Shadow Play (27 page)

' 'It's a little late for that. Besides, you got us into this—''

Sarah had had enough. "Shut up!" she screamed. Tossing down her machete, flinging her helmet to the ground so her sweaty hair tumbled down her shoulders, she managed to ignore her fatigue enough to march up to Morgan. "I'm sick of your petty arguments. I'm sick of your faces. I'm sick of this ordeal, and if I hadn't come this far I would order you to take us back to Georgetown."

"You think so?" Morgan shouted back.

"I know so, Mr. Kane."

He threw his head back and laughed. "That'd be the day. Hell, you wore a friggin' petticoat for the first half of this journey."

"Until I saved your stupid neck by tossing it to the alligators! And what did I get for the sacrifice? Not even a thank-you." She opened a bladder-sack of ayahuasca and proceeded to drink it as if it were water.

"I'd go easy on that if I were you," Morgan sneered.

"Go to hell."

"I'm already there," he retorted.

She drank again and narrowed her eyes. Once she might have trembled from the threat in Morgan's features. She wondered if it was the ayahuasca that made her return his fierce look so recklessly. Whatever, the thrill of standing so close to him, of feeling his presence flood her with exhilaration, made her feel wonderfully wicked, despite her tired state. "You know something, Mr. Kane? I used to be afraid of you, but I'm not anymore. Neither am I frightened of this bloody forest."

Glancing toward Henry, who watched with raised eye- brows, Morgan said, "Give the lady a pair of breeches and she grows herself some balls. I'm impressed. Maybe I should let her take us the rest of the way into Japura, Long- fellow. What d'ya think?"

"I think," she interrupted with a lift of her chin, "that I could do a damn sight better job of it than you.'' The Indians put their burdens aside and crowded around, their faces emotionless, eyes watchful. Morgan raised an eye- brow as she said, "First you tell us that we should reach Japura in ten days. Ten days come and go. Two weeks. Three. And where are we? I think you don't know what the blazes you're doing."

Henry walked away. The Indians mumbled among them- selves and shuffled restively as they awaited Morgan's response. Kan stood near, arms crossed over his chest as he
looked into Morgan's eyes. Lowering his voice, Morgan said, "Watch what you say, Sarah, or—"

"Or you might find your authority usurped by a woman? How dreadful for your manhood."

They stood locked in silent combat while the air hummed with insect sounds and warbling birds. Morgan's sweat- drenched face was set like granite, his eyes a smoky fire. Sarah wanted to go up on her toes and press her mouth to his, for suddenly she realized she had intentionally antagonized him for no other reason than to provoke him into responding to her—be it in fury or passion. With chagrin she discovered that she was becoming desperate to experience either even though she knew he wanted no part of her as long as Norman stood between them.

She elbowed her way through the Indians and grabbed her machete and helmet in her blistered hands. No one moved, and she was forced to face Morgan again. "Well?" she
demanded.

"Well, what?"

"What are you waiting for?"

"For you to make up your mind about who the hell is going to lead this sorry group."

"You, of course... that's what I'm paying you for."

Morgan ordered the Indians to take up their cargo. The natives moved slowly, talking among themselves, forcing Morgan to repeat his orders. Suddenly Sarah felt guilty. None of this was Morgan's doing. Had she listened to him in the first place, they would be safe and comfortable in Georgetown. Well, perhaps not comfortable. No doubt the mansion had been turned over to the new Governor. Perhaps her father's belongings had been auctioned...

"Sarah, have you taken your quinine?" Morgan asked.

Frowning, she took the medication and swallowed it. Her own quinine had been swept away in the river. However, Morgan had produced a supply from his belongings, explaining there was plenty to go around.

He hadn't shaved in several days. He was sweaty and
dirty, his clothes tattered, hair falling to his shoulders. He looked like a savage himself. The rifle that hung over his shoulder by a strap added to the affect, as did the knife on his hip. Recalling those nights when she had danced un- inhibited amid the Indians, she felt her face turn red. She thought him the savage, yet he had never taken advantage of her intoxicated state, no matter how she had tempted him, taunted him, using her apparent inebriation as an excuse. She had been terrified that he would sleep with one of the Indian women the chief had offered him, but he had wanted no part of them. Perhaps there was a God who listened to prayers in this godless place after all.

The first sign that they were not alone came, as always, in the silence of the animals, the cessation of bird calls. The rustling of leaves by the wind high above their heads sounded like an eerie clattering of dry bones in a graveyard. They had just risen from a sleep besieged by mosquitoes. Kan had shaken Morgan awake, and Morgan had punched Henry, and Henry, Sarah. They noted that their group had dwindled by another three, and it did not take long to discover why. The missing men were found not far from camp, headless.

Morgan moved to the crate of guns, falling to his knees as he threw back the lid and reached for the bullets, which he passed out among them, ordering them to fill their pockets and make certain the rifles were prepared to fire. Watching him struggle to stand, Henry asked, "Are you all right?"

"As well as can be expected, considering."

"They don't stand a chance against our guns," Henry said:

Morgan dropped to the ground and leaned against a tree, his eyes fixed on Sarah, the rifle thrown across his lap. "Come here," he said.

Knees shaking, she eased down beside him.

"This is it, Sunshine."

She nodded and studied his flushed face, disturbed by the fact that his normally sharp eyes seemed hazy as he regarded
her from beneath heavy lids. "Morgan," she whispered. "Are you feeling all right?"

"A little tired. Achy. My hand hurts like hell."

"Would you like some ayahuasca?"

"Will you get up and dance for me again if I do?"

"If you promise to dance too."

"Don't mink I have the energy. Sorry." He touched her face. "I should never have brought you here."

"I should never have asked you to."

He gazed over her shoulder at the forest, trying to focus his thoughts on some witty comeback, unable to do it. He was so tired. He had been since he and Sarah were swept over the falls. His senses were dulled; and his muscles ached. If the whole of Japura Xavante swept upon them now, he might not give a damn; so long as it meant he could lie down and rest.

Sarah's cool hand touched his face. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Well enough. I was just thinking about you and Norman and a house full of children."

"Not Norman. He doesn't like children."

"Do you?" he asked.

"Very much. I've always dreamed of having at least a dozen."

"They're God's gift to the world. That's what my mother used to tell me until..."

"Until?"

He shrugged. "Nothin'." He rolled the gun in his hands and shifted against the tree. "Sarah?" The words were dry. She leaned near him, so near he could easily have kissed her mouth.

"Yes?" she replied.

Above them a bird sang a tinkling, pianolike sonata.

The attack came as the little bird's song faded into silence. The dart whizzed through the air and passed through an Indian's temple. The second hit the tree next to Morgan's head. He threw himself against Sarah, forced her to the
ground before rolling away and coming up on one knee, aimed the rifle into the wilderness, and pulled the trigger.

As Henry and Kan ducked behind trees, a cry rose from the others as the floresta began to move around them. What at first appeared to be bushes took the form of humans whose torsos were painted green and brown, and whose faces looked like masks of gaping skulls.

Nightmares.

Morgan looked down his rifle barrel and pulled the trigger, blinking against the sting of smoke and fire, watching the bodies crumble in front of him because they did not understand the power of the blasting beast that could rip their hearts to shreds with a single impact.

... and then the walls of the floresta faded to black. He was a child again, standing in his mother's doorway watching the drunken man stumble toward him, reach out, and cover his screaming mouth with his sweaty-smelling, salty- tasting fist.

He couldn't breathe! He couldn't breathe!

And the man was touching him. He kicked and screamed and the man's fist was crashing into his face and arms and back, forcing him to the floor on his hands and knees, pulling his hair and—oh, sweet Mary, Mother of God, the pain...

He just wasn't good enough anymore to be anyone's son. Immerse his body in God and cleanse his soul. He would heal.

Just don't leave me here forever. For the love of God,Mama, it wasn't my fault. Why did you desert me?

And then someone with gentle hands was smoothing his hair back from his brow and

calling him
wonderful, beautiful friend.
A face hovered over him, its features almost angelic, in moments of emotion suffused with the kind of love that Morgan had waited all his life to experience. The eyes promising riches, the smile vowing love... if he would only...

"Morgan!"

He blinked and, lowering his rifle, looked at Henry.

"They seem to have retreated for the moment. Are you all right?"

He nodded and glanced toward Sarah. She was picking herself up off the ground and brushing off her clothes. Her face looked pinched and white. Her hands were trembling.

"You frightened us to death," Henry continued. "What the bloody blazes did you think you were doing standing out here firing like that? You looked as if you were asking someone to kill you." Henry paced the clearing, assessing the deaths and injuries, barking orders at the Indians, who were deliberating among themselves over whether they wanted to turn back while there was still time. "Time for what?" Henry yelled. "Where the blazes do you intend to go? They'll kill you!"

Kan ushered Sarah to a tree and forced her to crouch beside it. Squatting next to her, he began to reload their rifles while Henry continued to pace. "Morgan, how far do you suppose it is to King's plantation?"

"I don't know."

"But you must have some idea," Sarah joined in, her voice rising in exasperation.

Henry said, "The Xavante wouldn't dare cross into King's boundaries."

"What difference does it make?" Morgan tried to stand, swaying before catching hold of a tree for support. "We're either running from a devil or to one."

"But we stand a chance with King," Henry argued.

"Oh, yeah? What gives you that idea?"

"You must have a plan, Morgan. Surely you've given some thought to how you'll escape the bloody tyrant?" Henry came up beside him. "We're going to get through this. I promised you we would. I won't let him hurt you again. I'll kill him myself before I allow that. But you have to be willing to fight."

A shadow of a smile passed over Morgan's lips. "Damn, I could use a cigarette."

"So could I and I don't smoke."

"Thank God. Imagine how short you might've turned out if you had."

Henry laughed, and as he turned away, Morgan said, "Know why cannibals don't eat missionaries, Henry?"

"No, Morgan, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Will it make you feel better?"

"Probably."

"All right, then. Tell us."

"What was the question?" Sarah asked, sliding down the tree to the ground.

"Know why cannibals don't eat missionaries?" Morgan repeated, a smile spreading across his mouth. "Because you can't keep a good man down."

"Good grief." Henry groaned. "Morgan, you're disgusting."

Sarah had never wanted to live so desperately as she did in the hours that followed, as she crouched within her hiding place waiting for the savages to attack again. How could she have failed to see that the joy in living was not in wealth, but in the mere act of breathing, of witnessing the simple miracle of a hummingbird's wings fluttering as it hovered in space savoring the sweetness of an orchid's nectar. Joy was the sound of raindrops hitting the trees overhead, gathering upon the leaves, and running in tinkling torrents from limb to limb until they dripped to the ground like the beating of fairies' drums. Turning her face into the rain, she let it run over her cheeks and down the length of her hair, and wondered why she had never bothered to play in the rain before. It was a baptism of the heart.

The rain became a steady deluge as dusk crept in. Henry ordered Kan to raise the tent for Sarah, although she wasn't inclined to sleep in it. It was too confining and smothering. Besides, she felt safer with the others. She wanted to be prepared for the attack when it came.

"They won't attack while it's raining," Henry explained. "You have to understand heathens. They believe the sun and rain are gods. Even the earth is a god. They'll have a meeting to discuss the meaning of this rain, and if we're lucky, they'll take it as a sign to
let us pass. Or they'll butcher us at sunrise. Who can figure them? Not me." He laughed that wild laugh that made Sarah smile, regardless of her fear.

The rain diminished, although the distant thunder and occasional flash of light above the trees told Morgan that soon another storm would advance upon them, deluging them once more. He sat on the gun crate, hat pulled down over his eyes, his shoulders hunched against the continuous raindrops. Except for him and a few nervous Indians standing guard around the camp, everyone was sleeping.

The drums had ceased their pounding during the storm, but with the break in the weather they started again, filling the night with an eerie rhythm that made his blood turn cold. A shiver ran through him as he stiffly left his perch. He tried to see the guards through the darkness, but it was impossible. The night was black as the pit, and there was no hope of building a fire. Feeling helpless, he kicked out at the pile of brush they had gathered.