As Hector drew back the weapon in readiness to strike, an arrow shot from the darkness and slammed into a wooden post a few feet from him. Its fletching was painted orange and attached to the nock by a small piece of gut was the long slender tail feather of a quetzal bird. Another arrow followed quickly, striking inches away, its long shaft quivering before it grew still.
All stares went to the arrows and to Hector who was frozen to the spot. Everyone at the table knew the missiles’ significance. From the darkness the old Indian stepped into the glow from the fire. He did not have a bow in his hand, just a spear, but behind him, moving deliberately, the two young Indians emerged, their bows drawn fully back, fresh arrows levelled, the firelight highlighting the subtle circular tattoos on their hairless arms and torsos. The icy look of total commitment filled their eyes.
One of Hector’s lieutenants moved a hand to his pistol. The first young Indian pointed the tip of one of the arrows in the taut bow towards him and the man let go of his weapon. No one present doubted that the slightest aggressive move by Hector or his men would end lethally for them.
‘Call off your Indians,’ Hector hissed angrily.
‘Please don’t move,’ Victor said rather nervously, glancing back imploringly at the Indians. ‘I don’t have as much control over them as some people think.’
‘I said call them off !’ The commander was incensed. Not only had he been stopped in mid-blow but he had been forced to stand there looking like a fool, unable to move. Like everyone else, he was well aware of the Indians’ complete fidelity to Victor.
‘Put down your blade,’Victor said, stretching an arm out towards the Indians. ‘Slowly’.
Hector lowered his arm and stepped back. He faced Sebastian. ‘This is a black day,’ he growled.
‘Don’t let your injured pride take control of your judgement,’ the old man advised.
‘I will give you time to reconsider your position. But not long. I urge you to think it over carefully. We can end this war together. Or you can continue it alone.’
Hector marched away, his men following. The other brigade leaders nodded respectful farewells towards Sebastian and headed away into the darkness.
Sebastian left the table and walked to the main cabin. Louisa followed him.
Victor breathed out noisily, relaxing visibly as the strain eased. He looked back at Stratton. ‘Why didn’t you just run?’
‘Why didn’t you let me go when I asked?’
Victor conceded the point.
Stratton picked up his rifle and slung his pack over one shoulder. ‘Well, thanks very much. I’ll be on my way, unless there’s anything else.’
‘There’s no point in you going now,’ Victor said.
‘Is that French humour?’
‘You’ll be okay for tonight. I’ll arrange an escort in the morning. They’ll take you to the border. No one will bother you any further, I can assure you.’
Stratton looked around at the Indians and tended to believe him.
‘You can stay in the cottage,’ Victor added.
Stratton shrugged his agreement. ‘Thanks for stepping in, anyway,’ he said.
Victor rolled his eyes at the comment as if Stratton had no idea of the problems that it had created. ‘I could do with a drink,’ Victor decided, heading towards the cabin furthest from Sebastian’s.
Stratton followed, looking back at the Indians who were watching him. He gave them a wave which was not returned.
‘I owed you,’ Victor said. ‘The rocket. I repay my debts.’
‘Is that the only reason you stood up to Hector?’
Victor paused at the door of the cabin, glancing at Stratton as if he had broached a delicate subject. ‘I would have done it anyway.’
Stratton found the answer curious. ‘Why?’
‘You no doubt suspected there’s a history between Hector and me. It’s true. There is. But it’s all on his side. I would have stepped in front of him anyway, like I said, but I’m not entirely sure why. Ask them,’ he said, indicating the Indians.
Victor pushed the cabin door open and walked inside.
Stratton glanced back at the Indians, who were talking among themselves. None the wiser, he followed Victor into a large room that was lit by a hurricane lamp. It was open-plan, equipped with a small kitchen, a dining table and several chairs, a couple of them facing a cold grate filled with fresh logs. The room seemed to be used for storage. All kinds of boxes were stacked around, most of them marked with US military stencils. A flight of stairs led up to an open mezzanine half the length of the cabin with a balcony that overlooked the ground floor. Under the stairs was a collection of very large glass bottles in woven baskets with corks the size of fists sealing their necks.
‘Hector has always been antagonistic towards me,’ Victor said as he inspected the contents of a collection of well-used cooking pots on the stove. ‘Resentful is probably a better description,’ he corrected himself, feeling inside one of several clay pots on a shelf and producing an onion. ‘I think it’s just a strategy on his part. I’m another way of getting at Sebastian,’ he added, searching a box on a shelf for more ingredients and a variety of local vegetables.
‘Are there many foreigners here?’
‘We’ve had soldiers of fortune from other parts of the world come through over the years. We don’t have the money to pay them. Some have stayed anyway. A few, like me, are here on principle. I’m not a soldier of fortune, I hasten to add. There are some Spaniards in the Fourth Brigade, a handful of Americans in the Second.’ His nose wrinkled in horror as he sniffed the contents of one of the pots. ‘You’re probably not fussy about what you eat, are you?’
Stratton was used to people assuming that because he was a soldier he was uncultured. He would have been the first to admit that he was a long way from sophisticated but neither was he a total slob. ‘I’ll have what’s on offer,’ he replied.
‘I have become used to poor cuisine,’ said Victor, sniffing a piece of meat on a muslin-covered plate. ‘It is probably the greatest sacrifice I make by staying here and the one least appreciated by my comrades.’ He took a glass jug off a shelf, shook it upside down to remove any dust and held it out to Stratton. ‘Fill that, please,’ he said, indicating the bottles under the stairs.
Stratton inspected the tops of the huge bottles and found one that had already been opened. It was almost full and too heavy to lift easily so he tipped it onto the side of its wicker base and poured some of the velvet-red contents into the jug. He replaced the cork and brought the jug over to Victor who handed him a clay mug which he filled with the wine along with one for himself. ‘I suppose you don’t care what you drink, either.’
‘I know when a wine is corked,’ Stratton replied. ‘I just don’t mind drinking it.’
‘Ah. An honest Englishman.’ Victor was about to propose a toast but paused thoughtfully and scratched the several days’ growth on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what to drink to. Today’s unforgettable past or tomorrow’s uncertain future . . . Let’s keep it simple. Santé.’
‘Cheers,’ Stratton said.
They took healthy swigs. Both men grimaced as they lowered their mugs.
‘That’s an interesting grape,’ Stratton offered, clearing his throat.
‘You think it’s made from grapes?’ Victor said, sarcastically. ‘My taste buds are ruined.’ He went back to preparing the food. ‘I was born not far from a vineyard that was overlooked by the Pyrenees. When I was a young boy I would sometimes sneak in and eat the grapes until I could hardly walk. I would lie and stare at the mountains and daydream of being an adventurer. They were Tannat grapes and when I grew up I preferred to drink the wine that was made from them. All my life I could recognise the smell of a Madiran from across a crowded room . . . I don’t think I could tell the difference between it and a glass of acid today.’
Stratton looked out of the window. The fire, left untended, was growing dim. The three Indians were sharing a meal at the big table. ‘What’s the story with them?’ he asked.
‘The old one is Yoinakuwa, and Kebowa and Mohesiwa are his sons,’ Victor said as he chopped vegetables. ‘They’ve been following me around for over three years now. I can’t get rid of them.’
‘That sounds like a complaint.’
‘It is and it isn’t, of course. Today was not the first time they’ve changed someone’s mind about attacking me.’ He put the vegetables into a pot. They sizzled immediately.
‘They just follow you around for no reason?’ Stratton asked, wondering what the rest of the story was.
Victor seemed reluctant to elaborate and drained the mug. Stratton refilled it and Victor continued with the story. ‘I came to this country five years ago as a jungle-canopy research scientist. You ever heard of the Nerugan nature reserve?’
Stratton shook his head.
‘It’s a hundred kilometres north-west of here, near the border. I was the station director. Yoinakuwa led the tribe that lived in the reserve. He was a king of his people. It wasn’t a huge tribe but big enough to have a king. King Yoinakuwa,’ Victor emphasised. ‘I like the way it rolls off the tongue.
‘A year or so before we built the facility, which was a couple of years after we began raising funds for the project, gold was discovered across the border. The subsequent frenzy spilled over into the reserve. We petitioned the government not to award any licences to mine the gold in the reserve and at first it looked as if we’d been successful. But we were naive. We should have guessed that if there was no official mining company it would leave the place wide open to illegal miners. They began coming in and setting up small camps all over the place. It didn’t affect us, not right away. But it wasn’t good for Yoinakuwa and his people. The miners had no respect for the land. They hunted anything and everything, placing crude traps all over the place, competing with Yoinakuwa’s people for the food. That’s when we . . . when I became more involved. I found Yoinakuwa a legal representative. My plan was to get the Indians to make their own claims to the land they had occupied for thousands of years. My naivety was only just beginning.
‘The illegal miners came up with a plan of their own, a rather simple and terrible one. Knowing it would take a long time for the Indians to legalise the claim they decided simply to wipe them out. Kill them. The depth of human depravity is beyond measure. After the first few killings Yoinakuwa and his people got ready to defend their land and hunting grounds from these foreign invaders. But they had no idea what they were up against. They had bows and spears but the enemy had rifles. And they were prepared to pay men to come in and use them. Yoinakuwa’s tribe quickly became the hunted. I tried to attract international attention to the illegal gold mining that was causing genocide. Guess what?’
‘The miners came for you.’
‘Exactly. That’s when I learned there was no limit to my naivety . . . The strategy against us was more subtle. But not
too
subtle. They began by destroying our equipment and intimidating our guards. When that was not enough they murdered two of them. And when that was not enough they tried to kill me. I was operating our COPAS one afternoon—’
‘COPAS?’
‘Canopy Operation Permanent-Access System. It’s a large helium ballon with a basket suspended below that allows you to move vertically and horizontally on a system of wires through the treetops.’
‘Ah. The balloon in the canopy,’ Stratton said, recalling Victor’s comment when they first met.
‘Those were my favourite times. I could spend all day up there. It was like being in a different world that had its own laws of nature, a microcosm of life practically independent from the ground. It even had its own weather. Those bastards shot at the balloon while I was in it. They burst it and it crashed to the ground. I was lucky to survive. They thought they had killed me and tried to cover up my supposed murder by burning down the facility and making it look as if the Indians had done it. When they realised I had survived the bastards came to kill me again. I managed to escape into the forest and went in search of the only allies I had. I arrived at Yoinakuwa’s village just as the mercenaries that the miners had hired were mounting their attack. They destroyed every hut and hunted down and killed nearly every man, woman and child. I found Yoinakuwa lying unconscious beside his dead wife and daughters. His two sons were making a last stand beside him. I had a rifle that had belonged to our security guards. I held off the mercenaries long enough to get Yoinakuwa and his boys out of there. They killed everyone else, every member of Yoinakuwa’s tribe. The miners’ aim was to destroy the Indians so that none of them would ever be able to challenge the invaders’ rights to the mines. And they succeeded . . . or as good as.
‘Yoinakuwa and his sons are the last of their line. It’s bad enough for a man to have to bury his wife and children. No man should have to bury his entire history. Since then they have never strayed far from my side. I truly don’t understand why. I know it’s partly because I saved their lives. But I have told Yoinakuwa many times that he owes me nothing. I even told him that I was largely to blame for everything by stopping the licensing of the miners in the first place. It made no difference to him.’
‘Are they the reason why you don’t leave?’
‘Ha! An interesting question. It’s true that I have often thought about leaving. You lose heart at times. It’s also true that I could not bring myself to say goodbye to them. Maybe I’ll take them back to France with me one day. I just don’t see them stacking shelves in the local supermarket, though. Obligation is a terrible thing, to be sure. I hope I wake up one morning and find they have gone. With luck that’s the way it will be.’
Victor placed two plates on the table, along with a pot containing his gastronomic creation. He found some bread in a wooden box on the table, broke a piece off to test its freshness and placed a lump in front of Stratton. ‘Eat,’ he said as he spooned the food onto the plates. ‘This is as good as it gets around here.’