Blood Sun (30 page)

Charlie did not flinch. “You understand English?” she asked.

He had not taken the knife from under her chin. “I speak it. I understand it. I went to school. You think we are savages here?”

Everyone in the room laughed.

“Then tell me why a handsome man like you would need a knife to get a kiss? All you have to do is ask politely,” she said.

The man smirked at his friends in the bar, then lowered the knife and looked at Charlie. “OK. I would like to have a kiss, please, pretty lady.”

Charlie smiled at him and lowered her face slightly. “This is called a Liverpool kiss,” she whispered quickly, before snapping her head forward and breaking his nose with her forehead. The man went flying backward, smashing into a table and chairs, where men scattered. Charlie stood her ground, tapped the bar counter with the bottle, gaining the attention of the barman, who, like everyone else, was watching the stricken man staggering to his feet, pushing away helping hands.

“Another beer,” she said, “to go.”

She would ask questions later. Right now she had what she needed.

Respect.

Max was ready. Flint would help him get to the cave through the back streams and rivers of the mountains where the shallow water could take no boat other than his own.

He now had a spear, food and water and a leather satchel made by one of the women. A curved panga-type knife for cutting through foliage, better than any machete, Flint had told him, sat firmly in a scabbard on his belt. But what Max
really needed, Flint said, was a specialized weapon to take into the hostile environment. In particular, a frog. A small blue frog.

Orsino Flint tiptoed quietly, barely disturbing the ground beneath his feet. As fast as a striking snake, his arm whipped out and caught the small creature. He gestured for Max to join him and eased a slim wooden dart along the frog’s skin. He did this with another four darts. “You use these in the blowpipe; it’s a neurotoxin. It’ll kill an animal and put a man down in a couple of minutes. You won’t kill him, but it will disable him for a couple of hours. Be careful how you handle them.”

He gave them to Max, who put them into a thin wooden tube used for carrying the blowpipe darts. He knew about indigenous people’s poisons from the time he spent in Africa with a Bushman boy. He tucked the tube into his waistband; the meter-long blowpipe was already nestled across his back on a thin cord. Flint handed him four small bunches of herbs wrapped in cotton.

“This is jackass bitters,” Flint told him, opening one of the packets. “You sprinkle the powder on any sores you get. You already know how bad an infection can get. And this”—he opened another small square of cloth—“this is if you get a wound.”

Max had put his nose to the crushed leaves. It was a mixture of subdued smells. “What is it?” he asked.

“Red clover and marigold with basil and amaranth. It’s what we put into your shoulder, remember?”

Max nodded. Everything you needed to survive in the jungle was there if you knew where to look, but there were plenty of things ready to cause you harm if you did not.

“OK. Time to go,” Flint said.

It was a wild boat ride. The propeller chopped the air and whirred them along at breakneck speed. Xavier had had no choice other than to accompany Max—Flint did not want him in the village. The boy had yelped with excitement for the first couple of minutes as Flint bent them round blind corners and skimmed vast flatbeds of green weed. And then Flint had opened the throttle and shown them what real speed was on a narrow, curving river that grew narrower with every kilometer that flashed by. Xavier fell silent, gripped the handrail and at times closed his eyes.

Max’s attention stayed glued to the blurring river. He was spotting exactly where Flint was taking them. Figuring out in his head, in split-second bursts, where the boat could founder and his quest could suddenly end. But Flint knew every river and its tributaries. He was as much at home in the jungle as the jaguar.

The river turned into smaller side streams, then into what were little more than shallow creeks. The tree canopy created a tunnel of cool, gloomy shade. The engine slowed and then the huge fan whirred gradually to a stop. They had been traveling for almost five hours, and now, as their hearing returned, they could hear the birdcalls again.

Flint let the boat’s momentum carry it onto a mud bank. “There are no crocs here. It’s too far upriver. Watch out for snakes and spiders.” The boat stopped. Xavier’s legs were shaky from the ride, and Max helped steady him as he climbed out of the boat.

Flint tied the boat’s mooring line to a tree and pushed on through the jungle, finding natural breaks, and the boys
followed. It was hard going on the steep, muddy bank, but Max reckoned this would probably turn out to be the easy bit.

After twenty minutes, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving from the exertion, Flint stopped and sank down onto his haunches. Xavier, who Max had had to pull up the last few meters, guzzled the water Flint offered him, spilling a lot of it down his chest. Max reached out and steadied his shaking hand. When they had all drunk and their breathing had settled, Flint crawled on another few meters and then pulled back a low branch.

Beyond this fringe of trees lay a wasteland, half a kilometer of cleared land, a deep red scar across the landscape.

“Armed men patrol this area. They have tree-cutting machinery; it chews the jungle, keeping it back, so they can see anyone who shouldn’t be here. No one is gonna get in there unless they are lucky, or unlucky.”

“Why? Just what is it that they don’t want people to see?”

Flint wiped the sweat from his face and shook his head. “I don’t know. But it ain’t worth dying for, that’s for sure.”

Max’s eyes scanned quickly across this devastated area to the soaring cliffs. Beyond the slashed land, dense forest blanketed the approach to the low foothills and stretched up to the higher peaks, which were almost bare of vegetation. The mountain range, two or three thousand meters high, swept beyond Max’s vision, but its curve told him that on the other side of those peaks was an amphitheater. A hidden place—forbidden, as Flint said.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

Flint nodded. “You can’t see the volcano today. There are
often clouds sitting up there. Lot of waterfalls make the rock wall impossible to climb.”

“You really gonna do this,
chico
? Goin’ up there? Man, I don’ think even your angels are gonna like that,” Xavier said.

Flint unfolded a piece of cloth that had a rough plan, simple but clear, drawn on it. “There’s no way in or out except three or four places, and that’s where people die.” His finger touched the map and then pointed to sections of the jungle-clad mountains. “That’s where the hummingbird god destroys them.”

How much to believe of ancient customs and legends? Max wondered. Something was killing people, but a bird god? It didn’t matter; from what Flint had told him, he’d chosen to take an even worse risk. “Where’s the Cave of the Stone Serpent?”

Flint pointed. “South, beyond this open area, into the forest. In those trees are lots of small creeks. No more than a meter deep. The mud’ll suck you down, but the big snakes lie in there. You understand me? They’ll crush you to death and swallow you. You have to get through there fast. It’s no more than a kilometer until there’s a sheer ravine. You watch out—it falls right out of the jungle, sixty meters down into the river. It’s fast; you can’t get a boat down there, but you stay on the low bank and when you hear the waterfall, you know the cave is there. It’s an open jaw, Max. It breathes smoke. You can smell the dead.…” Flint’s voice trailed off. His gaze held the cloud-topped mountains for a moment longer before looking back, regretfully, at Max. “I can’t go in there with you, son. You know that.”

Max nodded. He had to concentrate to keep his fear at bay. If he thought about what might happen, what could happen, through wild imaginings, he would not be able to get to his feet and go on. “What are the prevailing winds here?”

“Wind?” Flint asked.

“Look,” Max said, tugging out one of the pictures of his mother. “That’s the volcano behind her in the distance. The smoke’s curling to the right. If the wind comes from the west or the north, then this tells me she was in the southern part of these mountains. She might have even gone through the cave.”

Flint nodded. “Of course. Yes. This time of year, the north. But inside those mountains it can veer around. So, who knows? We get storms off the sea as well. The cave is south of the volcano.” He shrugged. Nothing was predictable.

Max put the picture back. “OK. It’s a start. Let’s get going.”

“I need a cigarette,” Xavier said.

“No more smoking,” Max said. “If there are men in there, they’ll smell the tobacco on you. We can’t take the risk.”

“Hey, cousin, I don’ wanna take any risk here. I wanna go home. You know, I got family, too, yeah?”

Flint offered a farewell handshake to Max. “I don’t want him. He’s yours.”

Xavier scowled. “Blood fall vein,” he said in Creole.

“What did he say?” asked Max.

Flint spat to one side, partly to rid himself of the small fly that had settled on his lips, but mostly in disgust. “Blood follows vein—he means relatives look out for each other.” Flint snorted. “Good luck, son. I’ll wait until you’re across; then
I’m out of here. But I’d watch my back with this one,” he said, looking at Xavier.

Xavier dared to point a finger at the grizzled face. “You bush crazy, you know that, plant man? You got weeds growing in your brain. This boy is my friend. I wouldn’t wanna stay with you even if you asked me nicely.”

Flint smiled at Max. “ ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’ ”

Xavier pleaded with Max. “You see? This guy has been smokin’ stuff that’s bad. An’ you trustin’ him to send you in there?”

“It’s Shakespeare.”

“I don’ care what it’s called—I just hope there was none of it mixed up in that cigarette you gave me.”

Max smiled but felt a stab of uncertainty. There had been moments when being with Orsino Flint was the safest refuge he had had in days. Now he was going back to a violent environment. The moment passed. Fear was a good thing—it would keep him alert and alive along with the inflamed energy of anger he felt for his dad.
He would not run away
. That thought drove him to his feet, and he ran across the barren, exposed ground.

Xavier was startled by Max’s aggressive burst of energy. The boy looked primal, caked in sweat and dirt, armed with blowpipe and bush panga, carrying the flint-headed spear, hair plastered to his head and with a wild look in his eye. It made Xavier think twice about following him. Orsino Flint grabbed his shirtfront and pulled his face close to his own.

“Get out of here, drug scum. You ever come back, I make you croc bait.” He shoved Xavier out of cover. Like an
uncoordinated bird fallen from the nest, Xavier stumbled, arms floundering, but then gave chase to Max, who was already halfway across the wasteland. More than anything else, he did not want to go where Max was going, but he could not stay with Flint.

Max did not look back. He wanted the safety of the trees and prayed hostile eyes were not watching his pounding approach. He made it to the edge of the forest and ran in a couple of meters before stopping, turning and looking back for Xavier. He saw the gangly kid run across, and in the distance Orsino Flint eased back a tree branch and disappeared. As Xavier ran, Max saw him turn his head to one side. He faltered, and fell, sprawling into the dirt.

He got to his feet, confused, and then ran on, looking wildly for where Max might be. His uncertainty made Max step back into the open. He raised his spear arm, and the boy swerved to run toward him. As Max grabbed him and yanked him into cover, Xavier coughed and wheezed, shaking with exertion. “There’s someone comin’!”

Max pulled him down. “Don’t move. Stay absolutely still, whatever you do. There may be men in the trees as well.”

Now Max could hear the sound of a pickup truck approaching. He moved position slightly so he could see down the wasteland. At first he saw only the plume of dust from the vehicle, but then, as he raised his head slightly through the cover, he saw the open-backed 4×4. Two men in the front, two more in the back, all of them armed. Maybe this was a routine patrol, but it was very bad timing as far as Max was concerned. The pickup truck slowed. A man in the back was pointing at something ahead of the vehicle. And then they
stopped almost opposite the place where Max and Xavier were hiding.

“What they doin’?” Xavier whispered.

“I don’t know,” replied Max, keeping his eyes on the men who now climbed out of the vehicle. One of them was pointing to something on the ground. He bent down and picked up something that glistened in the sunlight. It took Max a second to realize what it was, and as he did so, Xavier’s hand went to his neck.

“My gold chain,” the boy muttered.

The men were studying the ground. Max could hear them talking, and then they looked up toward the trees. They had seen the boys’ tracks. No sense in hiding now; they would be caught in a couple of minutes. Max grabbed Xavier’s shoulder. “Come on. Run for it!”

The boy faltered. In that brief moment, Max saw the fear on his face: he did not want to run into the jungle, but then he smiled. “It’s OK, it’s OK! I know a couple of those guys. They’ve worked with my brother. Max, you go on—I’ll be OK here. They can take me back with them. I won’t say anything. I’ll cover for you. I can get home now.”

Xavier’s smile broadened. He squeezed Max’s arm. “I can keep these guys off your back,
chico
. You get outta here. Go on! I’ll never forget you, cousin.” And before Max could stop him, Xavier ran out into the open, waving and calling to the men. In an instant, weapons were raised to their shoulders and Xavier had the good sense to stand still and raise his hands above his head. “Ronaldo! Alonso! It’s me! Xavier Garcia!”

All the men lowered their weapons except one, who kept
an eye on the jungle, the butt of a pump-action shotgun on his shoulder. Max held his breath. The men had reached Xavier, and they seemed to be smiling. He heard them greet each other and embrace, and then Xavier began telling his story, never looking back to where Max lay hidden.