Fallen Idols (49 page)

“Buenos días
,” Tom said, extending his hand.

“Buenos días
,” Oscar replied, smiling self-consciously. Several of his teeth were missing.

“Oscar will be your guide,” Manuel explained. “You can trust him as completely as you trust me. He is armed, but don't worry about that. In our country, all men like Oscar carry a weapon. It is like you carrying a comb in yours.”

They piled into Manuel's minivan and drove out of the city in the opposite direction from which they had come. In a few minutes, they were in open countryside again. The Jungle was even closer to the road than it had been on the ride to the airport, almost right on top of them.

Soon the asphalt topping was gone and the road was dirt again. It felt like they were riding on a washboard. As they dropped down into a low valley, the forest, which had been cut back from the road, came up to the very redge.

“There,” Manuel proclaimed, pointing out the windshield.

An eight-foot gash, barely wide enough for a vehicle to drive through, had been hacked into the forest. Manuel turned onto it.

“This is as far as I can take you,” he told them. He pointed to a barely perceptible trail that led into the jungle. “This will take you to where you need to go.”

The brothers and Oscar got out of the van. Tom and Clancy rubbed on mosquito repellent and sunscreen, shouldered their backpacks, and stretched their legs.

The pack that Oscar pulled on, in contrast to theirs, was almost comically enormous. It sat on his shoulders and back like a huge boulder. The weight of it didn't seem to faze him.

“Oscar is carrying the supplies you will need,” Manuel told them. “I will be back here in five days, in case you complete your journey faster than I expect. It will be an extremely formidable journey,” he cautioned them. “But I know you will succeed. You are your father's sons.”

They climbed into the mountains, following the narrow trail. The grade was gentle. Oscar led the way, stoically putting one foot after the other. Clancy and Tom followed single-file, taking care not to stray from the path. The low buzz of insects was a constant presence, along with the sounds of their feet trudging along the trail, and their rhythmic breathing.

After half an hour they reached a bend in the trail, and as they came around it they knew that the easy part was over. Ahead of them the dirt scar headed straight up the mountain at a breathtakingly steep slope, the switchbacks climbing the mountain in tightly woven lattices.

Oscar pointed in the direction they were heading. “Very difficult,” he said in Spanish. “Very slow.”

Tom turned to Clancy, who shook his head. “You don't need to translate that for me,” Clancy said. “It's going to be a bitch of a climb.”

Oscar pulled a water bottle from his pack and passed it to Tom. “Drink,” he said.

Tom uncapped the bottle, then hesitated. “How much water did you bring?” he asked, concerned that they not drink too much too early and run out.

“There is plenty,” Oscar assured him. “And higher up, there are streams to drink from. It is important you drink water now, or you will be sick later.”

Tom and Clancy drank their fill. Tom extended the bottle to Oscar. Their guide shook his head. “I do not need it as much as you, because I am used to this,” he explained.

Within a few minutes, they were sweating freely and breathing heavily. Oscar, in contrast, didn't seem to be having a hard time, in spite of carrying what Tom estimated to be at least sixty pounds of equipment on his back. This guy's a human burro, he marveled, watching the small man move along, one solid step after the other.

Their breathing came harder as they climbed. Rivers of sweat ran down their arms, bodies, legs. Their hearts were pounding like steam pistons in their chests. They could feel the muscles in their thighs turning to cement.

They continued up the mountain for over an hour before the trail leveled out again. Then they collapsed onto their backs, gasping, fighting the impulse to puke.

Oscar squatted nearby, breathing deeply but comfortably. “From here, not so difficult,” he told Tom.

“That's a blessing,” Tom answered. He translated for Clancy, who acknowledged with a groan. Tom prided himself on being in great shape, but this was beyond any physical undertaking he'd ever attempted. Running a marathon was a piece of cake compared to this.

After a few minutes of rest, Oscar strapped his pack on and motioned for Clancy and Tom to do the same. Tom pulled his pack back on. It felt like he was lugging anvils. He pulled Clancy to his feet and helped him get into his puck straps. After another drink of water, they started off again.

They were in the fullness of the rain forest now, the tree canopy so dense they couldn't see the sun. They were soaked with sweat from head to foot, their clothes black from their own salty water. Gradually, without initially realizing it, they started adapting to their forced march—it became easier. It was still grueling, but they no longer were in the throes of imminent collapse. They started noticing their surroundings, particularly the abundant and varied bird life: they were in an ornithological wonder-world. Oscar knew every bird in the rain forest, calling out each species by name as they came into sight. He identified scarlet macaws and bluewater herons, graceful Collared aracaris, yellow-chest parrots. They saw extraordinary clusters of toucans, Tocos and Keel Bills and Rainbows as big as crows, their songs ugly, loud, grating, as they flew overhead from tree to tree.

Tom took out his camera. “If I had known we were going to be doing this, I'd have brought a longer lens,” he said to Clancy, as he finished shooting a roll of film and started on another. “This is priceless.”

“You can always come back.”

Tom shook his head. “When this trip is over I don't think I'll ever come back here again. It's beautiful, but there are too many bad memories.”

Darkness was falling. They couldn't see the sun but they could tell it was setting from the diminishing strength of the shafts of light that filtered through the thick rain forest canopy.

Tom looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past five o'clock. They had been walking for almost eight hours. He calculated that with the exception of the initial steep climb up the switchbacks, they had been walking at about a twenty-minute-a-mile pace: three miles an hour. By this reckoning, they had already traversed more than twenty miles. And according to what Manuel had told them, they had covered less than half of their journey.

Off to the right, an even smaller path had been hacked into the jungle. Oscar turned off the trail, onto the narrow path.

“Through here,” he said over his shoulder. “Not far.”

They followed him, pushing aside the dense foliage that whipped across their faces, until they reached a small clearing in which stood a single thatched hut, similar to the ones they had slept in at La Chimenea and other sites, but not as sturdily constructed.

“We will stay here tonight,” Oscar informed them.

“Who made this?” Tom asked, looking around. “And why out here?”

“It was built by people who travel through this region,” Oscar explained, somewhat cryptically. “Whoever comes by, uses it.”

“Whoever comes by?” Tom asked, incredulous. “How many people come by here?”

“Not many. Those that need to. Like us.”

There was a low open doorway. No windows. The floor was dirt. Outside, a fire-pit had been dug, ringed with blackened stones. Tom and Clancy ducked down, went into the small, dark hut, and dropped their packs onto the floor.

“All the comforts of home,” Clancy observed.

“Beats sleeping outside.”

“I'm not complaining. I'm happy to be stopping.”

Outside, Oscar gathered some firewood and started a fire in the pit. Tom and Clancy watched him fan the flames until the tinder caught and ignited the dry tree branches and other scraps of wood. When he was satisfied the fire was going, he opened his huge pack and took out an old shotgun. “I will be back shortly,” he told them. Within seconds he had disappeared into the jungle.

“What do you think he's doing?” Clancy asked.

“Hell if I know.” Tom sat down on a rotting tree trunk. “It doesn't matter. We're at his mercy.”

“This is a damn strange situation.”

“Strange it is,” Tom agreed. “But here we are. Manuel told us we can trust him, and we have to. We're going on blind faith here, Clance.”

In the near distance the evening sky exploded with the sound of a shotgun blast. A moment later, another blast rent the air.

They sprang to their feet as they heard the sound of someone approaching. Oscar, smiling broadly, emerged into the clearing. Over one shoulder he carried his shotgun. On his other he hefted two large birds. The diminutive guide held the birds up.

“Turkey,” he proclaimed. “For dinner.”

Oscar plucked and cleaned the birds, cut them into pieces, and cooked them over the fire. He had brought potatoes with him, which he also threw into the flames. In a little more than an hour, they were feasting off the fat of the land.

Oscar shook them awake. “We have to go now.”

They rolled out of the hammocks Oscar had provided for them, stumbled to their feet, and went out. They had slept soundly, exhausted from the day's heavy hiking and sated with the gamy, tasty birds they had gorged themselves on.

Oscar had bivouacked outside. They had invited him to join them inside the hut, but he had declined. Now he handed them slices of mango. They ate greedily, the juice running down their chins.

They rolled their sleeping bags up and secured their packs. “How much longer before we get to where you're taking us?” Tom asked Oscar, who was stomping out the last embers of the fire.

Oscar held up a forefinger. “Maybe one more day.”

“Another day of this?” Clancy asked, sign-reading.

Tom nodded. “Or more.”

After four hours of dogged slogging, through humidity so thick they could almost drink it, they came to a dark, muddy-looking river. This was no small stream they could easily ford. It was deep and wide and fast-flowing. Eyeballing it, Tom figured it to be close to fifty yards across. They stood on the bank above the water, looking at the whitecapped torrent as it cascaded by.

“Jesus,” Clancy exclaimed. “We're not gonna …”

Tom shook his head in agreement with his brother's apprehensive concern. He turned to Oscar. “Are we supposed to
swim
across?” he asked in disbelief.

Oscar looked at him as if he was crazy. “No!” he answered incredulously. “You would drown.”

“Then what …?”

Oscar put up a hand that meant “take it easy.” He looked across the river, to the other side. Then he formed a megaphone with his hands around his mouth and called out in a Mayan dialect. His voice resounded loud and clear above the cacophonous jungle noises.

A voice called back to them, in the same language. Oscar turned to Clancy and Tom. “They will be here in a few minutes,” he announced with a relieved smile.

“Who is
they
?” Tom asked apprehensively.

“My friends who will take you to the man you have come to see.”

A small flatbed boat, powered by a noisy outboard motor belching gasoline exhaust fumes in its wake, came toward them from the other side of the river. Two young men were in it—one navigating it, the other standing in the bow, staring at them with a fierce demeanor. Both men were armed to the teeth, full bandoliers draped across their chests and automatic rifles in their hands.

The brothers stared at the oncoming boat with trepidation as it approached. “This does not look good,” Clancy murmured.

Tom, although as unnerved as his brother, was determined not to let anything impede them, even the possibility (remote, he hoped, since Manuel, who loved his father like a brother, had set this up) of being kidnapped or killed. “Too late to turn back,” he answered, as he kept his eyes locked on their approaching escorts. “We're in the hands of the gods now.”

The boat glided to a stop at the edge of the riverbank. The bowman threw Oscar a line. Oscar pulled it tight, securing the boat against the bank. “Get in,” he instructed Clancy and Tom.

Tom stepped onto the gunwale and jumped into the center of the boat. Clancy followed. The bowman and the navigator watched them, their black eyes unblinking. Oscar lithely jumped in. He gave the bowman a brief, brotherly hug, nodded to the navigator, who waved to him and smiled. Oscar and the bowman spoke to each other in their Mayan dialect, Oscar gesticulating toward the brothers, the other answering.

Oscar turned to Clancy and Tom. “Sit down,” he ordered them.

They sat on a narrow bench in the center of the boat. The navigator turned the boat around, opened the throttle, and steered them toward the far shore.

The bowman jumped onto a dock on the other side of the river that was hidden under a protective canopy of low-hanging branches and tied up the small vessel. Oscar, Clancy, and Tom followed him. The navigator got out last. He took the spark plug out of the engine and slipped it into a shirt pocket. He spoke again to Oscar, pointing to the brothers. Oscar smiled and answered in return, shaking his head as if in bemusement.

“They want to know you aren't going to try to jump them and take their weapons,” he explained. “I promised them you would not.”

“Tell him not to worry,” Tom answered. “That's the last thing we'd do.”

Oscar relayed the message to their two bandoliered escorts. The bowman spat a thick stream of dark tobacco juice on the ground in response. He said something in Mayan.

“They don't trust you, even though I have vouched for you,” Oscar explained. “They are going to keep a close watch on you.”

As if to emphasize what Oscar had just said, both men jacked a round into the chambers of their rifles.

Tom put up a quick cautionary hand. “Tell them not to freak out on us, okay? We're not going to do anything stupid. We just want to find out whatever it is we're supposed to find out, that's all.”

“I told them that already,” Oscar said. “But still, they don't trust you. They have had too many bad encounters with people like you—people from outside their world who come to plunder and destroy and then leave.”