Chapter 5
The hoots and cries of howler monkeys greeted the dawn. Their intrusion aroused the birds to mysterious morning talk in the sheltered blackness of the forest: staccato peepings, churrings up and down the scale, intermittent screeches.
A pearl luster crept across the sky, became a milky silver light that gave definition to the river. To the west climbed foothills—one foothill after another—piled waves of hills pounding against the Andean escarpment.
The plane sat nose-in to the trees on the right side of a narrow island. It floated quietly like a great water bug. Dancing flames of forest flowers wavered in the tree overhead. A sluggish current twisted into random whorls against the floats. Vagrant curls of morning mist hung on the water like puffs of torn gauze.
Inside the cabin Jeb Logan stirred to wakefulness, stared downstream. The river was like a cathedral aisle between tall trees. His gaze dropped to Monti beside him. She was still asleep, curled into a fetal crouch against her door. She had the look of a small child about her: the red hair disarrayed, an unlined expression of innocence on her face.
Thoughts and feelings of protectiveness passed through Jeb. He resisted an urge to reach out and pat her shoulder, turned his head to look at Gettler.
The Aussie hat was off, revealing a graying wheat stubble of hair. Gettler’s head was thrown back. He breathed with a low, burred rasp. There was an appearance of fallen greatness about the man. Heavy pores indented his skin to a harsh, leathery brown. A day’s growth of beard roughened his chin and cheeks. Frown creases laced the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Jeb’s attention shifted to David. The boy’s pale blue eyes stared straight ahead into the dense, somber green of jungle growth on the island. David flicked a glance at Jeb, resumed his watchful staring. There was a washed-out look to the boy’s face that made his freckles stand out. A section of sunburned skin on his forehead was beginning to peel away in flakes of grey-white.
Gettler turned the watch over to the kid, thought Jeb. Well, why not? Young senses are alert.
He turned back to Gettler, noted the handle of the revolver curving up from the man’s belt. Jeb considered reaching out and taking the gun, then he became aware of a change in Gettler’s breathing, looked up to two eyes like drops of hot tar staring at him through slitted lids.
“What time is it?” rumbled Gettler.
Monti stirred restlessly.
“Just dawn,” said Jeb.
Gettler turned to David. “All quiet, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeb straightened, looked downstream. The mist had risen slightly. It veiled the near reaches of the river. “Time to shove off,” he said.
“Let’s keep our eyes open for another dugout,” said Gettler. “Then we could make time.”
Jeb’s jaw muscles hardened. “I’m sticking with the plane!”
“You’re a fool,” said Gettler.
“Okay! But I’m riding it out in the …”
“Listen to me!” snapped Gettler. “I know the jungle. You move fast here or you don’t survive.”
“You can go by yourself anytime,” said Jeb.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” murmured Gettler.
Jeb looked around at the interior of his plane, at the smooth tan fabric of the ceiling, the chrome efficiency of the instrument panel. He put his hands on the wheel, moved it. Angrily, he jerked his hands away, shifted his weight, felt a tingling cramp in his legs.
A feeling that something or someone had betrayed him filled his senses.
“Are you going to shove us off, or shall I?” asked Gettler.
“I’ll do it,” said Jeb. He opened his door, slipped down to the float, untied the vine he had used to fasten the plane in the night. A broken cane pole bobbed in the driftwood caught against the upstream float. Jeb recovered it, pushed the plane into the current, glanced downstream.
There was not a breath of wind. The makeshift sea anchor rested on the float, grapnel hooks trailing wisps of reedy grass. He decided to leave it there, clambered back into the cabin.
Without anchor and wind to hold the plane steady, it twisted at the push of every random current. There was a certain majesty about the movement: slow, sweeping turns to the river’s rhythm.
Jeb sniffed. The smell of gasoline was almost gone, and he detected the odor of mildew mingled with the musk of human sweat. Mildew. Already the jungle had a beachhead within the plane.
Monti stirred, rubbed her eyes. She turned toward Jeb, smiled. Then, slowly there came an unfolding as she awoke: a look of confusion replaced the smile. She shook her head, turned, stared hopelessly out her window.
“We’d better think about shooting some game today,” said Jeb. “Those K-rations won’t last forever.”
“The first thing is to take stock of what we have,” said Gettler. “What’s in that kit behind this seat?”
Jeb turned. “There should be seven K-rations left. Water purifying tablets. I told you about them. Some antibiotics. Fishing gear. A pellet stove. Tea. Snares. Another flashlight and spare batteries. We’ve a machete. And there’re twenty-five rounds of extra ammo for that revolver in the seat pocket here.”
“Is that all?” asked Gettler.
“A light poncho,” said Jeb. And he thought: Okay, so I’m not telling about the .22 revolver!
It was as though David had read his mind. “Didn’t you say there was a .22 revolver?” the boy asked.
Jeb swallowed. “Didn’t I mention that?”
“No, you didn’t,” said Gettler. “What else do we have?”
“I’ve got a scout knife,” said David. “And matches in a little waterproof box my Dad …” he grimaced. “… my Dad sent me last Christmas.”
“There are more paraffin matches in the kit,” said Jeb.
“I have my camera and the attachments here in this bag,” said David. “And ten more rolls of film.” His voice lowered. “That’s not much good to us, though.”
Monti held up her pearl-inlaid cigarette lighter. “Here’s a cigarette lighter.” She fished a cigarette from her shirt pocket. “Anybody for a smoke?”
Gettler shook his head.
“I kicked the habit,” said Jeb.
Monti lighted her cigarette, spoke around the first exhalation of smoke. “How noble of you.”
“I couldn’t afford the U.S. imports when I first came down,” said Jeb. “And I couldn’t stand the native product.”
“What’s in your luggage back here?” asked Gettler.
“Mostly clothes,” she said. “A shaving kit I was going to give …” she shrugged “… to Roger. Some toilet things, perfume, make-up. A carton of cigarettes. A can of lighter fluid. Nothing that’ll do us much good.”
“We may need the lighter fluid,” said Gettler. “This is going to be no joy ride.”
Monti sniffed. “Why don’t we stop the melodrama. There’ll be search planes out right away.”
“Why?” asked Gettler.
“They won’t be able to make radio contact with that army post. They’ll come to investigate.”
“And they may decide it’s a simple mechanical failure,” said Gettler.
“They’ll be out within a week, anyway,” she said. “When they find out I’m missing. The papers will have a field day. My agent’ll roll on the floor in purest ecstasy, and we’ll pack them in at Las Vegas.”
“We’re on the edge of the rainy season,” said Gettler.
“When the rains start there’ll be no aerial search,” said Jeb. “They may send a boat up the river, but even then we’ll have to cover maybe six hundred miles on our own.”
“Why look at the worst side?” demanded Monti.
“Because that’s what we have to be prepared for,” said Gettler.
“You haven’t told us what you have,” said Jeb. He looked at the bulges of Gettler’s jacket pockets. “What’s in your pockets?”
“Extra clips for the rifle,” said Gettler. “A hunting knife and some matches.”
Jeb turned around, looked downstream. They had drifted around a bend. Ahead, the emerald green of the hills turned to a misted blue in the distance. Already, the sun was becoming an instrument of torture. And the humidity! Sweat rolled off his skin without evaporating. He saw in his mind’s eye the long curving and re-curving slant of river, a vaguely wandering trench through the wilderness.
A striated claw of hills loomed closer ahead. Jeb wondered which claw carried the river channel.
“We’d better eat,” said Gettler. He turned around. “Scrunch forward, son.”
David leaned over his mother. She reached up, patted his cheek.
Gettler groped behind the rear seat, came up with K-rations, sat back. “Is there any water?”
“There should be a one-quart canteen full in the bottom of the kit,” said Jeb. “And there’re two canvas bags.”
“That’s something else you didn’t mention,” said Gettler. Again he squirmed around, felt in the luggage compartment.
Hunger suddenly awoke in Jeb’s stomach. His hands trembled. His mouth burned with thirst. “Let’s have the canteen up here.”
Gettler passed it forward. Jeb took it, offered it to Monti. She shook her head. He drank greedily, put down a sudden nausea.
David said: “What’s that?”
“A water bag,” said Gettler. “You take it now, and get down on that float out there, dip it full of water and drop in one of these pills.”
“Careful you don’t fall in,” said Monti. She opened her door, leaned forward.
“This river’s full of piranha,” said Gettler. “I’ve never seen them so thick.”
David scrambled down to the float, dipped the bag full of water, returned to his seat. Monti slammed the door.
They ate in silence, hunting out the last morsels.
Presently, Jeb leaned back, took a deep breath. The sun was high enough now to burn the mist off the river. The heat was mounting. The tropic warmth seemed to have a definite moment of beginning, he thought. One instant it wasn’t there, then it overwhelmed the sense threshold to wash the body in perspiration.
“I have to go to the toilet,” said David.
Monti looked out, studied the patchwork shadows along the shore.
“I’ve been looking for a place to land,” said Jeb.
“Another island,” said Gettler. “One we can see clear across.”
“What I had in mind,” said Jeb.
Monti shook her head, took a shivering breath, turned to stare straight ahead at the quicksilver track of the river. The plane seemed suspended in a vaulted cavern of motionless air that was slowly inflating with heat until she was sure it must explode.
Jeb looked at her. “Are you all right, Monti?”
She nodded, unable to speak, thought: There’s a laugh for you! Am I all right? Hell, I’ve never been all right! Except a few times with the guy who’s back there dead.
“I have to go to the toilet bad,” said David. “I can’t wait.”
Monti whirled. “You have to wait!”
“You better get out and hang onto a strut, son,” said Gettler. “We’ll look the other way if it bothers you.”
“All right.” David opened the door, clambered out.
Monti said: “Could one of those blowguns—the ones with the poison darts—reach out here from the bank?”
“Just about,” said Gettler. “Adds a certain spice to the elimination problem.” He smiled. “We could hang our jackets over the windows if you want to use the float.”
She turned a look of pure venom on him, whirled back to stare straight ahead.
“Let’s face the fact that we’re real people,” said Gettler. “We’re not like characters in the women’s magazines, people who never sit on a toilet.”
She ignored him.
David returned to his seat.
“Feel better, son?” asked Gettler.
David blushed, shrugged.
“Gettler, give us the poncho from the kit,” said Jeb.
“Why?”
“Just hand it here.”
Gettler turned around, grunted as he pulled the poncho from the luggage compartment. Jeb took it, fixed it over the windows beside Monti.
She glanced at him, smiled faintly, took a deep breath. “I never did read those magazines,” she said. She slipped under the poncho, opened her door, stepped down to the float. The door closed.
A minute passed in silence.
“Wasn’t there any way you could’ve saved my Dad?” asked David. He looked up at Gettler. “Any way at all …”
Gettler’s hands turned white as he gripped them into fists.
David said: “I mean … you got away and …”
“Shut up! Will you?” Gettler was shivering, face contorted.
Monti’s door opened. She climbed into the seat, took down the poncho as she entered, wadded it under her feet.
“I’m sorry,” said David. “I just wish …” He swallowed, fell silent. A confusion of angry, fearful thoughts warred within him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Monti.
“David just wishes it’d been me who got killed instead of Roger,” said Gettler. His voice lowered: “Can’t blame him.”
“Oh, no …” said David. “I …”
“Be quiet, David,” said Monti.
And she thought: Yes. Why wasn’t it that big oaf?
Silence settled over the cabin.
They drifted along a widening stretch of river where the current slowed. The root-laced banks crept past in a time-clogged, dragging suspense.
Jeb stared hypnotically at the shore, and the thought came to him that the moment of immediate past was never quite discarded—and the future never quite had a starting point. All fused in one gliding, stretched-out smoothness: a positive momentum down an endless incline.
He turned his head, studied the feathered softness of hills on the right, and suddenly beyond the hills glimpsed the snow cone of Tusachilla with its black tonsure of volcanic ash.
Now, the river was lined with mango trees in dense foliage broken by the lighter sage of tropical mistletoe and an occasional fur-coated chonta palm.
Above the near reaches of the river hovered two black and white urubu vultures. They hung seemingly fixed in the burned-out steel blue sky as though they had been painted there on a false backdrop. A flock of tanagers—deep glistening turquoise—swept overhead, dived into the jungle wall, were swallowed by it as though they had never been.
Monti had watched the birds. It’s the same with us, she thought. Nothing marks our passage here: no broken branches, not a leaf disturbed. We might never have been for all the sign we leave.
Then she thought about Roger.
“Those birds,” she said. “I don’t know why … but they remind me of something Roger said once. I think he read it out of a book.”
“Oh?” said Jeb.
“Something about all life being holy,” she said.
A deep rumble that could have been a chuckle came from Gettler. “That’s from Blake. Christ! I can hear Roger saying it. He was full of philosophy!”
“That he was,” said Monti.
“Arrrrrgh,” said Gettler. “I’ve studied philosophy in six languages. Did any of it tell me the world is just like that jungle out there?”
“You couldn’t argue with him,” said Monti. “He’d smile and quote somebody on peace and understanding.”
“The jungle’s the finest school of philosophy in the world,” said Gettler. “Completely pragmatic. Ask about good and evil! The jungle has one answer: ‘That which succeeds is good!’ And it kills to maintain its status quo!”
Monti turned, looked at him. “Were you really a professor once?”
Gettler drew back, lowered his head. A look of confusion, of retreating, passed over his face. A tic moved his left cheek. Every feature revealed a deep inner struggle as though something were rising to the surface.
Why should that question bother me? he asked himself. Certainly I was a professor! His mind swept through a violent pulsing of memory, like a deck of cards riffling before his eyes. There was the university at Bonn. And the class in comparative logic. And there was one of his students he hadn’t thought of in ten years: Karl … Karl … The last name evaded him as new memories attacked his reeling mind.
What’s happening to me?
His hands came up, claw-like, pressed against his forehead as though to dig out the offending memories.
Abruptly, they were gone, leaving him feeling wrung out, weak. Now, he was angry with this woman because she had exposed him to something he had believed dead and buried—with the burial place carefully hidden. He opened his eyes, saw her staring at him.
“Is something wrong?” asked Monti.
“Yes!” He hurled the word at her. “This world’s full of stumbling fools!”
Monti drew back.
“Was I a professor? Arrrrrgh! You’ve a head full of cotton! What difference does it …”
“You were a professor,” she said. “Why don’t you like to …”
He spoke quickly to stave off the memories: “Because I was stupid! I never taught anyone anything! We were all innocent lambs in the jungle!”
“Something happened,” said Monti. “What happened?”
“I happened!”
Jeb said, “Look, it’s almost …”
“I grew claws,” snarled Gettler. “I learned to eat meat. And I came out here to the only honest teacher in the universe: the jungle. Now, shut up! Or I’ll show you some of the things the jungle taught me!”
She recoiled, eyes widening, looked to Jeb.
David glanced at his mother, turned on Gettler. “Stop talking to my mother like that!”
Jeb froze. Gettler’s crazier than a loco ape, he thought. He may explode!
But Gettler took a deep breath, startled them by laughing. He patted David’s knee. “No harm intended, son. Just joking. Rest easy, young Galahad. You don’t have any maidens to protect today.”
Monti faced forward. How could Roger associate with a beast like that? She thought of the river track ahead. I couldn’t stand six weeks with him! But that’s silly. We’ll be rescued soon. The minute I’m missed. There’ll be a big hue and cry.
Jeb leaned against his door, studied the current ahead. He scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin. Something’s very wrong with Gettler. His story about the Indian attack doesn’t ring true. What’s he hiding?
The sun climbed higher, blasted down upon the river. They floated in a great bowl of burning sunlight with the plane at its center, the tiny cabin a moist hell. A pall of silence settled over their world. Not an animal stirred or cried. Only the insects remained as a token of life: tiny black flies with a bite like fire, random clouds of blue and white butterflies—a fluttering pastel mob that danced across the path.
Monti suffered in her own private hell: fear of bugs. All the wraith forms tortured her … every whirr, hum, stridulating and chafing buzz touched the nerves of her spine. She saw in each jigging, dancing horde only image of grotesque, sticky tentacles reaching for her.
Toward noon the current speeded, swept them around a bend. They whirled toward a low scrub-covered island. The water coursed around the island to join below it.
“It looks clear,” said Jeb.
“Are we going to stop?” asked Monti. She felt that she had to get out of the plane, to run and escape the insects—anything to avoid insanity.
“What do you think, Gettler?” asked Jeb.
“No sign of Indians,” said Gettler. “It’s out of dart range from either shore. Pull into the upper end.”
Jeb slipped down to the pontoon, grabbed up the cane pole he had wedged against the strut, pushed toward a shallow beach of water-rounded pebbles. The float beneath him grated on bottom. He studied the river for signs of piranha, jumped off into muggy water above his knees.
Gettler dropped down to the other side.
They swung the nose of the plane into the beach, put out the grapnel.
Jeb waded ashore, studied the island’s scrub, swung his gaze along both banks of the mainland. The jungle on either side was a green wall with giant creepers weaving random draperies on every tree.
Cicadas whined in the island scrub, and there was the sudden musical whirr of a hummingbird’s wings. The bird—a glorious bronze green—darted across the island, hovered over an invisible flower lower in the scrub.
“That hummingbird says it’s safe on this island,” said Jeb.
Monti and David joined them on the beach.
“Is there any insect repellant in that kit of yours?” asked Monti. “These bugs …” She shuddered.
“Have a look,” said Jeb. “I’m not sure. Try the box with the red cross on it. That’s our first aid kit.”
A black and white vulture lifted from the lower end of the island. Its pinions clattered loudly in the still air. The vulture flapped across the treetops. Another followed … and another … and another, until a stream of them sailed away over the jungle.
The four figures on the beach stared after the vultures.
“Did we frighten them?” asked Monti.
“More likely they were just ready to go,” said Gettler.
“What were they eating?” asked David.
“Fish or a pig, something like that,” said Gettler.
Monti returned to the plane, rummaged in the compartment behind the rear seat. A trail of the tiny black flies followed her like thin shreds of smoke. She straightened, examined a bottle, uncapped it, began putting its contents on her face, neck and arms.
Jeb turned his attention back to the island, took a deep breath, sniffed the air. It was thick with the heavy, drenched hopelessness of a tropical mid-day—and just the faintest touch of ancient carrion.
Monti rejoined them. “I found something labeled ‘Bug-Go’,” she said. “It repels me, so it should work on bugs.”
Gettler moved away from them along the beach.
Jeb looked down at Monti. “Don’t leave the open beach. Lots of fer-de-lance in this country. That scrub looks like a good place for them.”
“That’s a poisonous snake, isn’t it?” she asked.
“One of the worst.”
“This country’s so beautiful, and you make it sound so deadly.”
“It is deadly.” He looked after Gettler, then to the far shore. The jungle felt ominous, peopled with evil. “It’s the dangers you can’t see, that you don’t suspect—those are the worst.”
“What should I do?” asked David.
“Guard the plane,” said Jeb. “Watch that the anchor holds.”
Gettler was moving toward the far tip of the island. He carried the rifle carelessly in his right hand. The game pocket of his jacket bulged strangely.
Jeb stared at the bulges. What’s he got in that jacket? Rifle bullets like he says? Or what?
“What’s he looking for?” asked Monti.
“Something to eat,” said Jeb. “A turtle, a ’gator.”
“Are the Indians over there right now watching us?” asked David.
“In the jungle? Probably. Anyway, we’ll assume that they are.”
“Why don’t they attack, then?” asked Monti.
“Their way is to wait in ambush,” said Jeb. “They’ll choose their own place and time.”
He looked at David. The boy’s face was beginning to turn brick red in the sun.
“You’d better get in the shade of the wing,” said Jeb. “We’ll have to rig you a hat of some kind. The sun’ll boil you like a lobster.”
“Do what he says,” said Monti.
“I’ll look for a leaf to make you a sunshade,” said Jeb. He glanced after Gettler. “But first, I want that little revolver out of the survival kit.”
“Mr. Gettler took it,” said David. “I saw him.”
Jeb stopped. “When?”
“Just a few minutes ago when you were pushing us into the island. Before he got out.”
“The son of a bitch!” snapped Jeb. “He’s got his hands on every weapon we own!” He pushed David toward the plane. “Get into the shade.”
Monti followed. She pulled the silver scarf across her forehead almost down to her eyes. It gave her a curious, Arabian look. “Why would he take all the guns?” she asked.
“You tell me,” said Jeb. “Is he planning to desert us?”
“I don’t like him,” whispered Monti. “He makes me feel afraid.” She hesitated. “Back there when … when you hung up the poncho and … I got out, I kept expecting him to peek.” She shuddered. “Dammit! I’ve posed in the nude, but … It’s those little eyes. They make me feel dirty!”
David moved into the shadow of the wing.
Jeb looked down at Monti. Welts of insect bites marked her cheeks. A streak of dirt slashed across her chin. The man’s shirt she wore looked wrinkled, damp, soiled. But none of these things subtracted from the elements of her beauty.
She averted her eyes under his stare.
The strong lines of her face—lines that made cameramen gloat—defied the harsh noonday shadows. Pieces of history had washed over uncounted beautiful women to produce this face. It refused to bow now to the worst possible light.
Jeb spoke brusquely, “Excuse me. I want to look at the motor. And I’m going to rig a fish line.”
Monti stared after Gettler. “What is it about that man?” she murmured. “He’s an animal … yet … Why would he take all the guns? Doesn’t he trust us?”
“He can’t stay awake forever,” said Jeb. “Had you thought of that?”
Monti’s lips thinned. She put a hand to her cheek.
Gettler had stopped at the lower end of the island. He bent over something on the beach.
“I’ve the strangest feeling,” she said.
“What?”
“That it’s his fault. About Roger.”
“How do you mean?”
“Call it a woman’s intuition. I can feel it. Roger would be alive now if it weren’t for him.” She nodded toward Gettler.
“Nothing except intuition?”
She shrugged.
Jeb told her about his own suspicions, about the pieces of Gettler’s story that did not ring true.
Monti stared into Jeb’s eyes. “Could he have murdered Roger?” she whispered.
Jeb frowned. “I suppose so.”
“But what about the Indians?” she asked. “They were chasing him.”
“Would Roger have made friends with the Indians?” asked Jeb. “I mean—would he have gotten really close to them?”
Her eyes widened. “It’s the very thing he would’ve done! Noble savages he called them in a letter.”
Jeb looked down the island at Gettler, who now was stalking through the scrub.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m just guessing,” said Jeb. “I’ve got nothing to go on except suspicions. But why would he take all the guns?”
“What do you mean?”
“If your husband went through any kind of an adoption ceremony with the Jivaro, and then Gettler murdered him, it’d be a point of tribal honor with them to avenge the killing.”
Monti put a hand over her mouth. “Could he …”
“Sure he could! But we don’t know that he did. For all we know, he’s told us the literal truth!”
“But why would he take all the guns?” she asked.
“There’s one thing,” said Jeb. “If he did murder Roger, we can’t let him know that we suspect. He’d slaughter us in a minute.”
Across the island, the heliograph of a golden moth wing splashed in the sunlight. Jeb glanced at it. A big green cacique oriole flew out of the jungle, floated behind the moth on an air current, twisted down.
And there was no moth.
The scene left Jeb with a deep feeling of disquiet. For a moment he had identified with the beauty of the moth. And the jungle had taken it—quickly, silently.
“What’ll we do?” asked Monti.
“We’ll watch and wait,” said Jeb. “First chance, we’ll get the guns back.”
At the foot of the island Gettler suddenly sprang into action. He ran across the scrub, raised a twisted limb in one hand. The limb crashed to the ground once, twice. He tossed it aside, bent, lifted something that wriggled and squirmed in his hand. He swung the thing, smashed it against the ground.
“What’s he got?” asked Monti.
“Looks like a lizard.”
David joined them. “Are we going to eat that thing?”
Jeb looked down at the boy, wondered: Did he hear us talking about Gettler? And if he did hear us, will he give us away?
There was no time to explore the problem with David.
Gettler came tramping up to them. He carried a gold-spotted green lizard by one of its hand-like feet. The lizard was about two feet long. Bright spots of blood dripped from its grinning jaws.
“Do you expect us to eat that?” asked Monti.
“Hell! These are good eating!” boomed Gettler. “Taste like chicken.”
“He’s right,” said Jeb. “They’re a delicacy.”
Monti shuddered. “I couldn’t possibly!”
“You’d better forget your squeamishness,” said Gettler.
“I’ll start a fire,” said Jeb. “We can cook it here and eat it on the way.”
“Vultures cleaned a tapir on the lower end of the island,” said Gettler. “There’s real food: a jungle pig.”
Monti grimaced at the lizard. “I’d as soon eat snake!”
“And we may eat that, too,” said Gettler. “You eat what the jungle gives you or you die.”
“It can’t be any worse than frog’s legs,” said David.
“Better,” said Gettler. “Come along, son.”
He led the way down to the river’s edge below the plane, pulled a thin bladed clasp knife from his pocket.
“What’re you going to do?” asked David.
“Give you a lesson in anatomy,” said Gettler.
David crouched beside him.
Gettler flipped the lizard onto its back, half in the water, slit it open lengthwise, spread the cavity.
David gulped.
“Up here’s the thoracic cavity,” said Gettler. “These are the lungs.” He pulled them out. “The stomach.” This, too, came out and onto the rocks beside the lizard. “Let’s see what it’s been eating.” Gettler slit the stomach sack. “Insects … some kind of a worm … a fruit pod. Catholic taste.”
David bent closer, fascinated. He had heard the conversation between his mother and Jeb Logan, and their words had filled him with fearful suspicions about Gettler. But Gettler’s hands moved so deftly. His voice was so gentle.
“Why’d you take all the guns?” asked David.
Gettler swished his knife through the water. “Did your mother tell you to ask me?”
“No, sir. I saw you take them. Why didn’t you leave one at the plane … in case the Indians attacked?”
“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” asked Gettler.
“Yes, sir. My … Dad taught me.”
“Maybe next time I’ll leave one of the guns with you,” said Gettler. He poked at the lizard entrails with his knife. “This is the liver.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Logan know how to use a gun?” asked David.
“Can you keep a secret?” asked Gettler.
David frowned. “I … guess so.”
Gettler glanced up the beach where Jeb had a fire going next to a large rock. “Mr. Logan hasn’t been in the jungle as much as I have. There’re ferocious animals here that if you shoot at them, they’ll attack. I’m afraid he might shoot at the wrong thing.”
“Like what?” asked David.
“Jaguar. Boa constrictors.”
“Golly!”
“I know you’d be careful,” said Gettler.
“Did my … Dad know lots of things about the jungle?” asked David.
“More than I know about it,” said Gettler. “He was a real expert.”
David nodded.
Again Gettler prodded the liver. “The liver’s what stores the food stuffs that the body needs. And it helps purify the blood.” He moved the knife blade. “This is the pancreas. It secretes insulin and digestive juices.”
“You know all kinds of things,” said David.
Gettler frowned, wiped the knife against his pants, put it away. “Here. Save these.” He handed David the lizard’s heart and a section of lung. “Fish bait.”
David swallowed, took the bloody pieces. “What kind of fish will it catch?”
Gettler swished the lizard through the water. It left a red stain that drifted away on the current. He threw the rest of the entrails into the stain.
Abruptly, the water flashed with a shoal of piranha. The dark surface boiled in a writhing commotion as they fought for the bloody entrails.
“That kind of fish,” said Gettler. “And there’s a lesson for you in natural science. Don’t fall in the river or you’ll feed those fish.”
“Would they really eat a human being?” David stared wide-eyed at the turbulent water.
“Right down to the bones,” said Gettler. “Come on. Let’s cook our dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And remember our secret. We wouldn’t want to hurt Mr. Logan’s feelings.”
“Gosh, no.”