Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“I still have a few white goddess tricks up my sleeve. Ah, good, Tessa is back.” The Indian woman had materialized as silently as a shadow. She spoke a few words in her native language to Francesca, who answered with a nod. Tessa took one of the torches flanking the throne.

Francesca said, “Dr. Paul, if you would be so kind as to help Tessa.” Trout went over and hoisted Tessa up by the waist. She was as light as a feather. Tessa tucked the torch in at an angle where the clay met the thatch. The torch had only to burn a few inches before the flame touched the ceiling. They repeated the procedure with another torch on the opposite wall.

“I don’t count arson among my talents, but this crude time delay will create a distraction when we need it,” Francesca said. She looked around the throne room. “Good-bye,” she said sadly to no one in particular. “In some ways I’ll miss being a queen.” She turned to Tessa, and they talked heatedly. When the discussion was ended Tessa had a satisfied look on her face. Francesca sighed heavily. “You see what’s happening? My subjects are already rebelling. I ordered Tessa to stay, but she wants to go with us. We don’t have time to argue further. Follow me.”

Francesca led the way along the dim passageways to her bedroom. The two woven bags on the bed explained Tessa’s temporary absence. She had been packing for their escape. Francesca removed her battered aluminum suitcase from the wooden chest. It had been rigged with a strap which she threw over her shoulder. Handing one bag to Paul and the other to Gamay, Francesca said that the containers held food and supplies and “a few essentials.”

Gamay looked around the windowless room. “Where do we go from here?” The sound of drums was muffled, but the beating was more frenetic.

“We take a shower, of course,” Francesca said.

She lit a small clay lamp from the torch, went over to the shower stall, and pulled up the polished wooden floor to reveal a rectangular opening.

“There’s a ladder. It’s very steep. Be careful.”

She descended first so the others could climb down by lamplight. They were crowded together in a small space, standing on the gravel drain that had been used to catch water from the shower. A passage led off into the darkness.

“My apologies to you, Dr. Paul. I wasn’t expecting someone as tall. We’ve been digging this tunnel for years, carrying the dirt out in small amounts and secretly disposing of it. This passageway runs into a covered trench I had the men build years ago for future waterworks.”

With Paul stooping low to keep from bumping his head, they half walked, half crawled along the passageway. The floor and walls had been smoothed, and evenly spaced beams supported the ceiling. Francesca extinguished the light because of the smoke in the tight confines, and they traveled in darkness. After about fifty feet the tunnel angled into another, slightly bigger passageway.

“This is the water works,” Francesca said in hushed tones. “We must be silent. The tunnel is only a couple of feet below ground, and the Chulo have sharp

ears.”

Using a primitive fire starter similar to the one carried by Tessa’s half-brother, Francesca got the lamp going again and they forged ahead. They made slow progress, but after about fifteen minutes the tunnel came to an end. Francesca motioned for Paul to squeeze up beside her. She pulled a small spade from her bag and chopped away at the blank dirt wall until the blade hit something with a thud.

“I’ll need your strength again, Dr. Paul. Push against this hatch. I don’t think anyone is at the river, but be cautious.”

She backed off to give Paul more room. He put his shoulder against the wood, braced himself, and shoved, gradually increasing the pressure until he felt the wood give. He pushed harder. The circular cover opened a few inches. Paul peered through the narrow space with one eye and saw water. With a final shove he popped the hatch off.

The opening was in the side of a grassy embankment. He slithered through the hole, then helped the others climb out. Moving from the cool, dark tunnel into the hot sunlight was a shock, and they blinked their eyes like moles. Paul replaced the hatch. While the others covered the opening he slid on his stomach to the top of the bank and peered over the edge.

The stockade fence and its grim decorations were a short distance away. The tunnel had passed right under it. A tall, billowing plume of black smoke rose from beyond the fence. What sounded like a flock of wild birds could be heard. As he listened the bird cries became human voices. He slid back down.

“It looks like they’re having a queenie roast,” he announced with a grin. Turning to Francesca, he added, “Don’t ever tell me you don’t have a talent for arson.”

Francesca responded by motioning for the others to follow her along the edge of the river. They stayed low, hidden by the embankment, and after a few minutes came upon a dozen dugout canoes. They hauled two dugouts aside. Trout thought of scuttling the others, but their hulls were thick and not easily damaged.

“Anybody got a power saw?” he said. “Even a hatchet would do.”

Francesca reached into her sack and came out with a covered pot. Using a flat stone from the riverbed, she smeared the blackish yellow contents of the pot onto the other canoes. She lit the substance on fire. The wood flared into smoldering flames where she had daubed the unctuous mess.

“Greek fire,” she said. “It’s a combination of resin from local trees. It will burn hotter than napalm. If someone tries to put it out with water, it only makes the fire spread.”

The Trouts looked on with wonder as the flames began to eat through the hulls. They knew the sabotage would help, but once the natives had discovered their scuttled craft, they could race along the well-maintained pathway that bordered the river.

They paired the stronger paddlers with weaker ones. Gamay and Francesca got in one craft. Paul and Tessa took the other. They shoved off into the river and paddled for their lives. After an hour they pulled over to the shore for a drink of water and five minutes of rest, then set off again. The paddles raised blisters on their palms as they pushed the canoes against the river current. Francesca passed around a medicinal ointment from her amazing bag, and it numbed the pain in their hands. They kept on, trying to put as many miles between them and the village as possible before daylight failed.

Darkness came all too soon. Travel on the river became difficult, then impossible. The canoes became tangled in thick grass or ran aground on sandbars. They were quickly exhausting themselves and getting nowhere. They gave up and paddled closer to shore, where they dined on jerky and dried fruit. They tried unsuccessfully to sleep, but the dugouts served poorly as beds, and they were happy to see the gray light of morning.

With bleary eyes and stiff joints they set off again. The sound of drums spurred them on and made them set aside their aches and pains. The ominous drumming seemed to come from everywhere and echoed through the forest.

The canoes glided through the curtain of mist rising off the river. The smokescreen hid them from Chulo eyes, but they had to move slowly to avoid obstacles. As the sun rose it baked the mists off to a translucent haze. With the river ahead once more visible they paddled furiously until the sound of drums faded. They kept moving for another hour, not daring to stop. Before long they began to hear a different sound.

Gamay cocked her ear. “Listen,” she said.

From a distance came a low roar, as if a train were speeding through the forest.