The last few days I spent taking long walks, building up my muscles, gathering supplies and using every free minute to expand my Portuguese vocabulary. I had a feeling I was going to need it before this journey was over.
Finally, the day of departure arrived. The old lady would not be coming with us. She had - with considerable regret - explained that her bones were too old and creaky for adventure. But she had hand-picked those of her people who would be accompanying us, among them the big fellow with whom Mr Ambrose had had a staring contest on the first day, and a girl called Amana, for whose company I was profoundly glad, since she was one of the few women who hadn’t smiled condescendingly at my failed pottery attempts. Her name meant ‘rain’ in their language - but to judge from her temperament, ‘gentle, nice little shower’ would have been more appropriate. Except for being stark-naked and brown as chocolate from head to toe, she reminded me of my little sister Ella.
We were all gathered in front of the old lady’s hut, our weapons ready, our packhorses laden with provisions. I felt a little tug in my heart as I looked around at all these people, many of whom had somehow become my friends, although we only spoke a word or two of the same language. It was strange. I didn’t make friends easily, back in London. But here…
The curtain covering the hut’s door was swept aside and the old lady stepped out, using a rifle as a walking stick. The sight of her brought my meandering thoughts to an abrupt halt. She flashed me a brief, warm smile, then shot one at Mr Ambrose which wasn’t quite so warm.
‘We gather,’ she began in her throaty voice, ‘to say goodbye to friends. They have been good friends. Some good hunters-’
She nodded at Mr Ambrose and Karim.
‘-and some good company.’
She nodded at me. I couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘We will welcome them back at any time - if they bring me such nice presents again.’
Her fingers flexed around the rifle. Mr Ambrose’s left little finger twitched.
‘They have asked to be guided to the city in the mountains, far away to the west. What do you say, my people? Do we grant their request?’
Unanimous shouts of agreement went off from all around. Shots rang out as bullets pierced the sky.
‘Then it is decided! They will set off immediately, guided by the very best of our people. Chandresh, step forward!’
The big Indian we had met on our first day in the village stepped towards the old lady, his chest proudly puffed out.
‘Chandresh, my grandson, you will guide our friends on their journey. Do not lead them astray. Their lives are in your hands.’
I had expected him to bow, or clap his fist to his heart, or do something equally dramatic. But all he did was nod and gesture to his men. Immediately, five Indians ran off into the jungle, scouting ahead.
‘As for you,’ the old lady continued, turning back to Mr Ambrose, ‘I leave you in good hands. You will reach your goal safely. Whether or not you find everything there that you are looking for - that is your business. However, before we part, I have one more thing to say to you.’
Standing up on her tiptoes, she leaned towards Mr Ambrose and whispered something to him in Portuguese, too fast and low for me to understand. Whatever it was - it made his eyes flicker to me, just for a split second. He said something back to her, sharply, and the old lady shook her bony finger under his nose.
Bloody hell! What on earth was that about?
I didn’t get a chance to wonder about it for long. Mr Ambrose nodded to Chandresh, the big Indian barked a command and we were off, marching between the village huts towards the jungle. The remaining tribe cleared a path for us, waving their bows and guns in the air and shouting encouragement. We passed the last hut. The line of trees loomed ahead, beckoning to us. Slowly, the shouts of encouragement from behind us grew dimmer and dimmer, until finally, they faded into the distance. The first trees began to rise up on either side of us, their tops towering above our heads. Following Chandresh’s lead, we marched deeper into the shadow, until mist and hot, green shadows surrounded us.
The jungle had swallowed us again.
*~*~**~*~*
In a lot of ways, our journey through the jungle was a good bit nicer than it had been before. For instance, I was by no means so worried about the Brazilians finding us, with dozens of Indian guards around us, leading us by safe paths and obscuring our tracks. Then, there was the fact that my days as a tree-climbing monkey were over. The Indians were perfectly able to find their way through the jungle without clambering up trees. And when it did prove necessary once in a while, Amana pushed me aside with a gentle smile. She was the fastest tree-climber and best jungle-sneaker in the whole tribe. A spider monkey couldn’t hold a candle to her (even if spider monkey were in the habit of using candles).
But there were still some aspects of the journey that were as bad as ever. In fact, they grew worse. Foremost among those were the heat and the mosquitos. We had to be getting closer and closer to the equator. With every step, it seemed, the jungle seemed to be more determined to cook me alive and suck my blood. I even briefly wondered whether these mosquitos here in the Amazonian jungle were distantly related to the vampires that had become so popular in penny dreadfuls[29] back home recently. They definitely seemed pretty determined to suck an innocent, helpless virgin dry!
Maybe you should just do something about that virgin thing, then…
That method of insect protection was very tempting, admittedly. But there were a few too many people around to implement it speedily. Besides, there were still those pesky little issues attached to losing your virginity - like pregnancy or becoming a social pariah. So I marched on and bore the mosquitos as patiently as a martyr. Except for the complaining. Lots and lots of complaining.
‘Damn blasted blood-sucking beasts! Blast, blast, blast you all the way to hell!’
‘Um…Lillian.’ Amana glanced at me nervously, not sure what my one-hundred-per-cent English cursing was all about. She was marching beside me, appearing miraculously serene, although mosquitos were crawling all over her. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘You bet something is the matter!’ I repeated my curses in Portuguese forthwith, and did a pretty good job of translating, if I do say so myself. Boy, I was turning into a bloody good linguist! ‘I’m being eaten alive!’
‘The mosquitos? They are bothering you?’