The Codex (33 page)

His head began to swim again. He struggled to hold it still. He loved what he was hearing.

She smiled sadly and laid her head on his chest. “I’m sorry we’ve both run out of time.”

He put his hand on her hair. “This is a hell of a place to fall in love.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Maybe in another life ...” Tom struggled to maintain his hold on reality. “We’ll have another chance, somehow ... somewhere ...” His mind began to whirl. What was he trying to say? He closed his eyes, trying to steady the vertigo, but that only made it worse. He tried opening his eyes, but there was nothing but a swirl of green and brown, and he wondered briefly if it all hadn’t just been a dream, all of it, his father’s cancer, the journey, the jungle, Sally, his dying brother. Yes, in fact it had been a dream, he realized, long and strange, and he was going to wake up in his own bed, a little boy again, his father shouting upstairs, “Good morning, good morning, another day is dorning!”

Thinking this, he drifted into oblivion, happy.

46

Marcus Hauser sat on a campstool in the doorway of the ruined temple, taking in the morning. A toucan screeched and hopped around in a nearby tree, waggling its enormous beak. It was a glorious day, the sky a limpid blue, the jungle a hushed green. It was cooler and drier up in these mountains, and the air seemed fresher. The perfume of an unknown flower drifted past. Hauser felt a semblance of peace returning. It had been a long night, and he felt drained, empty, and disappointed.

He heard footsteps rustling the fallen leaves. One of the soldiers brought him his breakfast—bacon, eggs, coffee, fried plantain—on an enamel plate with a sprig of some herb garnishing the side. He took the dish on his knees. The garnish irritated him, so he flicked it off, then picked up his fork and began to eat, his mind on the events of the previous night. It had been time to force the issue with the chief or fail. Not ten minutes into it he knew the old chief wouldn’t crack, but he went through the motions anyway. It was like watching a pornographic film—unable to turn it off, yet in the end cursing the waste of time and energy. He had tried. He had done his best. Now he had to think of another solution to his problem.

Two soldiers appeared in the doorway, the body slung between them. “What should we do with it, jeje?”

Hauser pointed with his fork, his mouth full of eggs. “Into the gorge.”

They went out, and he finished his breakfast. The White City was a big, overgrown place. Max could be buried almost anywhere. Problem was, the village was so stirred up that there wasn’t much chance of taking another hostage and trying to squeeze the location of the tomb out of him. On the other hand, he didn’t relish poking around these rat-infested ruins for the next two weeks himself.

He broke off, felt in his pockets, and slipped out a slender aluminum tube. In a minute the ritual was complete and the cigar was lit. He inhaled deeply, feeling the calming effects of the nicotine spreading from his lungs to his body. All problems could be broken down into options and suboptions. There were two: He could find the tomb on his own, or he could let someone else find it for him. If he let someone else find it, who might that person be?

“Teniente?”

The lieutenant, who had been waiting outside for his morning’s orders, came in and saluted. “Si, señor?”

“I want you to send a man back over the trail and check on the status of the Broadbent brothers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not molest them or allow them to know of your presence. I want to know what state they’re in, whether they’re still coming or have turned around—as much as you can find out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to start on the pyramid this morning. We’ll open this end with dynamite, working into it as we go. Organize the explosives and men and have them ready in an hour.” He put his plate on the ground and rose, shouldering his Steyr AUG. He stepped out into the sunlight, looking up at the pyramid, already calculating where to set the charges. Whether he found Max in the pyramid or not, at least it would keep the soldiers busy—and entertained. Everyone liked a big explosion.

Sunlight. It was the first he had seen in two weeks. It would be pleasant to work in the sunlight for a change.

47

Death came for Tom Broadbent, but not cloaked in black carrying a y scythe. It came in the form of a hideous savage face, striped in red and yellow, bristling with green feathers, with green eyes and black hair and pointed white teeth, peering down into his face and poking him with his fingers. But the death that Tom expected did not come. Instead, the terrifying figure forced some hot liquid down his throat, and forced it again. He struggled feebly and then accepted it and fell asleep.

He woke with a dry feeling in his throat and a throbbing headache. He was in a thatched hut in a dry hammock. He was dressed in a fresh T-shirt and shorts. The sun was shining outside the hut, and the jungle burbled with sounds. For a long moment he couldn’t even remember who he was or what he was doing there, and then it came back, piece by piece: the father’s disappearance, the strange will, their journey upriver, Don Alfonso’s jokes and sayings, their little clearing with the view of the Sierra Azul, dying under the rotten log in the rain.

It all seemed to have happened so long ago. He felt renewed, reborn, as weak as a baby.

He gingerly lifted his head up, raising it only as much as his hammering headache would allow. The hammock next to his was empty. He felt his heart lurch. Who had been in that hammock? Sally? Vernon? Who had died?

“Hello?” he asked feebly, trying to sit up. “Anybody here?”

He heard a sound outside and then Sally came in, lifting up the flap. She was like a sudden eruption of gold. “Tom! I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

“Oh, Sally, I saw that empty hammock and I thought ...”

Sally came over and took his hand. “We’re all still here.”

“Philip?”

“Still sick, but much better. Vernon should be better tomorrow.”

“What happened? Where are we?”

“We’re still in the same place. You can thank Borabay when he comes back. He went out hunting.”

“Borabay?”

“A mountain Indian. He found us and saved us. He nursed us all back to health.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long was I sick?”

“We were all sick about a week. We’ve had a fever he calls bisi. He’s a curandero. Not like me, but a real curandero. He gave us medicine, fed us, saved our lives. He even speaks a funny kind of English.”

Tom tried to sit up.

“Not yet.” She eased him back down. “Drink some of this.”

She handed him a cup filled with a sweet beverage. He drank it down and felt his hunger intensify. “I smell something cooking that is positively delicious.”

“Turtle stew à la Borabay. I’ll bring you some.” She laid her hand on his cheek.

He looked up at her, remembering everything now.

She leaned over and gave him a kiss. “We’ve still got a long way to go before this is over.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s take it one step at a time.”

He nodded. She brought him some turtle soup; Tom ate it and then fell soundly asleep. When he woke, his headache was gone and he was able to get out of his hammock and walk shakily out of the hut. His legs felt like rubber. They were in the same clearing with the same fallen tree, but it had been transformed from a dank thicket into a cheerful, open camp. The ferns had been cut and used to pave the muddy ground, forming a pleasant, springy carpet. There were two neat palm-thatch huts and a fire ring with logs for seats. The sun was streaming down through the hole in the treetops. The Sierra Azul loomed in the gap, deep purple against the blue sky. Sally was sitting next to the fire, and when he came out she leapt to her feet and took his arm, helping him sit down.

“What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock in the morning,” said Sally.

“How’s Philip?”

“He’s resting in his hammock. He’s still weak, but he’ll be fine. Vernon’s sleeping off the last stage of the fever. Eat some more stew.

Borabay has been lecturing us that we have to eat as much food as we can.

“Where is this mysterious Borabay?”

“Hunting.”

Tom ate some more turtle stew; there was a huge pot of it bubbling on the fire, filled not only with chunks of meat but also with a variety of strange roots and vegetables. When he was done he went to the other hut to see Philip. He pulled open the palm-thatch door, bent over, and stepped inside.

Philip lay in his hammock, smoking. He was still shockingly thin, but the sores had turned to scabs and his eyes no longer looked hollow.

“Glad to see you up and about, Tom,” he said.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little weak in the knees but otherwise chipper. Feet are almost healed. I’ll be walking in a day or two.”

“Have you met this fellow, Borabay?”

“Oh yes. Queer chap, all painted up, disks in his ears, tattoos, the works. Sally would have put him up for canonization except I somehow doubt he’s Catholic.”

“You look like a new man, Philip.”

“So do you, Tom.”

There was an awkward silence, interrupted by a shout from outside. “Hallo! Brothers!”

“Ah, Borabay’s back,” said Philip.

Tom ducked out of the hut and saw the most amazing little Indian walking across the meadow. His upper body and face were painted red, with a circle of black around the eyes and ferocious yellow stripes painted diagonally across his chest. Feathers bristled from bands on his upper arms, and he was naked except for a breechclout. Two enormous plugs were inserted into stretched-out earlobes, which waggled with each step. An intricate pattern of scars ran across his belly, and his front teeth had been filed to points. He had black hair, cut off straight, and his eyes were a most unusual hazel color, almost green. The face was strikingly handsome and finely cut, the skin smooth and sculptural.

He stepped to the fire, small and dignified, holding a seven-foot blowgun in one hand and a dead animal—species unknown—in the other.

“Brother, I bring meat,” Borabay said in English and grinned. Then he chucked the animal to the ground and strode over. He embraced Tom twice, with a kiss on each side of the neck, some kind of ritualized Indian greeting. Then he stepped back and placed a hand on his chest. “My name Borabay, brother.”

“I’m Tom.”

“Me, Jane,” said Sally.

Borabay turned. “Jane? You not Sally?”

Sally laughed. “That was a little joke.”

“You, me, him, we brothers.” Borabay concluded by giving Tom another formal set of embraces, again kissing him on the sides of the neck.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” Tom said. It sounded feeble as soon as he had said it, but Borabay seemed pleased.

“Thankee. Thankee. You eat soup?”

“Yes. Delicious.”

“Borabay good cook. You eat more!”

“Where did you learn English?”

“My mother teach me.”

“You speak well.”

“I speak bad. But I learn from you and then I speak gooder.”

“Better,” said Sally.

“Thankee. I go to America someday with you, brother.”

It amazed Tom that way out here, as far removed from civilization as any place on earth, people still wanted to go to America.

Borabay glanced at Bugger, who was in his usual place in Tom’s pocket.

“This monkey cry and cry when you sick. What his name?”

“Hairy Bugger,” said Tom.

“Why you not eat this monkey when you starve?”

“Well, I’ve gotten fond of him.” said Tom. “He wouldn’t have been more than a mouthful anyway.”

“And why you call him Hairy Bugger? What is Hairy Bugger?”

“Er, that’s just a nickname for an animal with hair.”

“Good. I learn new word, Hairy Bugger. I want learn English.”

Sally said, “I want to learn English.”

“Thankee! You tell me when I mistake.” The Indian held out his finger to the monkey. Bugger grasped it in a tiny paw and looked up at him, then squeaked and ducked down into Tom’s pocket.

Borabay laughed. “Hairy Bugger think I want eat him. He know we Tara like monkey. Now I make food.” He went back to where he had dropped his game and collected it along with a pot. He withdrew a ways from the camp, squatted down and began skinning and quartering the animal, chucking everything into the pot including the guts and bones. Tom joined Sally at the fire.

“I’m still a little discombobulated here,” Tom said. “What happened? Where did Borabay come from?”

“I don’t know any more than you. Borabay found us all sick and dying under that log. He cleared the area, built the huts, moved us in, fed us, doctored us. He collected a huge number of herbs and even some weird insects—you can see them all tied up in the rafters of his hut—and he used those to make medicines. I was the first person to get well. That was two days ago, and I helped him cook and care for the rest of you. The fever we all had, this bisi, seems to be short but intense. It’s not malaria, thank God, and Borabay tells me it has no lasting effects and won’t recur. If you don’t die in the first two days it’s over. It seems that bisi is what killed Don Alfonso—he says that old people are more susceptible.”