Sacrifice to the Emerald God (31 page)

      The one that had entered the bog first and gotten the furthest into it before realizing what was happening was now up to his waist in the muck. He was screaming and pleading frantically. “Help! Please! Help! Someone! Please!” The other men started yelling and screaming desperately. Margie watched as they sank lower and lower into their doom. The bright moonlight cast an eerie glow over the frantic men. A sort of calm came over her. She was happy that the evil men were meeting their just demise. She saw Armando struggling mightily to free himself, a look of terror across his face. “Go to the devil!” she yelled at him. “He will welcome you and you’ll burn forever! Burn for poor Carmelita and all the others that you tortured and tormented! Burn for all time for your sins!”

      The panicked, tall, sophisticated man had lost all of his aplomb. He realized that he was about to meet the fate that he had for so long anticipated. But he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He knew what the devil would have in store for him. “
There must be some way out!
” he thought frantically. “
I’ve got to get free!
”

      The man in the front had sunk to his chin in the muck. His hands desperately floundered around him as he sought purchase from something, anything. He screamed as the morass rose above his mouth, a bloodcurdling, bone chilling scream and then, suddenly, he went silent.

      The disappearance of the man in front caused the other men to struggle all that more desperately. Their efforts only doomed them all the more quickly. One by one they gave out a desperate scream and then disappeared below the surface of the bog.

      There was a loud crash behind them and Margie turned and saw the huge body of the green god standing at the edge of the morass. She had sunk to her waist, but had gone down slower than Armando who had never ceased trying to pull himself free. They were the last two left.

      “Help me!” he shouted to the Emerald God. “For all that is holy, please, don’t let me die! Please!”

      The green god, his anger diffused, leaned over and, as gentle as if he were picking up a tiny, ceramic doll, lifted Margie free of the morass. He placed her down softly away from danger. He then turned his attention to Armando. The gluey, bottomless substance had come up to his chin. He was sputtering and coughing and waving his hands above him. The giant reached out his hand and, with two of his huge fingers, like he was picking up a dime from the street, grabbed the man’s body and lifted him up until he was free.

      “Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!” Armando called out. Delicately, the giant removed the satchel from Armando’s shoulder that contained the diamonds. He placed the canvas bag at Margie’s feet. And then, turning back to Armando he lowered his hand again, placing his kicking, frantic feet back into the gooey morass.

      Armando shouted pleadingly, “No! No! Please help me! Please!” as he began to sink once more inexorably into the bog. When the evil killer had sunk down to the level of his shoulders, screaming and begging piteously for help, the great, green god leaned over once more and extended his huge, stone hand. Using his thumb, just like squashing the life out a despised bug, he pushed the evil man’s head down into the muck. Armando had only time to release one frantic wail and then, as his head was pressed beneath the surface of the morass, his voice was silenced. Margie watched happily as his arms waved fruitlessly above him, his hands desperately seeking purchase on air. Slowly, they ceased their frenetic activity and then disappeared from view.

* * *

Life went on, for Margie and the villagers, much like it had before. The now blessed, white woman continued her duties as their communal concubine. If Margie had found satisfaction and pleasure in her unique role amongst the tribe, her pleasure was now redoubled as she longed for the return of the full moon. Each night, as she was led to one of the native huts for a prolonged session of lustful rutting, she watched the sky, measuring first the pale, round orb’s waning and then it’s slow, but sure, renewal.

      As to Armando’s boat, the tribe carefully dismantled it, taking apart each plank, removing each steel plate until all that was left was its hull and engines. They pulled it into the middle of the river and, after puncturing its bottom, let it sink. They dug a huge pit about a mile away from the village and, after reassembling the boat right down to its shiny, steel horn, and after the recitation of traditional curses over it by the shaman, buried it and all that it contained in place.

      The priestess continued her lessons in the village’s customs and language and continued to draw the white woman further and further into her thrall during their sessions in the woman’s hut. The men and women of the tribe treated their sacred whore with reverence and gentleness, smiling and caressing her whenever she passed, feeding her sweet delicacies whenever the priestess was not looking. Even the old man greeted her with a new respect. For she had brought the green god, Guarito, back to life and the prosperity of the village had been secured. Margie had been encouraged to explain to the shaman how Armando had followed her to the village and, after hours of carefully examining the brass ring around her neck, he had figured out how to remove the GPS device from it and happily smashed it on the ground.

      Margie’s mind continued to separate itself from her past experiences as a college professor and civilized woman of the 21
st
century. Any thought of returning to the comparatively colorless and sedate life of a married professor of anthropology seemed a mere dream. It seemed peculiar to her, though, that when she looked the day after Armando’s demise for evidence of the giant green god’s passing, the smashed trees, his footsteps in the jungle mud, they were not there. Had she imagined it? Had she imagined the whole thing under the influence of the priestess’s psychedelic drug? Was she the victim of some kind of psychosis brought on by the mesmerizing concoctions that she was fed several times a day and the priestess’s sly, cunning coaxing? She had a scanty recollection from immediately after her rescue by the Emerald God, as if from a dream, of the village’s men standing in a small circle watching Armando sink below the bog, green masks covering the upper portions of their faces, long obsidian tipped spears in their hands, the heavy, insistent sound of the village’s drums beating behind them.

      But these doubts came only to Margie during her brief bouts of lucidity, which were becoming fewer and farther in between. The rest of the time, she had no doubts as to the reality of her memories of her long, blissful encounter with the Emerald God or his intervention to save her and the village’s treasure. And she reveled in her life of sexual pleasure with the loving, passionate brown skinned folk. Each time that she was driven to climax, whether at the hands of the priestess or her assistants, in the arms of one of the women of the village, or at night while servicing the fervent cocks of the lustful, virile native men, her mind and body recalled the ecstasy to which the green god had delivered her. Whether it was her mouth subsuming their hardened manhoods or being plowed by them while their wives waited next to them for their turn, it was the god’s thick, hard, pleasure giving cock that she recalled.

      One morning, after treating Margie to a session of the smoking tree bark and breathing her love and affection into her “little white niece”, the priestess led Margie out into the compound. Three of the village men were standing there waiting for her. One of them was the tall, strong, scar faced man who had led the team of natives who had first brought Margie to her new home. The priestess had bound Margie’s hands in front of her by the rope that she had come with and handed its end to the leader. Margie had never been told any of the villager’s names. It was taboo. But she had made up her own appellations for them and she had dubbed this strong, virile man, ‘Oscar”, for lack of a better name. The man waited while the priestess placed the drug filled bladder in Margie’s happily accepting mouth, binding it in place with a leather thong, and then led her by the leash from the center of the village.

      The village was surrounded by tall, verdant trees. Margie, her head swimming from the effects of the fever inducing drug, watched as one of the men began to climb the tallest tree that sat at the village’s edge. Oscar threw the rope that led to her wrists over a branch and, using the free end, began to haul her into the air. She felt her feet swing free of the ground and gave a moan of surprise as she felt herself being lifted up into the tree. Her mouth instinctively closed on the drug filled bladder in her mouth and her mind swooned with its effects.

      Slowly, but surely, the men brought Margie higher and higher up into the tree. When they reached the highest point at which they could safely rest, they freed Margie’s bound hands only to tie them off to two widely spaced branches in front of her. They then tied her ankles apart leaving her in a kneeling position, leaning forwards slightly as if poised to leap from the dizzying height.

      Margie looked down through the dense foliage. She was, she guessed, over 60’ up into the air. She had a view into the village compound and could see the priestess and her acolytes, the shaman and several of the other villagers assembling in a small semi-circle.

      The dazed, white captive wondered fearfully what was happening. Her thoughts were interrupted from time to time as she was forced to swallow the leakage from the tautly filled bladder in her mouth, or as one of the men stroked her soft, white skin, fondled one of her freely dangling, plump breasts or caressed the smooth, hairless lips of her sex.

       She had knelt there for about three quarters of an hour before she saw some movement from the edge of the village. A man dressed like a soldier in a jungle camouflage uniform with tall, black boots and carrying at port display an automatic rifle, cautiously advanced from the trees. It was from the direction of the river, the same place where Armando had come from. The soldier, his head capped with a camouflaged, canvas hat, was followed by two more and then two more, until ten of them had emerged from the dense, green growth. They fanned out, searching through the huts as they came.

      At the tail end of the procession, came two more men. One, obviously the soldiers’ commander, wore a black brimmed officer’s cap and had a sidearm strapped around his waist. The other man, hatless, with wavy black hair, was dressed in civilian clothes, tan shorts, brown hiking boots and a yellow, knit shirt. To Margie’s dazed mind, there was something familiar about him.

       As his men searched all of the huts, the officer and the civilian stood in the middle of the compound talking. When the soldiers returned from their searches, one of them held in his hand two familiar objects. Margie even from the great distance, realized at once what they were. They were her pretty, imported, Italian sandals. She had not seen or thought of them since the first day of her arrival.

      The soldier handed the sandals to the officer who looked at them for a moment and then handed them to the civilian. All at once, Margie recognized him. It was Tom!

      “
Oh my god! Oh my God!
” Margie thought. “
He’s come to save me!
” She pulled desperately at her bonds and tried to scream to him, but her wrists and ankles were firmly affixed to the branches of the tree and her mouthing of her supplications to her husband resulted only in a surge of the mind numbing, sexually entrancing fluids from the bladder in her mouth. “….om! …om!” she tried to cry. “..mmmm ere! ….mmmmm …ere!” She shook and contorted her captured body in weak but frantic frustration, realizing that there was no way that he or any of the men below could hear her. her efforts resulted only in a surge of the effects of the potent drug in her mouth, making her mind swoon and her body ache with sexual need.

      Down below in the village compound, the officer spoke to the tall, well built gringo who had led them on this desperate mission. “Do you recognize them,
Signor
?”

      “Yes,” Tom said excitedly. “They’re Marjorie’s. I know it! She’s got to be here somewhere!”

      “We’ll see,” said the credulous officer. He looked at the tribal elders all assembled peaceably in a half circle, sitting quietly and watching them as if they had been expected. The officer had spent years posted to a remote Brazilian outpost and he had grown wary of the primitive Indians who lived deep within the forests. Inscrutable was the word that he used most often to describe them in his letters to his family and friends. They had great reason to distrust the white men. He himself had often enjoyed the youthful, pleasant bodies of women who had been captured by traders in these largely unexplored regions and sold to brothels in the border towns. There was something animalistic about them and it was said that you should never turn your back on them or leave your knife within their reach. But it was great fun to fuck them.

      The officer took a seated position before the tribal elders and urged Tom to do the same. Tom was still excitedly fondling Margie’s sandals. It had taken a long time to arrange this expedition. Three weeks after Margie’s disappearance, her passport and wedding ring had shown up in the local black market in
Cotabaya
. A prolonged, painful session between the rascal who had sold them and the Chief of Police had produced the fact that it had been purchased in the outlaw town of
Porto Vaca
. The police chief politely explained to Tom that the Wild West town was out of his jurisdiction. “It’s in Brazil,” he explained resignedly.