Beautiful Blood (20 page)

“Do you call seven hundred cannons a few? Six thousand rifles, the latest Russian model! One hundred armored war wagons designed to traverse the jungle, each large enough to carry a company! But you’re right. These are only Breque’s most recent expenditures, the ounce that tipped the scale. In the shipyards of Mataplan lie the keels of seventy great vessels that he has commissioned, intended to carry an invasion force…yet he cannot afford to complete them. I could recite a long list of Breque’s ridiculous purchases. Apparently the man had designs on the entire littoral, perhaps the entire continent. But to whatever end, he has accumulated more weapons than he has soldiers, more ships than men to fill them. I have no fear of Teocinte. Your country is doomed. It’s Mospiel I fear, for once Teocinte has been gutted by this idiot Breque, they will rush in and impose order, and there will be no buffer state between Mospiel and Temalagua.” Carlos paused. “You have been duped, my friend. That much is clear from your reaction. But this raises the question, for what reason were you duped? And how does your presence here relate to that fact?”

A mosquito whined in Rosacher’s ear. He slapped at it and, as if the slap were a cue, a grumbling noise issued from the jungle, then a roar that might have come from the throat of Griaule himself, so shattering it was—this followed by a volley of rifle fire and screams.

Carlos and Rosacher grabbed up their rifles, aiming them at the jungle. More screams, and Frederick, accompanied by a splintering of twigs and branches, burst from the shadowy foliage—Frederick as Rosacher had never before seen him, solidified into that bear-like shape that prior to this moment had only been hinted at, except in an artist’s depiction. Standing on his hind legs, slashing at the air with taloned paws, roaring as rifles continued to fire, Frederick’s torchlit reality was far more frightening than his portrait had been. In that posture he must have measured twenty feet from tip to toe, his body covered in coarse black fur, and as he swung his elongated head from side-to-side, its form that of a strange fruiting, some sort of mutant melon or squash, his face came into view, a leathery mask, slightly less black than the fur, that seemed to have been stamped onto the stump-end of a severed limb and had over time become a part of that limb, its nerves and musculature connecting, annealing with those of the stump, growing capable of gross movement, producing snarls and leers and various other expressions of rage and lust. His eyes were rheumy, redder than the artist had portrayed, and were set at more of a slant above the cheeks, giving him the aspect of a Tibetan devil god; but this was no brightly colored, ritualistic abstraction of evil, this was evil itself, evil incarnate, fanged and drooling and monstrous, with a lolling tongue and a furrowed brow and a quality of insane vacancy that somehow dominated the face, that was its base emotion.

All his thoughts of an alliance with the creature fled, scattered by fright, Rosacher fired, fired again, saw bullets strike home, eliciting an even greater roaring, dredging up gouts of blood from Frederick’s cheek and forehead…then a shout from behind him: “Into the river!” A hand caught at his shoulder, yanked, and he pitched off the bank, landing on his back in the water. He went down beneath the surface and came back up sputtering, still holding his rifle, and sought purchase with his feet, but the river was too deep. He wiped the water from his eyes and saw Carlos’ head an arm’s length away. Four or five heads were visible farther upstream, but Rosacher could not identify them. Grumbling, Frederick—his body bulkier, more elephantine—prowled the water’s margin and Rosacher thought that his lie about taking refuge in the river might have been intuitive and that they were safe. And then in the dimness, though he could not be sure of what he saw, the torches no longer flickering, the world drenched in shadow…he thought he saw Frederick lean out over the bank and extend his neck to an improbable degree, stretching to a length of four or five feet, bending to the river and snapping off one of the heads. Shouting in panic, the other swimmers flailed at the water. Rosacher let loose of his rifle, dove beneath the surface and swam as hard as he could for as long as he could without taking a breath. He came up for air and then dove again, repeating this process over and over until, exhausted, he fetched up against the far bank, tucking himself into a fold of shadow, an indentation in the clay, and clung there, alerted by every stirring and sound, however slight. At some point he passed out and when he awoke, his teeth chattering, he saw that a gray dawn had broken over the jungle. He hauled himself up onto the bank and stripped off his wet clothing. A gentle rain began to fall and, gathering his clothes into a bundle, he sought shelter beneath a giant silk-cotton tree, finding a dry spot amidst the roots that stretched out on all sides like the tails of caimans whose heads were trapped beneath the trunk. He stared blankly at the great gray-green dripping presence that pressed in around him, with its feathered fronds and nodding leaves the size of shovel heads that yielded a pattering like the drumming of childish fingers on the skin of a thousand small drums. The rain began to slant downward and its noise grew deafening; a chill settled in Rosacher’s bones. He had no means of making fire and so he set forth walking, jogging when he found it possible…not often, because the trail he followed went uphill and down, often at sharp angles and with only a few yards between slopes. Rocks and roots jabbed at the soles of his bare feet, forcing him to a slower pace—he could not bear to put on his boots, because they reeked of the river and were packed with silt. He had not the least idea of his location or of the direction in which he was going. His thoughts congealed, his mind slowing as had his feet, and he became a sluggish machine capable only of lurching forward.

After a while, a very long while, it seemed, he smelled meat cooking. He crept along, uncertain whether he would find friend or foe, and shortly after that, he saw up ahead an embankment atop which an enormous tree had fallen, creating a natural shelter. Beneath it sat the king, shirtless, yet still wearing his riding trousers. Rosacher felt a measure of bitterness on seeing him so at ease. Relative to Rosacher, he was the picture of contentment—he had made a fire of branches and twigs, and was roasting the spitted carcass of a smallish animal. The prospect of warmth and food enticed Rosacher, but he hesitated to approach, mindful of how he would be received. Carlos carved a slice of meat from the animal’s haunch with a skinning knife and laid it on some leaves to cool…and that was too much of a temptation for Rosacher. He started forward and, glancing up from the fire, Carlos said, “Richard! I thought you had drowned.”

Rosacher dropped down beside the fire. His teeth still chattered and Carlos built the fire up, adding twigs and leaves until Rosacher’s body had soaked up sufficient heat to allow him to think and speak. “What was that thing?” he asked, accepting a strip of meat that Carlos extended on his knife tip. The meat was greasy, but good.

“It’s nothing I’ve seen before.” Carlos sawed at the carcass. “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered any other survivors.”

Rosacher shook his head, No, and his teeth began to chatter again. Carlos urged him to rest and spread his clothes by the fire so they could dry.

Once his chill had passed, Rosacher had a second bite of the meat. “This is good. What is it?”

“Agouti.” Carlos nibbled and chewed. “No one at court cares for the meat—they think it fit only for peasants. But I’m quite fond of it.”

After Rosacher had finished his first piece of meat, the king carved him another. Rosacher had a bite and then, recalling why he had come to Temalagua, he asked Carlos if he knew what had happened to Cerruti.

“I can’t be sure,” Carlos said. “It was too dark to see clearly, but I think he was the one the beast decapitated.”

His response started Rosacher to wondering why Cerruti had gone into the water. Had he been moved by instinct or had he been pushed? And if what Carlos told him was true, what did that say about the relationship between Cerruti and Frederick? His head was spinning and he was incapable of focusing on these questions, so he asked how Carlos had made his escape.

“I saw you go underwater and followed your example.”

If Carlos said more, Rosacher was not aware of it, for he lapsed into unconsciousness. On waking, he discovered that the king had covered him with his doublet. He made to give back the garment, but Carlos refused to accept it, saying, “You’re suffering from exposure. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

The rain had been reduced to a drizzle and Rosacher’s trousers were almost dry—he put them on and asked if Carlos knew where they were.

“About an hour east of Chisec, I believe. I haven’t hunted this part of the jungle for years, but if memory serves, we follow this trail for about a half-hour and it intersects with something approximating a road. That should take us to the village.” The king patted him on the shoulder. “Are you up to a little walk?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

“We’ve plenty of time. It’s not yet noon.” Carlos added twigs to the fire. “I should be able to get word to the palace tonight. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be resting in comfort and I can get about organizing another hunt.”

“You’re going after that thing?”

“If there are no other survivors, I reckon it’s killed more than twenty people. Allowing it to run free would be criminal.”

“But how can you hope to destroy it?”

“If we can isolate it, hem it in against some natural barrier and trap it there, we may be able to set fires around the perimeter and burn it.” Carlos spat into the fire. “I haven’t given the subject much thought, but tomorrow I’ll gather my huntsmen and we’ll come up with a scheme. Something with alternatives in case things go awry.”

However great a narcissist Carlos was, Rosacher thought, one couldn’t fault his courage, though his judgment might be called into question. Once again he tried to put his commitment to the mission into perspective and once again he found himself testing the principles underlying its every facet—his concerns for the business, his quasi-loyalty to the disloyal Breque, and the idea that everything in his life had been a reaction to some fraudulent stimulus. When he first arrived in Teocinte, it seemed he’d had a plan, but he most certainly had not had one since then; he had been coerced and manipulated into every action, and now, understanding this, he wasn’t able to assign a priority to any future action, least of all the murder of a king.

The rain kept the insects down—except for the leaf-cutter ants that carried bits of vegetation along the wire-thin tracks they had etched into the clay—and the two men spoke rarely during the first portion of their walk. Dark shapes in the canopy followed them for a time, but never announced their presence. The undergrowth thinned, the boles of silk-cotton trees became visible, like lotus columns inscribed with a calligraphy of livid green moss, and—in his fatigue—Rosacher imagined that they spelled out variations on his sorry fortune; he died in a green hell, his flesh was consumed by scorpions, beetles drank form the corners of his eyes, that sort of thing.

Carlos’ estimate of a half-hour to reach the road to Chisec proved woefully inaccurate, too short by at least an hour; but reach it they did—a narrow winding track partially overgrown with weeds and displaying ruts caused by the passage of carts and wagons. Rosacher collapsed at the center of the road, his head dropping back, gazing up at the canopy. Carlos sat on a hump of clay covered by an ivy-like growth at the jungle’s edge. “We’ve only a little ways to walk now. Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“Your minutes seem considerably longer than mine,” Rosacher said with bad grace.

Carlos kept silent, but his displeasure was obvious.

After an interval Rosacher, in lieu of an apology, said, “How can people live in this place?”

“The jungle? It’s not so bad…in fact, it’s fascinating. I love coming here.”

“Spoken like a man with the wherewithal to protect himself from the worst it has to offer.”

The king acknowledged this, making a noise of acquiescence. “You can protect yourself only to a degree. Witness last night. But you’re right. The jungle’s not a human place. People live here because it’s where they were born. They don’t have the motivation or the funds to move elsewhere. Still, it’ll be a pity when it’s all chopped down.”

“I doubt that’s going to happen.”

“Admittedly the forests of western Europe are less pestilent than our jungles, yet when people needed room for expansion, they began to disappear. The same will happen here and then there’ll be no more jungles, no more animals.”

“I don’t believe the countries of the littoral will ever achieve the level of economic stability that Europe has.”

“That seems extremely shortsighted.”

“The countries to the north of Temalagua have too great an advantage over you, both as to their size and resources. They’ve been waging a war of oppression for nearly a century. Look at how the fruit companies have moved in. They’ll continue to oppress you until your leaders show some backbone or develop an immunity to bribes. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Your argument strikes me as odd coming from someone who’s spent decades propping up one such leader.” Carlos scratched his calf vigorously. “But it’s true. We have to have better leaders in order for our corruption to assume the guise of statesmanship.”

Rosacher laughed. “You’ve got me there.”

“One way or another, whether under our aegis or that of some other country, the jungles will soon be a memory. My father used to hunt jaguar in this very region and now you’re lucky to catch sight of one.”

“I’ll consider myself lucky not to see one,” said Rosacher.

“You might not say that if you’d seen what I have. A day’s ride from here there’s a lake to which my father used to take me. Lake Izabal. We’d find some high ground that overlooked the water, and hide in the tall grass before dawn, and wait for the jaguars to come down to drink while the morning mist still obscured most of the world. Watching a jaguar emerge from the mist—it gave me the feeling that I’d gone back to the days of creation.”