The Codex (29 page)

He ordered his men into double-time.

It unfolded exactly as he suspected. The Indians had heard them coming just in time and had melted into the forest—but not before Hauser had marked where they’d gone. He was an expert jungle tracker, and he pursued them at full press, a blitzkreig strategy that never failed to terrify even the most prepared enemy—let alone a group of unsuspecting hunters. His men split, and Hauser took himself and two others on a roundabout route, cutting off the Indians.

It was fast, furious, and earsplitting. The jungle shook. It brought back with such vividness his many firefights in Vietnam. In less than a minute it was over; trees were shattered and stripped, bushes smoking, the ground pulverized, an acrid haze drifting upward. One small tree had its branches hung with orchids and entrails.

It was amazing, really, what a couple of simple grenade launchers could do.

Hauser added up the body parts and determined that four men had been killed. Two others had escaped. For once his soldiers had acted competently. This is what they were good at: straight-ahead, uncomplicated killing. He would have to remember that.

There wasn’t much time. He needed to reach the village shortly after the two survivors in order to strike at the moment of greatest confusion and terror, but before they could organize.

He turned and shouted to his men. “Arriba! Vamonos!”

The men cheered, heartened by his enthusiasm, finally in their element. “To the village!”

40

It rained for a week solid, without letup. Every day they pushed forward, up and down canyons, along precarious cliffs, across roaring streams, all of it buried in the thickest jungle Tom thought possible. If they made four miles it was a good day. After seven days of this Tom awoke one morning to find the rain had finally ceased. Don Alfonso was already up, tending a large fire. His face was grave. While they ate breakfast, he announced:

“I had a dream last night.”

The serious tone in his voice gave Tom pause. “What kind of dream?”

“I dreamed that I died. My soul went up into the sky and began searching for St. Peter. I found him standing in front of the gates of heaven. He hailed me as I came up. ‘Don Alfonso, is that you, you old rascal?’ he asked. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It is I, Don Alfonso Boswas, who died in the jungle far from home at the age of one hundred and twenty-one, and I want to come inside and see my Rosita.’ ‘What were you doing way out there in the jungle, Don Alfonso?’ he asked. ‘I was with some crazy yanquis going to the Sierra Azul,’ I said. ‘And did you get there?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well then, Don Alfonso, you scoundrel, you’ll have to go back.’ ”

He stopped, then added, “And so I came back.”

Tom wasn’t sure how to react. For a moment he thought the dream might be one of Don Alfonso’s jokes, until he saw the serious look on the old man’s face. He exchanged a glance with Sally.

“So what does this dream mean?” Sally asked.

Don Alfonso placed a piece of matta root inside his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then leaned over to spit put the pulp. “It means I have only a few more days with you.”

“A few more days? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Don Alfonso finished his stew and rose, saying, “Let us talk no more about this and go to the Sierra Azul.”

That day was worse than before, for when the rains ceased the insects appeared. The travelers struggled up and down a succession of steep ridges on trails deep in muck, falling and sliding constantly, hounded by swarms. Toward afternoon they descended into another ravine echoing with the sound of roaring water. As they descended the roar became louder, and Tom realized a major river lay at the bottom. As the foliage broke at the banks of the river, Don Alfonso, who was in front, halted and retreated in confusion, motioning them to stay back in the trees.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

“There is a dead man across the river, under a tree.”

“An Indian?”

“No, it is a person wearing North American clothing.”

“Could it be an ambush?”

“No, Tomás, if it was an ambush we would already be dead.”

Tom followed Don Alfonso to the riverbank. On the other side of the river, perhaps fifty yards up from the crossing point, there was a small natural clearing with a large tree in the middle. Tom could just see a bit of color behind the tree. He borrowed Vernon’s binoculars to examine it more closely. A bare foot, horribly swollen, was visible, with part of a ragged pantleg in view. The rest of him was hidden behind the trunk. As Tom looked he saw a bluish puff of smoke drift from behind the tree, then another.

“Unless a dead man can smoke, that man’s alive,” said Tom.

“Mother of God, you are right.”

They felled a tree across the river. The sound of the axe echoed through the forest, but whoever was behind the tree did not move.

After the tree had come crashing down, forming a wobbly bridge, Don Alfonso stared suspiciously across the river. “It may be a demon.”

They crossed on the rickety tree using the pole. On the far side of the river they could no longer see the man.

“We must go on and pretend we have not seen him,” whispered Don Alfonso. “I am sure now it is a demon.”

“That’s absurd,” said Tom. “I’m going to check it out.”

“Please do not go, Tomás. He will steal your soul and take it to the bottom of the river.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Vernon.

“Curandera, you stay here. I do not want the demon to take all of you.”

Tom and Vernon picked their way along the polished boulders on the riverbank, leaving Don Alfonso muttering unhappily to himself. They soon arrived at the clearing and stepped around the tree.

There, they beheld a wreck of a human being. He sat with his back against the tree, smoking a briar pipe, looking at them steadily. He did not seem to be an Indian, although his skin was almost black. His clothing was in tatters, and his face was scratched raw and bleeding from insect bites. His bare feet were cut and swollen. He was so thin, the bones of his body stuck out grotesquely, like a starving refugee’s. His hair was stringy, and he had a short beard full of sticks and leaves.

He made no reaction to their arrival. He merely stared up at them out of hollow eyes. He looked more dead than alive. And then he gave a start, like a little shiver. The pipe came out of his mouth, and he spoke, his voice little more than a harsh whisper.

“How are you, brothers of mine?”

41

Tom jumped, he was so startled by hearing his brother Philip’s voice coming from this living cadaver. He bent down to scrutinize the face, but he could find no point of resemblance. He recoiled in horror: Maggots were squirming in a sore on the man’s neck.

“Philip?” Vernon whispered.

The voice croaked an affirmative.

“What are you doing here?”

“Dying.” He spoke matter-of-factly.

Tom knelt and looked into his brother’s face closer up. He was still too horrified to speak or react. He laid a hand on his brother’s bony shoulder. “What happened?”

The figure closed its eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Later.”

“Of course. What am I thinking?” Tom turned to his brother. “Vernon, go get Don Alfonso and Sally. Tell them we found Philip and that we’re making camp here.”

Tom continued looking at his brother, too shocked to speak. Philip was so utterly calm ... it was as if he had already resigned himself to death. It was unnatural. There was the serenity of apathy in his eyes.

Don Alfonso arrived and, relieved to find that the river demon had turned out to be a human being, began clearing an area to set up camp.

When Philip saw Sally he removed the pipe and blinked.

“I’m Sally Colorado,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

Philip managed a nod.

“We need to clean you up and doctor you.”

“Thank you.”

They carried Philip down to the river, laid him on a bed of banana leaves, and stripped him. Philip’s body was covered with sores, many of which were infected and some of which were crawling with maggots. The maggots, Tom thought, examining the wounds, had actually been a boon, as they were consuming the septic tissue and reducing the chance of gangrene. He could see that in some of the wounds where the maggots had been at work there was already fresh granulation tissue. Others didn’t look so good.

With an awful feeling he looked at his brother. They had no drugs, no antibiotics, no bandages, only Sally’s herbs. They carefully washed him and then carried him back to the clearing and laid him down, stark naked, on a bed of palm leaves near the fire.

Sally began sorting the bundles of herbs and roots she had collected.

“Sally is an herbal healer,” said Vernon.

Philip said, “I’d prefer an injection of amoxycillin.”

“We don’t have any.”

Philip lay back on the leaves and closed his eyes. Tom doctored the sores, scraping out the necrotic flesh, irrigating and flushing out the maggots. Sally dusted the wounds with an herbal antibiotic and bandaged him up with strips of pounded bark that had been sterilized in boiling water and then smoke-dried in the fire. They washed and dried his tattered clothes and redressed him in them, having no others. They finished as the sun was beginning to set. They propped him up, and Sally brought in a mug of herbal tea.

Philip took the mug. He was looking better. He said, “Turn around, Sally, and let me check you for wings.”

Sally blushed.

Philip took a sip and then another. Don Alfonso, meanwhile, had pulled a half dozen fish out of the stream and was now grilling them on skewers at the fire. The smell of roasting fish came wafting over.

“Strange how I have no appetite,” said Philip.

“That’s not uncommon when you’re starving,” said Tom.

Don Alfonso served out the fish on leaves. For a while they ate in silence, and then Philip spoke:

“Well, well, here we are. A little family reunion in the Honduran jungle.” Philip looked around, his eyes sparkling, and then he said: “G.”

There was a silence and then Vernon said: “H.”

Tom said “O.”

Philip said “S.”

There was a long silence and then Vernon said, “Goddamn it. T.”

“Vernon has to wash the dishes!” crowed Philip.

Tom turned to Sally to explain. “It’s a game we used to play,” he said with a sheepish smile.

“I guess you three really are brothers.”

“Sort of,” said Vernon. “Even if Philip is an ass.”

Philip let out a guffaw. “Poor Vernon. You always did end up in the kitchen, didn’t you?”

“Glad to see you feeling better,” said Tom.

Philip turned his hollow face to him. “I am.”

“You feel like telling us what happened?”

Philip’s face grew serious, losing all its archness. “It’s a heart-of-darkness story, complete with a Mistah Kurtz. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “We want to hear it.”

42

Philip carefully filled his pipe from a tin of Dunhill Early Morning and lit it, his movements slow and deliberate. “The one thing they didn’t take from me was my tobacco and pipe, thank God.” He puffed slowly, his eyes half closed, gathering his thoughts.

Tom took the opportunity to examine Philip’s face. Now that it had been cleaned up he could finally recognize his brother’s long, aristocratic features. The beard gave him a raffish appearance that made him look curiously like their father. But the face was different: Something had happened to his brother, something so awful it had altered his basic features.

His pipe lit, Philip opened his eyes and began to speak.

“After I left you two, I flew back to New York and looked up Father’s old partner, Marcus Aurelius Hauser. I figured that he would know better than anyone where Father might have gone. He was a private eye, of all things. I found him a rather plump, perfumed fellow. With two quick phone calls he was able to learn that Father had gone to Honduras, so I figured he was competent and hired him. We flew to Honduras; he organized an expedition and hired twelve soldiers and four boats. He financed it all by forcing me to sell the beautiful little Paul Klee watercolor that Father gave me—”

“Oh, Philip,” Vernon said. “How could you?”

Philip closed his eyes wearily. Vernon fell silent. Then Philip continued: “So we all flew down to Brus and piled into dugout canoes for a jolly punt upriver. We picked up a guide in some backwater hamlet and proceeded across the Meambar Swamp. And then Hauser staged a coup. The pomaded prick had been planning it all along—he’s one of those wicked micromanaging Nazi types. They chained me up like a dog. Hauser fed our guide to the piranhas and then set up that ambush to kill you.”

At this his voice faltered, and he sucked on his pipe a few times, his bony hand trembling. The story was told with a certain humorous bravado that Tom knew well in his brother.