Shadow Play (14 page)

She closed her eyes and allowed her hand to fall to her side. She waited for death to take her, yet the only change in her body was a slight escalation of her heartbeat as she imagined herself expiring in the American's arms.

Yet he did not take her in his arms.

And she didn't die.

Gradually, she opened her eyes again and found Morgan peeling a papaya with his knife. He cut a long pink sliver of the juicy meat and, raising it on the blade of the weapon, slid it into his mouth.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Eating."

"While I'm dying?"

"You're not dying." He laughed softly and the sound made Sarah's throat constrict.

"Are you certain?" she asked.

"Positive."

"But the snake—"

"Didn't bite you."

"Oh." She carefully touched her throbbing cheek with unsteady fingers. "But—"

"I kicked you."

"You—"

"I kicked you," he repeated. His gray eyes were brimming with humor as he grinned and shrugged. "Sorry, but it was the only way to get you out of the snake's range. It bit my boot instead."

She should thank him, she supposed. He'd saved her life, after all. But the feeling that gripped her in that moment was not gratitude, but fury. She shook with it. With each throb of pain ricocheting through her temple the anger mounted. Once again they had come very close to dying. His blas6 attitude was infuriating.

Morgan sliced the fruit again and, bringing the knife to Sarah's lips, offered her a taste of the succulent meat. She refused it, turning her face away so the juice that dripped from the blade ran down her cheek to her chin. He caught it with his thumb, but instead of wiping it away, his finger hesitated, brushing the aching, swollen skin of her cheek with a motion so gentle that Sarah blinked in surprise. He had never struck her as a tender man. Yet there was something so stirringly kind in his touch, in his eyes that looked a little like rain clouds with silver linings, that she sensed he was apologizing for her pain in the only way he knew.

Just then the door was flung open. Henry entered, allowing the sickly-sweet stink of stale blood to fill the room. At the same instant Sarah noted the skinned carcasses of monkeys hanging side by side up and down the hallway. Nausea reeled through her, and she dropped back on the bed. "Dear God," she whispered. "What next?"

Morgan moved away and assumed an indolent stance near the porthole. The humor that had crinkled the outer corners of his eyes just moments before was now replaced by his usual hard and brooding mien as he continued to peel and eat the fruit with no apparent regret for having caused her such misery.

Henry stood only inches taller than Sarah's hammock, so he could easily look into her eyes. He took her hand and wrapped his short fingers around it. "My dear, you have no idea how worried we've been. Haven't we, Morgan?"

His shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of unconcern as he peered out the porthole. "I suppose," he answered, and her irritation mounted.

Henry squeezed her hand. "Of course we were. By gosh, Morgan hasn't left your side in the last twelve hours. He feels just terrible over this ordeal. Don't you, Morgan?"

He ignored the query.

Sinking in the hammock, Sarah allowed herself to relax. A smile tipped up the corners of her mouth as she looked at Henry. "What happened? The pilot said we'd run aground. Did we hit an island or something?"

"The island hit us," he replied. At her look of confusion he explained. "The river is always changing, its current felling trees and shifting great portions of earth. The fallen trees are swept downriver. Gradually, more and more collect and eventually are so massed together they make a sort of floating island. The creatures that were trapped on the trees when they fell are therefore captive on the island until it runs aground at some point. Certainly the trees offer sanctuary to any water snakes along the way. We were highly unfortunate to have run upon the island at night, but such an accident is only a small example of the dangers awaiting us on the Amazon. Are you quite certain you wish

to continue this journey, Sarah? Morgan and I are capable of carrying out this purpose on our own."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you," she stressed, though her gaze had shifted to Morgan, who continued to ignore her and eat his fruit. "I take it that the ship is sound enough to get us to our destination?"

"Certainly," Henry answered. "We've been under way for hours now. The threat of danger is over for the time being. However—" He cleared his throat. "There is a problem with snakes. We've done our best to flush them out, but that's no guarantee that we won't find a few coiled up among the cargo now and again. I urge extreme caution, my dear. Shake out your garments before putting them on. And take care when you move around the deck. Were one to slither into your skirts, we would be hard pressed to locate it before some damage was done. You might consider wearing the breeches you bought in Belem. At least—"

"I'll wear the clothing once we begin our journey through the floresta," she interrupted wearily. "When it's absolutely necessary."

She did not miss the look Henry shot the American. Had her head not been pounding so brutally, she might have queried them both further. As it was, she was forced to lie back and close her eyes until the world ceased spinning. She must have dozed, for when she opened them again she was alone.

They arrived in Santarem on the morning of the fifth day of their journey up the Amazon. Sarah smelled the village before she saw it. She awoke to the odor of fish so heavy in the air she could hardly breathe. Oddly enough, it seemed a pleasant change from the stench of rotting monkey carcasses the passengers and crew had hung from every available corner of the steamer. What animals had not been stewed, fried, or baked for food would be sold for pennies in the market as soon as they docked.

Henry and the American made short work of rounding up Kan and the few Indians they had hired to join them on their journey. Within a half hour they had all disembarked and stood on the banks, somewhat befuddled by the concentration of people and activities around them.

Since Santarem was as far as the
Santos
traveled, Morgan ordered them all to stay put, then disappeared into the crowd of natives to arrange for passage to Manaos, another two hundred miles upriver. An hour passed, then another as Sarah and her entourage waited impatiently for his return.

The sun climbed higher and the air became hazy with steam, the sky washed by a dingy yellow light.

Henry came and went, fetching a great flat palm branch which he held over her head in place of a parasol. Soon she was forced to remove her hat and use it to fan away the insects buzzing about them. As always, Kan stood close by, his usual silent, cautious self. Yet there was a change. Done was the starched servant's uniform he'd worn while in
her father's employ. His straight black hair, once tied or braided at the nape, was allowed to spill over his shoulders. Unlike Henry, who continued to wear only a loincloth, Kan wore a pair of khaki breeches and no shirt. Several strands of bright beads and one of piranha teeth hung from his neck, and his earrings tinkled like chimes as he paced.

Eventually Morgan returned. Sarah saw him walking up the footpath running next to the docks. Towering a head taller than the dark-skinned natives of the village, he wore his sweat-stained hat pulled low over his eyes. His shirt was moist too, and stuck to his chest and back and armpits in damp splotches. The ever-present cigarette hung from his sensual lips. His strides were long, graceful, and confident. Despite her aggravation over being left to swelter in the ungodly heat for hours, she felt a jump in her heartbeat at the sight of him. Then she noticed he wasn't alone. A white man followed him.

Sarah forgot her irritation with him when she discovered his companion was English. His name was Sir Henry Wick- ham, and he recognized Sarah's name immediately.

Sir Henry Wickham had built his home alongside the ruins of a Jesuit seminary near Santarem. Its deteriorating walls were barely visible behind the gargantuan creepers that had grown over and around the building since the priests had deserted it more than a hundred years ago.

Late that afternoon, as Sarah sat near a window of Wick- ham's adobe dwelling enjoying the breeze^ and a cup of
cafezinho
—strong black coffee sweetened with cane sugar—she did her best to keep down her panic. Upon finding her in this Amazonia hellhole, as he termed it, and learning of her father's tragic death, Wickham had immediately suspected her reasons for being there. She had been stunned to learn that Wickham had been involved in her father's scheme, and worried that he'd join the American in warning her not to venture to Japura herself.

"My dear," said the Englishman, "men have attempted to smuggle seeds from Japura before. In fact, it was I who convinced your father's friend, Sir Clements Markham, of the necessity of cultivating rubber in the east. In '73 a gentleman managed to make his way out of Brazil with some two thousand seedlings. There have been another couple of tries, one being your father's. As you well know, it was a disaster."

"But surely you can understand my reasons for trying," she argued. "I'm ruined if I cannot repay those investors. Besides, I'll be safe enough. Mr. Kane not only worked for Rodolfo King, he also escaped from Japura' overland. I couldn't be in better hands."

Wickham appeared shocked. "Indeed," he said to Morgan. "Is this true?"

Slouched in a chair, one leg hooked over the other by an ankle, he looked up at the Englishman from beneath his hat and said, "Yeah."

"Good heavens, man! However did you manage it? King is a madman."

Morgan's gaze shifted to Henry, who was enjoying a cup of oolong tea. Finally he said, "Lucky, I guess."

"Lucky? I would say that is an understatement. Tales of King's barbarism are always filtering down the Amazon. Why, not long ago rumor had it that he annihilated an entire village because one of its inhabitants had infected his
matteiro
with venereal disease. You cannot think to subject this young lady to a monster like that. And this nonsense of your escaping through the forest—"

"But it's true,'' Sarah cut in. She paced the floor, refusing to look at Wickham or Morgan,

or even Henry, unwilling to acknowledge—even to herself—the nagging fears

that plagued her about this journey, and the American's effect on her sensibilities. "Mr.

Kane is well known in George- town for his heroism. The Indians revere him as a

god. Why, my own servants believe him capable of anything. Besides..." She faced her

host and steadied her voice. "What recourse do I have, sir? This mission must be

accomplished. My father's reputation—"

"Your father is dead, my dear."

"But I am not, Sir Henry! I'll be forced to live the rest of my life in shame and destitution if this matter is not put to a satisfactory end."

"But even if you thought you could survive a confrontation with King, a young lady such as yourself could never come through such a hellish expedition unscathed. My dear, has Mr. Kane and his friend described in detail just what sort of nightmarish dangers await you in the forest?"

Morgan, who had withdrawn a cigarette from his jacket, proceeded to light it with a sulfur match, his eyes still fixed on her face as the flame danced in the cup of his upraised palm. It seemed a hundred images flashed before her mind's eye in that moment, pictures of a white-suited lover luring her with a kiss, a mad race through the eerie underworld of Little China, coiled black snakes with fangs full of venom. Without thinking, she touched her cheek where it was still sore from the American's kick, then her side that still ached from when she'd been thrown over his shoulder like a sack as he vaulted to the steamer's pilothouse. It was becoming so easy to believe the heroic stories... because she wanted to? Or simply because she must?

Forcing herself to turn away from his arousing, hypnotic gaze, she said, "I may be a lady, sir, but I'm stronger than I look, and I'm well aware of the dangers. Of course I'll take every care to assure my safety. Even now I take quinine to ward off the fever."

"Fever?" He looked amused. "My dear, fever will be the least of your worries. Quinine cannot save you from the floresta itself. It is a teeming organism whose sole objective is to destroy any man who trespasses within its boundaries. Look about you." He walked to the open window and pointed to the seminary. "See how it has swallowed up all trace of earlier habitation."

"I shan't stay in one place long enough to be swallowed up," Sarah replied with a laugh that was not echoed by Wickham, Morgan, or Henry, who was pouring himself a second cup of tea and lacing it with brandy their host had supplied. Morgan, on the other hand,

was drinking the liquor straight and still watching her with that unwavering intensity that made the fine hairs on her nape stand on end. Those eyes appeared to laugh at her, then undress her, and finally drive through her like ice picks.

Wickham perched on the windowsill and regarded her without blinking. "I have seen the flesh eaten from a man within minutes by ants the size of my thumb. There are spiders here large enough to capture birds for food. The bite from a fer-de-lance can kill in a matter of minutes." He held up one hand that was missing a finger. "I was fishing and speared a piranha. I thought it was dead. But when I reached for it, the damned fish sliced off my finger with a single snap. Can you imagine what an entire school of the creatures could do?"

"I'm well aware of all that," she said, all the more determined as she stared at his hand, repressing a shudder of revulsion. "While living in Georgetown I read William Edwards's
Voyage up the River Amazon,
as well as Humboldt's
Personal Narrative.
I've also read the account of Madame Isabella Godin, who was the last remaining survivor of an expedition that set out to locate her husband, who had disappeared in the Amazon. After weeks of wandering naked, starving, and ill through the forest, she was saved by a Jesuit priest and eventually reunited with her husband. If she, a lady of middle age, could survive the Amazon, then, sir, so can I."