Shadow Play (26 page)

A moment passed before she realized she was free and that she was flailing at nothing. With her eyes and nose and mouth full of silt and water, she struggled up the bank, crying out as the water roiled with the life-and-death battle. Hysteria rose in her, and she screamed as the snake coiled its enormous body around Morgan and dragged him underwater. She covered her face in her hands and, rolling into a fetal curl, continued to scream as they surfaced. Morgan slashed with his knife into the body of the demon until the water churning over her legs was nothing but blood and the air was a cacophony of bestial sounds more horrible than any nightmare she could ever have imagined. And then...

There were bodies around her, brown bodies and hands and painted faces with glittering black eyes and gargoyled mouths and ears with lobes that fell all the way to their shoulders. "Save him!" she screamed in their faces, but her words became incoherent as she was lifted out of the water and carried toward the forest. She fought them, frantic to get back to Morgan as he stumbled from the water, his hand gripping the bloody knife, the dead monster slowly sinking into the muddy depths of the river.

She looked back and thought she saw him, but then she was certain that she must have imagined it. If only the leering faces around her were merely figments of her imagination instead of what she had feared most.

Savages. Cannibals.

Headhunters!

When she turned her head next, she did see Morgan, circled by the savages just as she was, looking battered and bruised from his battle with the boa. He seemed dazed, and when the Indians brought the two of them together, he stared at her as if she were a stranger.

"Morgan, thank God you're alive," she managed weakly.

Only then did he appear to realize their circumstances. Casting a look around him, he replied, "Yeah, but for how long?"

They were ushered through the forest, encouraged when they faltered, carried when they refused to go farther. When they reached the Indians' village it seemed like a metropolis, its conformity shocking to eyes that had seen nothing but the chaos of the jungle for the past weeks. There were curious, bare-breasted women holding babies on their hips. In the dirt around chonta palm huts dogs and boars rooted. Stunned and wondering what horrible fate awaited them, they looked into each other's eyes.

"Morgan! Sarah!"

Henry stood in the door of a chonta hut, a smile of relief illuminating his face. He ran to greet them.

The Jivaro Achuara Indians believed that Morgan was a god. Henry convinced them of it. His battling the much-feared and revered anaconda was proof of it, and "a stroke of bloody luck," as Henry had added under his breath.

Instead of shrinking their heads, the chief, Kukus, threw a celebration in their honor. Great bonfires were built. Kukus sat between Morgan and Sarah, with Kan close by so he could interpret for the chief, and honored them by bestowing upon them the coveted secrets of shrunken heads, or tsantsas, explaining that tsantsas imprison the spirit of a dead enemy warrior so that it cannot avenge the death. Then eight of Kukus's wives hurried to place bowls of mush and platters of food at their feet.

Kukus, handsomely autocratic, with his black hair cascading down his back and two tightly wrapped cords of hair hanging to his chest in front, gave a toothy smile and told them to feast.

"On what?" Morgan demanded, glancing toward his marmoset that was rolling in the dirt with several children. Relieved, he said to Henry, "I suppose it hasn't done you any harm."

"Far from it. Enjoy, Morgan. God knows, you and Sarah deserve it. You can't imagine what we've been through trying to find you. Once we discovered the falls, we thought for certain you both had perished."

"What about our supplies?"

"Sarah's trunk of clothes was lost, as were your whiskey and tobacco. Some of the ammunition went, but not all. There's enough if you still wish to continue... Do you wish to continue?"

He nodded, although his eyes had shifted to Sarah. Sitting in partial darkness near Kan, she leaned against a tree with her legs sprawled out before her. She breathed shallowly; she seemed weary. Her pale hair was coming loose from the braid that hung down her back, wispy strands clinging to her cheeks. Her eyes were huge, and looked very green in the firelight. He supposed she was still in shock. "We've come too far to back down now," he replied, speculating on the mound of food placed before them. Leaning toward Henry, he whispered, "Could that be some
body?"

Henry howled in laughter. "Would it matter? Egads, Morgan, perhaps you're not so hungry as you look."

"Not hungry enough to eat someone's grandmother."

"The Achuara are not cannibals. Eat before you insult them."

The chief smiled and nodded, encouraging him to take the food. With some reluctance he reached for it, but found the bowl spirited from his wounded hand by a young woman whose breasts were firm and round as coconut shells, their nipples dark and prominent. Her eyes were wide and black as nightfall, her hair like a rich ink spray flowing over her shoulders. "She likes you," Henry murmured. "The chief will make you a gift of her tonight."

She flashed him a smile as she placed the bowl in his hands. He mentally calculated how long it had been since he'd had a woman. Then his gaze came back to Sarah, and he knew that such a thought was as irreverent as blasphemy before God.

Kan handed Sarah a bowl, announcing that the food was
pato no tucupi.
She wrinkled her nose, apparently not liking the look or smell of it. It was just like her to turn up her nose at something when she. was dying of hunger.

Kan explained. "It is duck and greens."

"Only duck and greens? It smells vile." She nudged the bowl away, although she regarded it hungrily.

Sensing she wasn't going to eat unless he did, Morgan raised the bowl to his mourn and, using his fingers as a spoon, scooped the food onto his tongue, finding it not at all disagreeable. Only then did Sarah venture to try it.

"There is a legend," Henry began, "behind the
tucupi.
According to legend, the beautiful daughter of an Indian chief was hidden after death within the soft white pulp of the manioc root, which makes up the juices the duck and greens are cooked in."

Morgan frowned and swallowed. His mouth had grown numb; his facial muscles seemed frozen; he couldn't form a word with his lips without drooling like an idiot. A look told him Sarah was the same. Throwing the bowl to the ground, she covered her mouth with one hand and grabbed for the cup of
masato
with the other. As she attempted to gulp the fermented beverage, it ran out the corners of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She and Morgan glared at Henry as he rolled backward in hilarity.

"Ooo shtufis muver foocher," Morgan yelled at the pygmy, who, leaping to his feet, danced through the laugh- ing men and women.

"This is wonderful!" he called back. "Simply wonderful, Morgan. Why not try to enjoy it."

"Ooo've poozened oos!" he bellowed.

"I haven't poisoned you. You'll thank me tomorrow. As they say, eat, drink, and be merry; tomorrow we may die!"

Sarah was laughing, apparently unconcerned that more
masato
was pouring down the front of her shirt than down her throat. Morgan began to laugh then too, and the

thought occurred to him that they were drunk. Whether the cause was the
masato,
or simply relief that they had survived the past nightmarish days, he couldn't tell. He felt good, and happy. The two people he cared most for in the world were at his side, and nothing else seemed to matter.

He fell back in the dirt, no longer feeling the heat or the pain of his bruised and broken body and spirit. He heard only Sarah's laughter, like a melody rising in the air, a serenade of songbirds, a chorus of angels. There was music, deep and throbbing in his head and chest, drumming like a heartbeat. The light emanating from the fires flowed like wax to the ceiling of trees, and as the women began their strange ballet around the flames, their skin reflected the light like onyx mirrors.

Their arms and hands flowed gracefully, each movement a story told, if he could only understand it. Then Sarah was among them, a bright star amid the night sky, hair shimmering with color as she spun, mimicking the women's movements. She glided toward the fire, her beauty flowering like a budding rose as she came into the glare of the flames, her gold hair shimmering, her dancing feline, her expression absorbed in the rise and fall of the drums. She had stripped herself of her shirt, and like the natives, danced bare- breasted in and out of the firelight. He had the vague idea of running to her and covering her beautiful breasts, but he couldn't move. Enchanted, he watched her—the flare of fire upon her white skin with the palest tint to her small nipples, the play of light upon her sublime face. She moved in front of him where he crouched on the ground, stretched her slender arms above her head. In a slow gesture she lifted herself up on her toes, raised one leg in an effortless arc, and
pivoted,
a breathtaking marionette controlled by invisible strings.

"Morgan." She laughed. "Come dance with me."

He stood, slowly, clumsily. Henry flashed in and out of his vision, also moving with the dancers. Morgan felt foolish. He felt eager. He felt drunk. He felt... absurdly happy and staggered by his desire for her.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she asked, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling. She caught his hand and pulled him into the light. "Dance with me, Morgan. We might never dance again after tonight." A flicker of fear passed over her face.

"Sarah." The word died in his throat as she pirouetted around him, brushing him with her skin, her hair, the per- fume of her flesh. Oh, yes, he could smell her, just as he could smell the muskiness of the night, the fragrance of the flowers in the forest. The sounds had color, and the color, music. The Achuara's shaman, Nyashu, who watched them all from his hut, would have called it magic. Perhaps it
was
magic. Morgan was content to let it be so, for the moment. There had been so little magic in his life...

Her voice lilted to him. "Come dance with us, Morgan."

Enticing. Alluring. He felt intoxicated with lust. But that was nothing new. It had been a beast inside him the past days. Hell, since he'd set eyes on Sarah that first night in his

house.

Her hands moved over him, tugging at his shirt and its buttons. "Take it off and dance with us," she pleaded huskily. "It's wonderful. I promise. It's like a fantasy, isn't it? Paradise found? Where we can feel happy and do what we please. Where no one can judge us, ridicule us."

"Sarah." He laughed, shoving away her hands. "You're drunk. You've been eating and drinking ayahuasca or coca leaves. Love, you don't know what you're doing."

"Don't I?" Her eyes twinkled up at him, first in amusement, then in acceptance as she smiled and pressed herself against him, running her hands up his chest to his face, her fingers teasing his lips. "I know exactly what I'm doing,

Morgan," she said in a sultry voice. "What a great waste to die when you've never truly lived. I'm only sorry that it's taken me so long to realize what I've been missing."

She twirled away, leaving him to stand alone in the gyrating firelight, watching her every movement, his desire for her an ache that left him trembling. The Indian girl ran to him and forced a cup of liquid into his hands. He drank until the world blurred and his memories and cares crumbled away, until his body and mind and soul no longer ached.

And he danced, falling into the rhythm with the others, moving lithely in and out of the firelight and into the darkness, until he was humming and singing to himself.

Shadow
dancers.

Shadow
dancers.

Shadow dancers, all.

Chapter Thirteen

They remained in the village long enough to mend from their injuries, but the time eventually came when they knew they must leave. They had food and water, and numerous Achuara to escort them into the floresta. They traveled to the limits of the Achuara's boundaries, and although Morgan and Henry tried to coerce the Indians into guiding them to Japura, they refused. The travelers were trespassing into the Xavante lands, beyond the Rio das Mortes, or the River of the Dead. The Xavante's hatred of the white man was well known among all tribes of Amazonia. The Spanish had failed at any attempt to buy their way into the warriors’ trust. The savages had massacred what few missionaries had ventured into their territories. Even King kept a respectful distance, leaving their women and children alone during his raids for slaves.

Upon hearing Kukus speak of the terrors the Xavante inflicted on their victims, several of the Indians Morgan had hired in Georgetown refused to venture farther. Now two torturous weeks had passed since they had left the Achuara
village, and even those Indians supplied by Wickham were having second thoughts. As the floresta grew darker, the traveling more difficult, the steamy heat worse than anything that they had experienced before, Morgan and Sarah and Henry wearily awoke each morning to discover one less Indian to carry their supplies. There was concern over whether the Indians were deserting, or meeting the same fate as those men they had discovered with their throats cut. But since they found no bodies, they chose to believe the men had decided against continuing the journey and, lured by their memories of compliant young women and ayahuasca back at the Achuara village, had returned to the friendly natives.

Their dwindling numbers, fatigue, and desperation forced them little by little to dispose of their supplies: clothes, blankets, hammocks. Next came their ammunition, the most burdensome but, in Morgan's opinion, the most important thing they'd brought. When Henry suggested they leave several crates, Morgan, at the end of his patience, snapped, "Don't be stupid. That ammunition is the only thing that's going to keep King from killing us."

"My good man, need I remind you to take a good look around? There are enough guns and bullets to supply an army. As of this morning, we only have fifteen of the thirty men we started with. At the rate we're going, we'll have fewer than that by the time we reach Japura—if we reach it. By Jove, but I've come to regret ever having set foot in Brazil."