He stared deeply at his reflection. He felt as if he were going to be ill. A wave of dizziness passed over him. His stomach churned.
Soon, the moment passed. He took a breath. On introspection, Baxter realized what he saw didn’t really surprise him. He had lived like this for decades. Human beings, he thought, do not think in the long term. They don’t see the slow degradation of their own bodies. But Phillip Baxter aka: Charles Baxter, PhD, had seen it all too clearly many years before and,
had lived it and lived it, and lived it again, and again, and again.
He would never die!
T
wo hours later, Drake emerged from the hut. Paul was relieved to see Drake in one piece.
“He’s asked us to stay for dinner,” Drake said.
“Which one of us is the main course?” Paul asked.
Drake laughed. “They’re not cannibals. It’s a long story. The chief confided in me.”
“I thought you didn’t speak Yohagi?” Jennie said.
“I don’t. He speaks English. Broken English, to be sure, but good enough to understand.”
“And?”
“He says the tribe used to be cannibals, but then lots of them started getting sick and dying. Especially the children. The white man came from America and told him it was from eating the brains of their enemies.”
“Isn’t there a real disease from that?” Jennie asked.
Paul nodded. “Yes, it’s called Kuru. It’s been studied extensively by the CDC and WHO. It’s similar to mad cow disease.”
“Anyway,” Drake continued, “they said, even though they are no longer cannibals, there
still are
in the jungle. A man he referred to as ‘The Viper’, a big blond man. They say he kills people and drinks their blood. He mixes what they call ‘Haya’ root with it. It prevents Kuru. That’s how the chief discovered it. He found if he gave it to the sick, they recovered. He believed it was a sign from the Gods, so he ordered his tribe to stop eating the enemy. Now they just eat game. He says this ‘Viper’ sends in scouts from another tribe to steal the children and use their blood.”
“So,” Paul said, “He’s using the blood of the natives and mixing it with the Haya root? For what reason?”
“For the fountain of youth,” Drake said. “The chief told me it could cure virtually anything. And it prevents aging.”
“That explains everything.” Paul said. “Baxter, Melvin, all the residents of Harbor View must be using it. But how does he get it?”
Drake gazed up. “I think this Viper guy has the answer to that.”
“How do we find him?” Jennie asked.
“The guide will take us to him. But only so close. From there we’ll have to go on our own. They’re terrified of him.”
“No wonder,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t want to be his dinner, either.”
* * *
Inside the main Yohagi hut, the meal was mostly a slender wild potato called
kitose,
which looked like an oversize radish, forest mushrooms, and thin slices of Garoo monkey. Paul found the monkey meat distasteful at first but his hunger outweighed his reluctance to clear his plate. There were also assorted frogs, worms, caterpillars, and several types of centipede, all of which the three of them declined. However, Paul noticed Drake did partake of several grubs. He noted this to Jennie, who told Paul that she herself had eaten them a time or two during her stint in the Peace Corps. Normal jungle fare, she assured him.
The chief had also joined them and had stared at Jennie from the moment he’d sat down. His fascination with her seemed to fade quickly when she let out a loud belch after she’d finished eating.
The chief told them it would be easier and far safer to travel at night to avoid the cannibal tribe and their leader, The Viper. Their route would take them north up the river and back to their boat. And also away from the other danger in the jungle, The Mapinguary.
“The
what
?” Paul asked.
Drake said something to the chief and then looked over at Paul.
“In some areas, there is a legend of a creature,” Drake explained. “It is said to have two eyes, while in other accounts it has only one, like the Cyclops of Greek mythology. It's believed to be more than seven feet tall and covered in thick, matted fur. The folklore here is full of tales of encounters with the creature, and nearly every Indian tribe in the Amazon, including those that have had no contact with one another, have a word for the Mapinguary. The name loosely translates as “the roaring animal” or “the fetid beast.”
“You’re telling me these guys down here believe in Bigfoot?” Paul asked.
“Well, not exactly. The descriptions of the mapinguary may resemble the Sasquatch of North America or the Yeti of Himalayan lore, but the comparisons stop there. Unlike its counterparts in the Northern Hemisphere, this creature is said not to flee human contact, but to aggressively hunt down the hunter, turning the tables on those who do not respect the jungle’s unwritten rules and limits. When you travel in the Amazon, you are constantly hearing about this animal, especially when you’re in contact with indigenous peoples. But convincing scientific proof, in the form of even vestiges of bones, blood or scat, is always lacking.”
“Paul nodded. “Sounds like Bigfoot to me.”
“At the very least,” Drake said, “what we have here is probably an ancient remembrance of a giant sloth, like those found in Chile recently that humans have come into contact with. Let me put it this way: Just because we know that mermaids and sirens are myths doesn’t mean that manatees don’t exist.”
Paul glanced at his watch. “We better get started. At least we can travel the safe areas in daylight.”
The chief looked over at Paul and grinned. “
Scare... scare.”
he motioned with his hands.”
“Yes, I’m scared.”
A
mile before they reached the Amazon basin, they heard the distant roar of powerful water. Morning broke and the air hummed with the perpetual sound of insect wings. An occasional bird screeched overhead and fluttered just inside the jungles edge.
Drake had fallen back after complaining of an upset stomach and a case of the runs. Dehydration was taking a toll on him. Paul had been sharing his own water with him all night. Paul turned back to ask him if he was all right when a whistling sound caught his attention. Then another and another...
what the...?
Paul gasped as he saw feathered darts suddenly sticking from Drake’s neck and face. Drake screamed but his voice was weak and his words were lost on his lips.
Then Paul saw them; five native tribesmen carrying blowguns and running toward Drake.
Instinctively, Paul grabbed Jennie by the arm and ducked behind a gigantic fern.
“Paul, what are you–“
Paul’s hand shot out and covered Jennie’s mouth. He pointed toward Drake. Jennie looked and her eyes grew wide with terror.
The natives already had Drake, who now appeared lifeless, draped over a large bamboo pole, carrying him into the jungle.
“Oh my God,” Jennie whispered.
When the natives were out of sight, Paul helped Jennie up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What about Findley?” Jennie asked.
“We can’t help him. He’s as good as dead.”
“Without him, we are too.”
“No. If we follow this trail, it’ll take us back to the boat. I remember this place. This is where we saw them loading that stuff.”
“That’s probably where they’ve taken Findley, then.”
“Jennie, you can’t be serious,” Paul pleaded.
“I’m not just gonna leave him out here.”
“What do you intend on doing?’
“Finding him.”
* * *
Findley Drake squinted in the bright sunlight. He awoke tied to a post, disoriented by pain and fear. Before him was a sea of dark-skinned faces. Dozens of men, women, and children gathered together around him.
Then a huge cheer erupted as a tall blond man, wearing a huge anaconda skin stretched over his head, approached Drake.
“Well, mate, looks like you stumbled into the wrong part of the jungle today.”
Drake tried to speak but his throat was parched and he couldn’t get the words out. He knew from the description the chief gave that this must be The Viper. The feared leader of the Torabo natives; indigenous cannibals known to eat their own people.
The blond leaned forward toward Drake and smiled. “Having trouble talking are we? Well, let me help you with that.”
The Viper held up a knife so Drake could see it, and smiled again, and with two fingers grabbed Drake’s lower lip and sliced it off.
Now Drake found his voice and wailed.
* * *
A hundred yards away Paul and Jennie heard the ear-piercing scream.
Paul looked at Jennie and she was clown-white. Somehow they knew what was happening. They bolted through the trees, then suddenly stopped when they heard another scream, this time closer. They froze and stared out from a small clearing that they had come to.
Paul’s blood ran cold with the scene that unfolded in front of him.
* * *
Findley Drake’s head was spinning now. After the group had finished taking turns cutting off pieces of him, he was nauseated and terrified. Oddly, though, he also felt a vague detachment, an emptiness. But still the attack continued, unrelenting. He looked down to see a young boy of eight or nine rush forward and hack a piece of his calf off with a pocket knife. Then The Viper barked an order and everyone stopped in their tracks.
This time The Viper wielded a different implement. A modern hack saw. Drake saw the shiny metal, glinting in the sun as The Viper brought it toward him. Barely conscious, he felt his hair being pulled up, and the sharp teeth of the saw cutting into his forehead.
And Findley Drake knew his fate, just before total blackness ensued...
* * *
Jennie turned and retched and Paul was hyperventilating. He pulled Jennie by the arm and they staggered blindly toward the boat. They finally reached it, but as they boarded, two of the cannibals had spotted them and were in quick pursuit. Paul yanked on the engine cord and the motor roared to life. He jerked the steering handle around and headed back down the river toward the plane. He could hear whistling in the air and darts splashing on the water behind them. When he looked back, the two cannibals were standing at the river’s edge shaking their blowguns at Jennie and him.
B
axter’s call came right on time and his initial suspicions had been right. They
were
there. Three of them. Well,
two now,
he was told. The third had met with an unfortunate accident. The other two had escaped, at least temporarily. Baxter was assured they would be captured in short order. The Viper, Hans then ended the conversation.
All the talk of the jungle had dredged up old memories for Baxter. His mind was yanked backward into a time tunnel.
He had returned from his near-fatal expedition in 1946, however, he was not the same man. Within hours of losing his medical supplies overboard that day, he became racked with pain so severe, he’d considered taking the .45 and putting a bullet through his head to end his misery. By the time the boat hobbled into the dock, Baxter was unconscious. When he awoke, he found himself surrounded by natives.
He lay on a bamboo gurney, thatched together with jego vines. Before him stood a primitive altar. Two large stones supported a wooden plank. Behind it stood a native, taller than the rest, presiding over some ceremony. The native wore a headdress with a wooden mask. Baxter realized immediately, even in his stuporous state, it was the tribe’s medicine man. The guides had spoke of him frequently, and the Australian captain, now standing near the altar, had told Baxter incredible stories about him as well.
The medicine man called out something in the native language, and instantly, two of the pigmy Yohagi ran up like obedient children and placed a small squirrel monkey on the altar. The monkey was bound with vines and his mouth was wrapped shut. Its squeals seemed to proclaim it knew what was about to happen. The medicine man produced a large knife, too large it seemed for the obvious task. The knife flashed and before Baxter could blink, the monkey’s head fell in front of the altar. Blood shot out of the neck stump. The pigmy on the left held a stone cup under it that quickly filled up with the crimson liquid. When satisfied he had all he wanted, the medicine man handed the lifeless monkey to the pigmy. He ran off into the jungle with the headless corpse.
The medicine man took the cup of blood and placed it on the altar, then reached into his waistcloth and brought out a small bag. He took what Baxter saw to be a powder of some kind, and mixed it in the blood. Immediately, every native dropped to their knees. The Australian did likewise. The medicine man chanted in Yohagi for several minutes, then held the cup toward the sky and shouted something to his Gods.
Baxter’s pain was now unbearable. He grimaced as he watched the ceremony, and when the medicine man approached him, he shot his hands up in front of himself in a protective posture. The Australian captain stood behind the medicine man, who gestured toward Baxter.
“Mate, you need to drink this,” the captain said.
“What?” Baxter asked, his throat dry as parchment. “You want me to do
what
?” Baxter’s vision had gone double.
The captain knelt down beside Baxter. “You need to drink this. It will save you. You’re a goner without it.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Trust me, Doc. I’ve been there.”
The medicine man handed the cup to the captain. He pulled Baxter’s head up and placed the vessel to his lips. Baxter sipped the bitter liquid, then spat violently.
“Don’t worry, mate. You’ll get used to the taste.”
Baxter gained a second of strength and, putting his hand around the captain’s, pulled the cup to his mouth and took a gulp. The captain forced a few more sips until the cup was empty.
“There, you rest now. You’ll feel better, shortly.”