Authors: David Faxon
Teman-e
was the first to see it. The darkened outline of several huts emerged. An extremely isolated village could mean danger if its people were hostile. But how would they have been allowed to come so close without alarm cries being sounded? Men readied their bows. They were at their most vulnerable, but the confrontation everyone feared, never came. Several men advanced, expecting a hail of arrows.
Teman-e
thought,
they should have seen us by now, yet there is no sign of life.
With six handpicked warriors, plus Connery, they crept closer. Close enough to smell death's stench. The jungle had quickly reclaimed the village. Teman-e was first to enter the communal hut and choked with the repulsive odor. He thought it must be from the bodies of the elderly, left behind but was surprised to see corpses of young adults, even a few children. He called to Connery.
“There is sickness here, maybe the same as our village, maybe worse. I will tell them to go back!”
Connery’s first thought was of a highly contagious disease. Maybe small pox. If that were true, he and the others were already exposed. But a closer look showed no signs of pustules. Some bodies were in an advanced state of decay, others were in better condition and may have died only a few days prior. A cursory exam indicated their deaths weren’t from smallpox.
There was a familiar odor. One he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t pungent, but pleasant smelling.
He told Teman-e he had his own suspicions and wanted to look near the river. He suspected the tragedy was man made, but that was only a hunch. What he didn't know was that the uninhabited village lay only twelve miles from the gold mining operation of Companhia do Azevedo Limitada, now under the reckless management of Paulo de Santana.
De Santana was in the habit of using large quantities of cyanide to experiment with a gold extraction method known as cyanide leaching. Leaching aided in the recovery of microscopic pieces of gold from ore rocks. He used poisons indiscriminately. When the experiment proved to yield less than expected, he angrily dumped the remaining drums into the nearby
river. The rusting containers were used for target practice. To relieve his boredom, he fired holes into them with his 306 caliber rifle, releasing cyanide downstream. Nearby tribes knew of the gold mining operation, but refrained from attacking the outpost until the time was right. Also, they feared the sound of gunshots.
The extraordinarily high concentration of
mercury and cyanide caused them to develop the same symptoms as the Machi-te, except much more severe. The poisons absorbed into the village's eco system, plants and water, to a far greater extent than Teman-e's village. Animals, along with hundreds of fish, washed up on the river banks. People became sick, then confused, often exhibiting bizarre behavior before slipping into a coma and dying. Many had received twice the lethal dose of 300 milligrams of cyanide. Others fled, leaving relatives and friends behind.
Connery came to the river,
bent, scooped a handful of water and brought it to his nose. The odor of almonds. The villagers were the victims of cyanide, and the source was near. The area was toxic. He didn't know how to explain it, but told Teman-e, simply:
“They have been killed by a deadly poison, a very powerful one. This is why your people have been sick. Tell them not to drink from the river, but find other sources. Bring together your most trusted warriors. We will find where this comes from and return within a few days.”
“How do you know of this?”
“It is used in my world for other purposes, but sometimes careless men use it wrongly and people die.”
“Your people are the cause of this?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“I cannot explain, but
as you have the Wakawakatieri, we too have people who destroy others. Some know they do it. Others don’t want to know.”
Teman-e
thought for a moment before saying:
“Are we to die also?”
He stared intently. Until now, he thought his friend to be from some place immune from such evil. Now, he wasn't so sure, but accepted the explanation. He walked with a quick stride back to Guardara and explained.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FIVE
Tapejo II project
Paulo De Santana was drunk, and noon was still an hour away. An empty bottle of expensive vodka lay beside the chair where he dozed, oblivious to flies circling his head, humidity soaking his shirt. Across his lap rested a rifle. It provided one of the few diversions he had remaining. He spent most of that morning taking pot shots at rusting cyanide drums and rambling incoherently to no one in particular.
“
Another day in your shithole, Estevo! Are you happy? You had it figured. I’m not supposed to leave here alive am I? I will disappear. I know too much! Just like your friend, you miserable…”
He reached for the bottle, took a long pull and fired another shot.
In his lucid moments, he knew the drums weren't quite empty and placed the rifle shots toward the bottom, allowing the remaining cyanide to drain into the river. He was beyond caring about consequences. After a half hour, his aim got worse and he passed out.
He was a contemptuous man
, angry with everyone. Seven months at a remote outpost had fueled his hatred. Especially for Castelo Branco. Then there were ‘
the lazy son of a bitch Indians’
who he blamed for work stoppages. But at the top of his list was Lateri for her lack of response in meeting his insatiable appetite for her. The more he saw her, the more he ravaged her. Two, sometimes three times a night. Her reaction was always the same, mechanical, bored. Then he would beat her until her face swelled and her nose bled.
The once beautiful girl cowered in a locked room most of the day, dreading the next summons from the monster she detested. Her hatred grew
. Mere anticipation of being near him, sickened her. Then she would be led, zombie like, to his room, that ugly place, knowing if she was sick in his presence, things would go even worse. Each night brought a restless sleep that left her exhausted. Deep circles formed under her eyes, her weight loss noticeable. One thought kept her going; paying back De Santana for taking not only her father, but every last shred of her dignity. That day she heard gunfire in late morning. He was preoccupied for the moment. She was safe for a while, then it would begin all over.
De Santana always drank, but
his drinking had spun out of control over the past few months. His stock of expensive liquor was rapidly declining. Soon, he would have to resort to the stuff the Indians made, and he wasn't looking forward to that. It was a month since the last supply boat. It would be a while before the next one came. Tapejo II was a dismal failure from the start and he blamed his boss. It was too far up river to bring in the required supplies on a regular basis, and there was always the incessant rain. Add to that, his fear of the primitive tribes.
They were out there. Why hadn’t they come before now?
All of it made for a trifling yield of gold. What little was extracted, came at a high price and he thought Castelo Branco must be extremely dissatisfied with the paltry amount. Maybe he figured he was keeping some for himself. But there were ways of knowing. Senhor Maranza, Castelo Branco’s lackey, kept careful count of the precious metal taken from the sluices. At least Maranza worked on a rotating basis. He could go back with the next boat while De Santana was there indefinitely, at the whim of his boss.
Something was wrong. Maybe it was the silence from Brasilia. Months of pondering convinced him that he wouldn't leave that place alive
. He was the only one who could link the Reyes' murder to Castelo Branco.
He will have me killed
!
That fat pig!
The more he thought about it, the more erratic his shots became, until some of the workers thought he was shooting at them and ran into the jungle. It was then that he passed out in a drunken stupor.
Besides De Santana and Maranza the gold counter, there were only eighteen others at the mining site, six of them Indian workers. Security was lax
. They had hastily erected several structures, including an office, a bunkhouse for the company regulars, a supply shed for dynamite and chemicals, De Santana's quarters and a small, separate living space for Maranza. Several rifles were in a locked closet at De Santana's place, and he figured those, in addition to the weapons carried by armed guards, were enough to discourage any Indians who might have ideas of attacking. He was afraid. He knew they were out there watching, waiting. The sounds they made at night were almost indistinguishable from the wild animals, but he knew the difference. Years in the jungle had taught him that much. He assigned three men to guard duty at night, and they would rotate after four hours. The guards were nervous, hearing stories about what the Indians did to those who entered their territory. It was only a matter of time before they took some measure of revenge.
The small party wove its way through the jungle, staying close to the river. Sometime before noon, Connery heard the distinctive sound of rifle fire. The others heard it too, but it was not something they recognized. At first, he was elated. Hunters, perhaps workers, were close by. This could be what he hoped for. Someone to get him out. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore Teman-e and his people, struggling simply to maintain an existence that civilization was rapidly taking from them. Now their waterways were poisoned. It was something he never would have concerned himself with in the past.
“
Teman-e, there are people ahead with weapons far more powerful than yours. Stay well hidden.”
Teman-e
again thought that Connery must be part of a dangerous tribe. They possessed venom more potent than
curare
and sticks that could kill from afar. He and his men moved ahead. The sound of rifle fire grew louder. They came to a place where acres of once magnificent forest were denuded.
Connery spotted the rusted, riddled barrels, the compound strung hastily with barbed wire
, the high-powered water cannons and sluices. He was sure this was where the cyanide came from. He crept closer to the barrels and saw the international symbol for poisonous materials. Beyond any doubt, this is what caused the sickness of an entire region. He whispered to Teman-e,
we have found it
.
Teman-e
thought the best place to observe was from a perch in the tallest tree. He chose one with just the right girth and height and began a quick ascent. Within minutes, he was eighty feet above ground, astride a thick branch, watching closely the activity within the compound. What he saw stirred anger; an ugly scar of land. A once beautiful forest turned hideous. What replaced it were several large huts of a type he had never seen, strange looking devices that bewildered him and an abundance of refuse. He saw brown-skinned people, like him, who seemed to work for the strangers, obeying their commands. Other men, fully clothed, resembled Connery in stature and appearance.
Why have they come here?
The forest belongs to us and they have no respect for it. Why do they poison us, and harm our children? They are worse than women stealers.
What he saw, ignited the ferocity attributed to many of his land and beyond; a ferocity that at times was uncontrollable, as when he killed Chora. He made the decision to be rid of the place and the people in it.
In the space of a few hours, he learned many things about the mining site and was sure it could be taken easily. Just before dark, he would observe again, a third time in late evening. He wondered about the long sticks carried by several in the mining camp who acted as guards. Connery warned
him of them, but he hadn’t fully understood, so he asked once more. He was astonished, but the attack would be a complete surprise and the enemy would have no chance to use their weapons. It would come when they least expected it. The advantage would be his.
CHAPTER THIRTY
SIX
Julio Martinez closed his eyes, fighting to stay awake. It was warm by the fire he built from scraps of wood that littered the ground. Remnants of the land clearing that took place several months prior. Martinez was fearful ever since coming to Tapejo II. For more than nine years, he worked for the mining company, but never this far into the rainforest. De Santana convinced him that it was in his best interests to join him and leave his wife and child. There might be trouble ahead if he refused. He missed his family. Another few months and he’d be back. De Santana promised.
His fear stemmed from the reputation of tribes rumored to dwell in these parts. Few of his people had seen them, but those who had, told stories. The lost tribes were secretive and practiced terrifying rituals. Most were unforgiving to those who intruded on to their land. It made him shudder. But what did he know? Only what he heard. He was just a poor worker. In another six months he'd be home. He was weary; sleep would soon
be upon him. Somehow, he always managed to awake with approaching footsteps, able to avoid having to answer to that maniac De Santana, whom he despised.