Dance of the Dwarfs (23 page)

No further evidence turned up on my way home, but I am sure I am right. To predict the mustelid's future movements is nearly impossible, for this is a unique event in the history of this particular animal. Only in this damnable year could it have reached the wrong side of the creek and been caught there.

Since its natural habitat is the deep shade, it must have tried to cross the creek in the forest reaches before ever attempting the open llano. A reasonable guess is that it made a circuit under the trees, reached the Guaviare wherever the creek enters the river and then worked up the impassable barrier. There are now two courses open to it.

One is to raid Santa Eulalia. I hope to God that is not likely. There is no hunting to lead it in that direction and it cannot know that at the end of a long, hungry prowl to the east it would come to horses, and huts with flimsy fences of cane.

The other is that it will range the llano, hunting a little further up the creek every night until it reaches the head of the marshes. There it will find cattle to kill—will the llaneros put that down to dwarfs?—and a quick route home to the ridge.

Meanwhile I must observe the strictest precautions here in the estancia. The animal is in fact a lot more vulnerable than we are. During the heat of the day it can only lie up in clumps of palm or cactus. The choice is very limited. If I cannot detect the right clump, a horse will. It has little chance in the open and full daylight unless it breaks cover before it is within easy range. Even then I can run it down, provided Estrellera is willing to avenge Tesoro. That rather depends on whether we receive the Declaration of Intent, or turn the tables and hand it out.

[
May 18, Wednesday
]

“Somewhat lighthearted yesterday, weren't you, Ojen?” This fellow whom I observe must, in the dubious jargon of psychologists, be a manic-depressive character. Ups and downs. Well, but I seldom have downs. I should say that I am a man who lives on a steady level of mild enjoyment, whose chart would, I admit, show peaks—Chucha, the forest domes, the green flash which follows sunset on the llano—but few depressions.

Indecision. That is always the cause. But time is short. This record must be completed. The afternoon is sultry and the sweat pours off me as I write. I would rather be with Chucha, but, if I go through with this, I shall need perfect coordination of eyes, hands and the rifle. Legs, too. Keyed up now. Better stay so.

I set off on Estrellera early this morning. My dear agriculturalists all disapproved of my absence without leave. Mario is hard at it. Well, it won't do any harm to put off the preparation of seedbeds for a day or two until the rains settle down to more regular hours. Back to normal duties, please God, tomorrow!

I was not happy at leaving them. But tilling the soil with rifle in hand like a North American colonist would merely have aroused alarm and agitated questions. In any case everything points to the fact that the mustelids never take to the open in daylight.
Never
is a strong word. A zoologist from Mars observing my normal habits would conclude that I drink and mate freely after midnight, but never eat. Exceptions have been known.

I found no more tracks leading to or from the water and cantered off to the few stands of palms on the eastern horizon. Nothing there. Shade was possibly sufficient, but cover was not. I do not know what sweat glands the mustelid possesses or where they are situated; but it is certain that no forest dweller can endure the direct blast of the sun for long.

I was half way to Santa Eulalia when I saw two vultures circling down to the llano more than a mile away to the northeast. I hoped that they were only coming to a cow which had wandered off into the no-man's-land and died or calved there. I could not persuade myself that it was likely. The ground mists of morning were still confusing the lips of the land, and I heard in the silence the squawking and quarreling of the birds long before I could distinguish the clear outline of tall, dead grass, never grazed.

A breeze from the east had got up, so I rode round to give Estrellera the scent of the patch. When she showed no excitement we entered the grass. It was thin, and from my height in the saddle I could see far enough ahead to be fairly safe. I was also fairly confident—nothing is ever more than “fairly” in this amateur pursuit—that the vultures would not have come down unless the mustelid had finished with its kill.

Trailing streaks of excrement they rose heavily, like children's kites with gray and white tails. I approached very cautiously making a circuit round the kill with Estrellera showing strong dislike but no terror. A last vulture took off, and beneath it I got a clear view of red and white. It was long and narrow. I thought the shape was human as I did at the caju tree. When I dismounted and led Estrellera up to it, I saw that it was a mustelid. There was enough left to identify Torn Ear. The ear itself was not in a state to put the matter beyond all doubt, but the right eye was. Since the animal was lying with that side of its head on the ground, the eye had not yet been picked out. A No. 2 shot had pierced it and flattened against the bone of the socket. Damage to mouth and tongue was also cruel. That accounted for the lapping of blood without eating any flesh—if this is not a regular habit. I do not know.

Infinite relief and, of course, pity. I feel it when I shoot to eat. It is odd and illogical that I should feel it even more when I shot to save my life. How can I have more sympathy for a singularly atrocious carnivore than a deer? Does respect come in? Well, this time there will be a clean-picked carcass to be collected at leisure by a cart from Santa Eulalia, if I am here to arrange it.

The track of the beast through the grass was plain enough. I had no difficulty in finding the point where it had entered the patch. Assuming that it would have approached in a straight line—possibly a large assumption for an animal blind on one side and weakened by hunger—I crossed and recrossed the probable trail. I came at last upon tracks in a muddy bottom.

At first they puzzled me. The wounded mustelid seemed to have been progressing by short hops, utterly unlike any of the gaits I knew or any possible gait for an animal of its size. It took me some time to realize that I was looking at the tracks of a pair loping along in single file. They had been made the previous night. I found a dropping which was not yet dry inside.

So back to the patch of cover where the story was completed. I could have worked it out before if Estrellera's movements and the flattening of the grass by vultures had not muddled the evidence. But I had no reason to suspect it was there.

The two beasts left the long grass side by side with a distance of some six feet between them. I was strangely shocked to find clots of blood on the stems which their heads had pushed aside. There could be no doubt that they had chased and killed their wounded relative. Then, with dawn not far off, they set out in hope of cool shade—thank God, not in the direction of Santa Eulalia!

My theory that the sudden, galloping spate of water could have caught mustelids on the wrong side of the creek proved correct; but I never dreamed of active, hungry beasts besides Torn Ear, assuming that the single pair in my immediate neighborhood produced over the years the myth of the dancing dwarfs and that they were the only members of the genus I was ever likely to see.

But even rarities breed, and the larger Mustelidae such as otter and mink are, I believe, interested and careful parents. The young, like those of the felines, have hunting technique to learn before they are ready to occupy a territory of their own.

The territory of this pair was plainly along the Guaviare between the lower, forested reaches of the creek and the unexplored waterway southwest of the ridge. Pedro confidently expected to find game there. He must have seen open glades, firm ground and game paths while traveling on the Guaviare by canoe.

Why did the pair cross the creek into a forest belt where, according to the llaneros, there was nothing to eat and not a rumor of dwarfs? Failing most unlikely coincidence, I am sure the answer is to be found in the behavior of the half-blinded Torn Ear. Terrified by her first contact with an animal which stood firm and hit back, she bolted across the creek between pools and was followed at a distance by the interested south pair, perhaps stimulated to form pack and hunt in company. Then at some point, due partly to the absence of game and partly to the deadly attraction of a slow and wounded animal, Torn Ear herself became the hunted.

I rode hard for the marshes, giving a cursory glance to the few palms on the way. If this stranded pair had put the growing light behind them and cantered fast for cover, the only place they could find it was by the water, and I did not think they would find much there.

As usual I was not competent to follow the trail over the open llano. However, after a lot of searching I picked up their tracks again on the border of the marshes. There they had separated, one following the edge of the water, the other farther out near the highest flood mark. Both tracks converged on a thicket of tall, brown reeds, canes and a stunted palm or two, where new green shoots were already six inches high.

A lot of this stuff had fallen over in the drought or been battered down by storms. It was waist-high and so tangled that no horse could have penetrated it. A man on foot might have stamped and barged his way through, but he would never have come out alive. The bent reeds formed tents and low lean-to shelters into which the mustelids could slide and from which they could spring without the interruption of any solid growth. The prevailing color was their own. It would have been perfectly possible to step on one without seeing it.

I dismounted and very nervously smelled the ground where they had entered the reeds. The familiar odor was there, and fresh. Then I rode right round the cover, Estrellera obeying magnificently. I found no tracks leading out again. If they cannot swim, they are there and will be there till dusk.

I must not let them escape and risk another death on my conscience. I am still arguing with myself, but I propose to go out on pretense of taking the evening flight. There will be a good moon in the first quarter. I am confident that I am fast and accurate enough in semidarkness to deal with one, but not two. From the little I have seen of their hunting practice I think it likely that I shall be attacked from behind and from a flank simultaneously. What I want, therefore, is to get them chasing in line. If they will oblige, I can then run in the expected half circle and take refuge in the water where my back will be safe. As I see it, they will stop dead but not retire. Two aimed shots should be enough.

If only I had somebody to tell! Since I have not, I must talk to myself, and this is the best way to do it. When I write, I recognize or think I recognize nonsense; but when I surrender to the incomplete, leaping, pointless conversations of the brain, I am no more capable of precision than any other man.

Here and there in this diary I see signs of a tendency to brood. That is, of course, due to lack of male company and is unimportant. I chose this life and I have been well able to handle it.

Multiple indecision. That's the trouble. It would be easier if I had only to consider the evening ahead of me, to dab a spot of white paint on the foresight and get on with it. But Chucha is interwoven with this business. The other question I must face is: how can I be lonely when I have her? That's the heart of the problem. I love her. I will not be separated from her. I demand that I be married to her.

How would this work out, if I am not about to die? In an intolerable paradox. I am nearly twenty years older than Chucha. But all the arguments which are normally used against such a marriage work the wrong way round. In ten years' time or a bit more she will be no longer this firefly, charged with light during the day, regiving it after sunset. She will be a wrinkled, ignorant Indian like Teresa, and I a successful scientist—in the world's sense—at the peak of my career and the prime of life.

What do you say to that, Don Ojen? I say that I do not care. Suppose I had a daughter disfigured in body and stunted in mind by disease, would I stop loving her? But she is not my daughter—she is a pet from the forest. Very well, Indians cherish a pet till it dies. There is no way out.

What vile, selfish arguments in a void! How cynical can I get? Let us imagine that Don Ojen has killed his dragons. In the eyes of whatever blasted society he frequents, he would be a person of interest who could get away with whatever he pleased. His eccentricity and his little Indian wife would be all in character. The bastard could go around wearing silver spurs and a comic hat. For God's sake, what nonsense!

It is Chucha herself I must think of. That little golden organism is compounded of love and nothing else. It is made to love and be loved. Am I to be “sensible” and hand it over to a Joaquín or an Alvar, or set it up in a Bogotá flat for Valera and his friends?

I will not do it. A vile betrayal! Yet even if I were to spend my life in one of the Andean capitals she would be lost. So imagine her in London, with nothing she understood, nothing that gave her happiness or ever could, her life me and nothing else.

Now, on a step further! My duty to Santa Eulalia, to Mario and Teresa. I have to go out tonight. Am I afraid? Yes. Am I unwilling? No. Why? Because you refuse to face your responsibilities, Don bloody Ojen. That is not true. What is true is that I refuse to imagine life with her or without her. I therefore offer Death a chance. I say to Death: settle it for me, but, by God, I'll fight you all the way!

Hysterical! High-sounding nonsense! I must try to picture Valera trying to suppress a smile. But one thing is certain. Valera wouldn't leave duendes around on the wrong side of the creek. Valera wouldn't muddle his obvious duty with a lot of fifth-rate drivel on whether or not Chucha could make a London hostess. What it all boils down to is that I am prepared to be a little more rash than I would otherwise be. And let us leave the precise meaning of that “otherwise” to psychologists who have nothing better to do.