Stained River (11 page)

Connery made a decision, one that could save his life. The prisoner was obviously an enemy of the warrior clan and he remembered a saying from many years before:

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

What was taking place not far away was horrible. At the same time, it presented an opportunity for both him and the unknown man being tortured to death. No doubt, the same fate awaited him if he was caught. He would take an enormous risk and try to rescue him. What was there to lose? He couldn't find his way back alone, had no idea where he was, other than somewhere in the rainforest, and
it could be days before a rescue operation. It was a bold chance but one worth taking.
He’s my ticket out
.

He waited a few long hours until the camp quieted
. When he thought it was safe, he stuck the knife under his belt, grabbed his spear and survival pack and exited the luggage hold. He avoided the cabin, not wanting to face its gruesomeness, or any animals that might remain there. Instead, he would drop from the gaping hole in the front of the craft where the cockpit had broken away, quietly circle the clearing and approach the captive from behind.

Fires that lit the night a short while ago,
had died to embers. Somewhere, a screeching owl made its familiar sound, and a three quarter moon faintly lit the jungle floor. He stared into blackness, the ground at least twelve feet away; too high to jump in his condition. He dropped to his knees, then eased himself over the ledge until he hung by his fingertips, then released his hold, gasping when he hit the ground. Luckily, the rains had moistened the soil, softening his fall. Iridescent eyes of a giant frog glowed eerily, as if watching his every move. He avoided it and several others, then worked his way around the encampment, keeping a wary eye for guards. He came to thick, dense bush directly behind the camp. Distantly, he heard the sound of the stream that had led him there, now louder after the rain. If the captive was in the middle of the clearing and guarded closely, he would have to abandon his plan and head into the jungle alone. But that wasn’t the case. Connery found him at the edge of camp. The odds were now more in his favor, but only slightly.

At
the far side of the clearing, he saw the man, tied to a tree, unguarded. His head hung low on his chest. Connery didn't know if he was asleep, unconscious, or near death. He inched closer, knowing the native might be frightened if he saw a man with white skin. When no more than five feet away, he made a rustling sound by moving branches and leaves. The captive turned his head and looked directly at him, startled for a moment at the man’s different look. Connery tensed. What would come next? He didn’t know what else to do other than bring his forefinger to his lips in a gesture to remain quiet, hoping the man would understand. Then he withdrew the sharp knife, pitching it beside the man’s leg- an offer of liberation that couldn’t be misunderstood.

Though surprised,
Teman-e barely moved.
Who would do this? Maybe Guardara did send someone to rescue me
. He remained totally mystified. Every muscle in his body was taut.

Connery waited for a reaction
and took a deep breath. Teman-e met his eyes, but he remained silent. Connery opened a bottle of water from his backpack, knowing the prisoner must be thirsty. He held the bottle to Teman-e's lips and he drank. When he finished, he raised his eyes in a gesture of thanks, at the same time straining to recognize his benefactor. Connery pulled on the cords that tied his hands, then pointed to the knife. The strong hemp proved difficult to cut. While he worked on it, both heard a noise. Someone was coming. Connery retreated out of sight. A warrior wearing face paint walked up to his prisoner, said something indistinguishable, kicked him, then urinated on him as if to steal every last shred of his dignity. Laughing, he uttered a few derisive words, then walked away.

When
he was gone, Connery finished cutting the cords then gestured for them to leave in a hurry. At most, they might have a slight head start before the guard returned. Both bolted in the direction of the river. Teman-e moved as fast as anyone could in dense jungle at night. While his body was burned, bruised, and cut, his torturers hadn't gotten around to scorching the soles of his feet. His initial torture was only the beginning. Intent on putting as much distance as possible between him and the Wakawakatieri, he quickened the pace.

Connery struggled to
keep up but soon fell far behind. Winded, he wanted to call out, then thought better of it. To cry out would alert others. For a brief moment, he considered jettisoning the backpack but rejected the thought since it contained too many items critical to his survival. His lungs bursting, he reached the limit of his endurance and collapsed, gasping for breath. The Indian vanished into the night. The gamble had failed. Somewhere close by, he heard the sound of flowing water, barely audible.
The ungrateful son of a bitch!
Alone and out of ideas, he concluded it was a stupid plan anyway.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Next morning, he stared into nothingness. Maybe he should have thrown the supply pack away, then he could have kept up.  He checked its contents; they were meager. Cheese and crackers would be his breakfast, along with some bottled water. The packaged food might last a few days if he was careful. There were hostiles in the area. He was on guard, sure they were looking for their escaped captive. Somehow, he himself had eluded them. He was fortunate they hadn’t discovered him while he slept. His grand plan had failed, but then it never had that much chance of success anyway, or so he convinced himself. He knew he must keep moving, follow the sun and make sure he didn't travel in circles. Eventually, he might come to a place where there were friendly people and ask for help.

Unknown to him, he was entering one of the most inhospitable regions in the world
; a wild, untamed region. Once lost in it, few men walked out alive. Those who did, gave it a name, ‘
Lugar de la Muerte’,
Place of Death.

The jungle closed in.
There was no discernible trail. The further he went, the more dense and moisture dripped it became. Enormous trees, draped with low hanging moss and vines, formed an entangled web. Black monkeys followed him, swinging from branch to branch, vine to vine. The ground was muddy, and the running shoes he found earlier were continually soaked. He took them off frequently, trying to keep his feet dry, but it was no use. They were inflamed and sore.

Around midafternoon, he came to a once narrow river, now beginning to swell from recent rains
further west. He decided to cross. His shoes were wet anyway, so he kept them on to avoid stepping on sharp stones with bare feet. He was careful to maintain his balance, but the further he got, the faster the water moved. About midway, he was chest high, forced to use the butt end of his spear to maintain balance. Surging water and pull of the current, made him pause and rethink trying to cross at that particular place. Somewhere further up might be better.

H
is next step plunged him into a deep hole in the river bottom. Falling into the fast moving current, it carried him away, arms flailing. He lost his grip on the spear, tried to grab it, but didn't succeed. Several yards beyond, he reached for a low hanging vine, but missed. It took him another fifty yards before the current subsided. He waded to the opposite bank, then sat on a log, tired, out of breath. He lost the spear, but at least his backpack was safe. He unzipped it, discarding a partially opened waterlogged package of snacks. He threw the mess into the river. Immediately a large carp leaped two feet in the air and gulped the food. He poured water from the pack, emptied its contents, carefully laying each item on the ground. The unopened snack food was intact and dry. That would be the evening meal. When it was gone, he would resort to more creative methods of finding food.

He removed his shoes and stared at his feet, now s
wollen and bright red. They continued to plague him. Over the following days, he would develop jungle rot from the dampness and bacteria, making it near impossible to walk. He stripped off his clothing, laid the pants and shirt on the ground, covered them with branches, then camouflaged himself the same way. Naked, he peered through the leaves, watched the fast flowing water and tried once more to collect his thoughts. He was vulnerable as he lay hidden for what seemed like hours, mosquitoes and flies feasting on his exposed skin. Without clothes, he became an even more tempting banquet.  Unable to stand it any longer, he dressed in the still damp pants and shirt and thought,
what will it take to get out of this Godforsaken place?
He had no answer and knew little, except that his experiment was a failure. The confidence he had in his survival skills the first night was eroding quickly. Even a simple attempt to dry his clothing had failed.

With sundown, the forest cooled. He shivered
, but a fire was out of the question. Would the lighter even work? A large centipede, as long as his forefinger, crawled onto his chest. For a moment, he contemplated its ugliness, wondered if it had any awareness at all, then brushed it away. He gathered some palm fronds for a makeshift bed. Strangely, the insects stopped biting, and there were no more visits by centipedes.

As he gazed toward the rushing water, he became
aware of something that looked familiar. About fifteen feet off shore, was his spear. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Amazingly, it had wedged between two large rocks. He threw off the branches, jumped to his feet, dove into the water and retrieved it. The familiar weapon brought a measure of relief to his darkened mood. He placed it by his side, listened to the sounds of the jungle, the roar of a rushing river. Exhaustion took over, and he slept.

Sometime during
the night, the cry of a wild animal woke him. After that, sleep wouldn’t come. It was just as well. He heard human voices not far away. Unknowingly, he had thrown off the palm fronds. Even in the night jungle, the whiteness of his skin would give him away. Quietly, he covered himself and melded with the earth. The voices passed within feet from where he lay hidden. Surely, they must belong to the wrong people. Another hour passed before he dared move a muscle.

Not far away, Teman-e too lay hidden, thinking he knew the mind of the Wakawakatieri. They would waste no time tracking him down. All he could think of was Naru and his children. They were in danger with Uxhomeb and his men only a day's walk to the village. He would get back but couldn't risk leading those
sons of pigs
to where they would murder, kidnap, and rape.

Hours before, after his escape and unexpected freedom, he ran in a direction he knew
to be dangerous, a place his people avoided. But this was his chance to elude his pursuers once and for all. He was given that chance by a strange looking man who set him loose, spared him unthinkable torture and saved his life. Faster, faster he had moved that night, branches cutting his face. Somewhere behind was the man, but he didn't wait. First, he had to distance himself from them. The man was a distraction to his thinking and instinct for survival. Carelessly, he tripped on an exposed root, fell headlong down a steep embankment, and rolled to a bottom that embraced him with forest mulch. He lay still, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. The ground was dank and slimy, water dripped from leaves onto his face. He tried not to make a sound for fear they would find him. As his breathing slowed and became normal, he thought more about the man who freed him. Something was different about him.
What was it?
He remembered the gestures, the sweet tasting water. Where was he from? Hadn’t the man ran with him for a while, followed behind, wanting to escape too? Did he abandon him after getting his help? Were it not for him, he would be dead. During that long night lying at the bottom of the crevasse, he decided to go back. Someone had risked his own life to save his. To do otherwise was not in him.

Maybe it was right for another reason. The
Wakawakatieri were shrewd. If he wasn’t bold and took risks, they would find him. Of that, he was sure. It made sense to double back toward where he last saw the man, something they wouldn’t expect. He estimated how long he had been running, how far he traveled and had a rough idea of where his rescuer might be. But had he crossed the river? He crept through bushes, branches, and vines so thick they continually scraped the tortured areas of his body. With daylight, he bent to his hands and knees, listened for sounds that might lead him, but heard nothing.

For Connery, it was the fourth morning of his struggle to stay alive. The truce with the insects ended. Once again, he slapped at mosquitoes and his mood worsened. Rummaging through his pack was becoming a habit. This time he checked the lighter. It worked. The camera was in a waterproof case; no damage to the batteries. He didn't know why, but it was going to come in handy. The roll of gauze was soaked, but ointments and other medicines were all safe in their own containers. Suddenly, he bent with a sharp pain in his stomach then his bowels emptied in a watery fluid. He thought back. Drinking water from the stream that first night had caught up with him. Several times he retched until he thought he would die. If he was going to be caught it would be now, but he was in such misery that it almost didn't matter. Hours later the pain in his gut subsided to his great relief. He lay inert; washed out, dizzy and thirsty. He felt dehydrated, opened one of the two remaining bottles of water, drank, then rested. He watched the river, again tried focusing on a plan to escape. Where would it lead? How could he use it? He had no answers.  Nothing came.