The Testament (31 page)

“No. You’re much stronger than they were.”

“I welcome death.”

“Don’t say that. When did you meet Troy?”

“A year went by. He and my mother became phone pals. She became convinced his motives were good, and so one day he came to our house. We had cake and tea, then he left. He sent money for college. He began pressuring me to take a job with one of his companies. He started acting like a father, and I grew
to dislike him. Then my mother died, and the world caved in around me. I changed my name and went to med school. I prayed for Troy over the years, the same way I pray for all the lost people I know. I assumed he had forgotten about me.”

“Evidently not,” Nate said. A black mosquito landed on his thigh, and he slapped with enough violence to crack lumber. If it carried malaria, the insect would spread it no further. A red outline of a handprint appeared on his flesh.

He gave her the waiver and the acknowledgment. She read them carefully and said, “I’m not signing anything. I don’t want the money.”

“Just keep them, okay? Pray over them.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No. I just don’t know what to do next.”

“I can’t help you. But I will ask one favor.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Don’t tell anyone where I am. I beg you, Nate. Please protect my privacy.”

“I promise. But you have to be realistic.”

“What do you mean?”

“The story is irresistible. If you take the money, then you’re probably the richest woman in the world. If you decline it, then the story is even more compelling.”

“Who cares?”

“Bless your heart. You’re protected from the media. We have nonstop news now, twenty-four hours of endless coverage of everything. Hours and hours of news programs, news magazines, talking heads, late-breaking stories. It’s all junk. No story is too small to be tracked down and sensationalized.”

“But how can they find me?”

“That’s a good question. We got lucky because Troy had picked up your trail. To our knowledge, though, he told no one.”

“Then I’m safe, right? You can’t tell. The lawyers in your firm can’t tell.”

“That’s very true.”

“And you were lost when you arrived here, right?”

“Very lost.”

“You have to protect me, Nate. This is my home. These are my people. I don’t want to run again.”

HUMBLE MISSIONARY IN JUNGLE SAYS NO TO ELEVEN-BILLION-DOLLAR FORTUNE

What a headline. The vultures would invade the Pantanal with helicopters and amphibious landing craft to get the story. Nate felt sorry for her.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes, I promise.”

The send-off party was led by the chief himself, followed by his wife, then a dozen men, then Jevy, followed by at least ten more men. They snaked along the trail, headed for the river. “It’s time to go,” she said.

“I guess so. You’re sure we’ll be safe in the dark.”

“Yes. The chief is sending his best fishermen. God will protect you. Say your prayers.”

“I will.”

“I’ll pray for you every day, Nate. You’re a good person with a good heart. You’re worth saving.”

“Thank you. You wanna get married?”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. I’ll take care of the money, you take care of the Indians. We’ll get a bigger hut and throw away our clothes.”

They both laughed, and they were still smiling when the chief got to them. Nate stood to say hello or good-bye or something, and for a second his vision was gone. A surge of dizziness rolled from his chest through his head. He caught himself, cleared his vision, and glanced at Rachel to see if she had noticed.

She had not. His eyelids began to ache. The joints at his elbows were throbbing.

There was a flourish of grunts in Ipica, and everyone stepped to the river. Food was placed in Jevy’s boat and in the two narrow canoes the guides and Lako would use. Nate thanked Rachel, who in turn thanked the chief, and when all the right farewells were finished it was time to go. Standing ankle-deep in water, Nate hugged her gently, patting her on the back and saying, “Thanks.”

“Thanks for what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Thanks for creating a fortune in legal fees.”

She smiled and said, “I like you, Nate, but I couldn’t care less about the money and the lawyers.”

“I like you too.”

“Please don’t come back.”

“Don’t worry.”

Everyone was waiting. The fishermen were already on the river. Jevy had his paddle, anxious to shove off.

Nate took a step into the boat, and said, “We could honeymoon in Corumbá.”

“Good-bye, Nate. Just tell your people you never found me.”

“I will. So long.” He pushed away, and swung himself into the boat, where he sat down hard, his head spinning again. As they drifted away, he waved at Rachel and the Indians, but the figures were blurred together.

Pushed by the current, the canoes glided over the water, the Indians paddling in perfect tandem. They wasted no effort and no time. They were in a hurry. The motor started on the third pull, and they soon caught the canoes. When Jevy throttled down, the motor sputtered but did not quit. At the first turn in the river, Nate glanced over his shoulder. Rachel and the Indians hadn’t moved.

He was sweating. With clouds shielding the sun, and with a
nice breeze in his face, Nate realized that he was sweating. His arms and legs were wet. He rubbed his neck and forehead and looked at the dampness on his fingers. Instead of praying as he had promised, he mumbled, “Oh shit. I’m sick.”

The fever was low, but coming fast. The breeze chilled him. He huddled on his seat and looked for something else to wear. Jevy noticed him, and after a few minutes said, “Nate, are you okay?”

He shook his head no, and pain shot from his eyes to his spine. He wiped drainage from his nose.

After two bends in the river, the trees grew thin and the ground was lower. The river widened, then spilled into a flooded lake with three decaying trees in the center of it. Nate knew they had not passed the trees on the way in. They were taking a different route out. Without the current, the canoes slowed a little but still cut through the water with amazing quickness. The guides did not study the lake. They knew exactly where they were going.

“Jevy, I think I have malaria,” Nate said. His voice was hoarse; his throat already sore.

“How do you know?” Jevy lowered the throttle for a second.

“Rachel warned me. She saw it in the other village yesterday. That’s why we left when we did.”

“Do you have a fever?”

“Yes, and I’m having trouble seeing things.”

Jevy stopped the boat and yelled at the Indians, who were almost out of sight. He moved empty gas tanks and the remnants of their supplies, then quickly unrolled the tent. “You will get chills,” he said as he worked. The boat rocked back and forth as he moved around.

“Have you had malaria?”

“No. But most of my friends have died from it.”

“What!”

“Bad joke. It doesn’t kill many, but you will be very sick.”

Moving gently, keeping his head as still as possible, Nate
crawled behind his seat and lay in the center of the boat. A bedroll was his pillow. Jevy spread the lightweight tent over him and anchored it with two empty gas tanks.

The Indians were beside them, curious about what was happening. Lako inquired in Portuguese. Nate heard the word malaria spoken by Jevy, and it caused mumblings in Ipica. Then they were off.

The boat seemed faster. Maybe it was because Nate was lying on the bottom of it, feeling it slice through the water. An occasional branch or limb that Jevy didn’t see jolted Nate, but he didn’t care. His head ached and throbbed like no hangover he’d ever experienced. His muscles and joints hurt too much to move. And he was growing colder. The chills were starting.

There was a low rumble in the distance. Nate thought it might be thunder. Wonderful, he thought. That’s precisely what we need now.

________

THE RAINS stayed away. The river turned once to the west, and Jevy saw the orange and yellow remnants of a sunset. Then it turned back to the east, to the approaching darkness across the Pantanal. Twice the canoes slowed as the Ipicas conferred about which fork to take. Jevy kept their boat a hundred feet or so behind, but as darkness settled in he followed closer. He couldn’t see Nate buried under the tent, but he knew his friend was suffering. Jevy actually once knew a man who died from malaria.

Two hours into the journey, the guides led them through a bewildering series of narrow streams and quiet lagoons, and when they emerged into a broader river the canoes slowed for a moment. The Indians needed a rest. Lako called to Jevy and explained that they were now safe, that they had just gone through the difficult part and the rest should be easy. The Xeco was about two hours away, and it led straight to the Paraguay.

Can we make it alone? Jevy asked. No, came the reply. There
were still forks to deal with, plus the Indians knew a spot on the Xeco that would not be flooded. There they would sleep.

How is the American? Lako asked. Not well, Jevy replied.

The American heard their voices, and he knew the boat was not moving. The fever burned him from head to toe. His flesh and clothes were soaked, and the aluminum under him was wet as well. His eyes were swollen shut, his mouth so dry it hurt to open it. He heard Jevy asking him something in English, but he could not answer. Consciousness came and went.

In the darkness, the canoes moved more slowly. Jevy trailed closer, at times using his flashlight to help the guides study the forks and tributaries. At half-throttle, his unsteady outboard settled into a constant whine. They stopped just once, to eat a loaf of bread and drink juice, and to relieve themselves. They latched the three craft together and floated for ten minutes.

Lako was concerned about the American. What shall I tell the missionary about him? he asked Jevy. Tell her he has malaria.

Lightning in the distance ended their brief dinner and rest. The Indians set off again, paddling as hard as ever. They had not seen solid ground in hours. There was no place to land and ride out a storm.

The motor finally quit. Jevy switched to his last full tank, and started it again. At half-throttle, he had enough fuel for about six hours, long enough to find the Paraguay. There would be traffic there, and houses, and at some point, the
Santa Loura.
He knew the exact spot where the Xeco emptied into the Paraguay. Going downriver, they should find Welly by dawn.

The lightning followed, but did not catch them. Each flash made the guides work harder. But they began to tire. At one point, Lako grabbed a side of the johnboat, another Ipica held the other, Jevy held the flashlight above his head, and they plowed forward like a barge.

The trees and brush grew thicker and the river widened. There was solid ground on both sides. The Indians were chattering
more, and when they entered the Xeco the paddling stopped. They were exhausted and ready to stop. It’s three hours past their bedtime, Jevy thought. They found their spot and landed.

Lako explained that he had been the missionary’s assistant for many years. He’d seen lots of malaria; he’d even had it himself three times. He eased the tent off Nate’s head and chest, and touched his forehead. A very high fever, he told Jevy, who was holding the flashlight, standing in mud, and anxious to get back in the boat.

There’s nothing you can do, he said as he completed his diagnosis. The fever will go away, then there will be another attack in forty-eight hours. He was disturbed by the swollen eyes, something he’d never seen before with malaria.

The oldest guide began talking to Lako and pointing to the dark river. The translation to Jevy was to keep it in the center, ignore the small divides, especially the ones to the left, and in two hours he should find the Paraguay. Jevy thanked them profusely, and took off.

The fever didn’t die. An hour later, Jevy checked Nate and his face was still burning. He was curled into a fetal position, semiconscious and mumbling incoherently. Jevy forced water into his mouth, then poured the rest over his face.

The Xeco was wide and easy to navigate. They passed a house, the first they’d seen in a month, it seemed. Like a lighthouse beckoning a wayward ship, the moon broke through the clouds and lit the waters in front of them.

“Can you hear me, Nate?” Jevy said, not loud enough to be heard. “Our luck is changing.”

He followed the moon to the Paraguay.

THIRTY-TWO
_____________

T
he boat was a
chalana
, a floating shoe box, thirty feet long, eight feet wide, flat-bottomed, and used to haul cargo through the Pantanal. Jevy had captained dozens of them. He saw the light coming around a bend, and when he heard the knock of the diesel, he knew precisely what kind of boat it was.

And he knew the captain, who was sleeping on his bunk when the deckhand stopped the
chalana.
It was almost 3 A.M. Jevy tied his johnboat to the bow and hopped on board. They fed him two bananas while he gave them a quick summary of what he was doing. The deckhand brought sweet coffee. They were headed north to Porto Indio, to the army base there to trade with the soldiers. They could spare five gallons of gas. Jevy promised to pay them back in Corumbá. No problem. Everybody helps on the river.

More coffee, and some sugared wafers. Then he asked about the
Santa Loura
, and Welly. “It’s at the mouth of the Cabixa,” Jevy told them, “docked where the old pier used to be,” he said.

They shook their heads. “It wasn’t there,” the captain said. The deckhand agreed. They knew the
Santa Loura
, and they had not seen it. It would have been impossible to miss.

“It has to be there,” Jevy said.

“No. We passed the Cabixa at noon yesterday. There was no sign of the
Santa Loura.
”

Perhaps Welly had taken it a few miles into the Cabixa to look for them. He had to be worried sick. Jevy would forgive him for moving the
Santa Loura
, but not before a tongue lashing.