‘I don’t intend to go back there,’ Destiny said quickly. ‘Why should I?’
‘Why indeed?’ her father said, which wasn’t much of an answer. ‘We should be hitting the station in the next hour or so, if the weather conditions don’t get any worse; then we can get a boat to Real. With any luck, the river’s going to be all right.’
‘If the boatmen haven’t all holed up for the rains,’ Destiny said gloomily.
By the time they finally made it to the station, the dubious quality of the light was beginning to fade and, as she had feared, they were compelled to spend the night at the ranger station. There was no electricity, and bathing in the creek was out of the question because of the weather, so, after a basic meal, which was brought by them but cooked in good humour by Juan, who refused to see the massive rains as anything other than a minor nuisance, Destiny retired to her cot, sticky, muddy and dishevelled. Her feet felt stiff from the hiking boots she had worn. All around here was fer de lance territory and the thought of a snake bite further complicating things was not even to be contemplated. No one ventured out without the protection of boots. Useful, necessary, but unfortunately very conducive to sweaty feet.
Juan, because he knew them and liked them, had managed to provide two pails of creek water, so at least she found she could go to sleep with clean feet, if very little else.
And the rains, overnight, appeared to have let up a bit. She awakened to more of a persistent drizzle than the torrential, never-ending downpour that had been in evidence over the past few weeks.
‘I hope your cousin’s going to do the boat trip for us,’ Destiny said to Juan once they were outside, ‘and he hasn’t got himself into one of his alcoholic jags.’
‘José’s given up the evil drink.’ Juan grinned, while Destiny shot him a long, sceptical look. ‘No, really!’ he said, holding his hands up. ‘I think it was after that lecture you gave him.’
‘Well, your mother will be pleased.’
‘Now all he has to do is find a wife and give her some grandchildren.’
‘At seventeen?’
‘Never too young to start.’ He eyed her cheekily. ‘I’d advise you not to leave it too long, old lady.’ To which she told him to shut up, but she was in a less oppressed frame of mind by the time they began the second leg of their journey, boxes of provisions and clothes in hand, as well as invaluable medical supplies which were contained in a watertight box and wrapped in several layers of waterproof plastic for good measure.
As soon as they arrived at Enrique’s house, her father turned to her and told her to stay put.
‘I’ll make a diagnosis and then we can discuss what we need to do.’
He vanished inside the room while Destiny remained outside, staring at the fine grey drizzle and trying to come to terms with a life that had been stood on its head and even now was moving at newer and crazier angles with each passing moment. She jumped when her father finally reappeared.
‘It’s serious, Dessie. Dengue fever. His fever’s through the roof and apparently he’s been slipping in and out of consciousness. I’ve washed him a bit, and changed him, but we need to start administering antibiotics in case secondary infections have set in. So…’
She nodded. She knew the routine. She also knew that round-the-clock antibiotics would require them both to take turns at getting up in the early hours of the morning to inject him. Under normal circumstances, and if they’d been in the makeshift hospital area in the compound, they would have had the facilities to give the antibiotics via a drip, but it would be more rudimentary here.
‘Will he pull through?’ she asked, following her father to the room, and he shrugged and gave a fifty-fifty gesture with his hand.
‘Take a look for yourself and then tell me what you think. I haven’t seen a case of Dengue this bad for a while…’
Destiny approached the bed, sympathetic to the tourist’s plight but exasperated by his foolishness in thinking he could undertake a trek of mammoth proportions in damaging weather.
What she saw made the colour drain away from her face. She felt her breathing thicken. Her father was talking behind her, but his voice was background noise, insignificant next to the roaring in her head.
Callum Ross, ashen and unshaven, lay on the bed. And he was dying. She could almost see the life ebbing away from him as she continued to stare, until the ground began to feel unsteady under her feet and she reached out to support herself on the side of the bed.
‘We’ll do our best,’ her father said quietly, approaching her, ‘but it’s a bad case.’