to stop the break and your free elbow bolts into his gut once…twice and the machete falls. You twist him down with the broken arm. Stocky moves forward and then checks himself, his eyes betraying the other Indian, now approaching from the other side of the truck. You watch the machete come around the front of the truck, a two foot blade, molten with firelight, the Indian stalking behind. The blade is dirty and rough but has a bright edge that has been worked to razor sharpness. His face is set in a mask of aggression, mouth wide open and eyes flashing. Stocky retreats to the fire and starts pulling on a flaming branch. You hear the girl behind you. ‘Come, quickly, they’ll kill you.’
You draw the knife and hold it out in front. The Indian is making low chanting noises and advancing steadily. He steps sideways, almost crouching. He holds the machete with both hands, as though restraining it from flight. There are lines of sweat on the bunched muscles in his chest. From the corner of your eye you see a new brightness separate from the larger brightness of the fire and creep forward. Then he springs. You jump back at the first pass and the big blade skitters on the bonnet of the truck and then swishes a second time, surprisingly close. The Indian lunges and the blade sharks past your cheek as you jump in to meet him, deflecting the danger arm away with a forearm and then holding, plunging your own blade in…up…round. His body sags, slick and suddenly heavy against you and you feel wet hair on your neck. His legs are already jelly when you trip him. It takes a moment to disentangle as he drops and you sense the blow before it lands. That’s enough to avoid the head shot. The heat sears briefly on one shoulder and then a stain of pain spreads across your back. It’s a big heavy branch and Stocky can’t swing it again fast enough to catch you before you bring the blade up to defend yourself. Sparks and ash fill your face as you lever the knife against the burning wood. But the force of his blow throws you back on to the bonnet of the truck and your arms fold under the pressure as he pushes on top. The flaking embers are flying everywhere as you kick out. He is strong and his weight bears down. All you can see is red and silver, evanescing in the hot breaths as you struggle, inching down to your face as your strength subsides.