By the end of the first hour Carter found himself envying the boatman. As for himself, he could think of nothing but the hotel back in Cuzco: of air-conditioning and cubed ice, of the refreshing high-pressure shower and lemon-scented bed linen. He had long since stopped slapping at the voracious insects which worried his exposed skin, relying on the dense gelatinous layer of insecticide he slathered on every morning to protect him. This it did with greatly varying degrees of efficacy. Those insects that somehow managed to bite him right through his denim jeans he could only ignore.
Igor had spoken of diseases endemic to the Infierno Verde which not only had no known cure, they had yet to be named. Carter tried very hard not to think of such things.
Instead he concentrated on the green conflagration through which they stumbled. Igor’s and Christopher’s machetes rose and fell in rhythm, excavating a path where none existed.
By late afternoon his legs were throbbing, his feet aching. When Igor announced that it was time to take a break Carter started toward a circular clearing from which rose a single small tree, intending to use it as a backrest. The guide practically tackled him from behind.
“Stay away from that.”
“Why?” Carter scanned the ground. “There’re no bugs here, no rocks.”
“Precisely.” Igor gestured at the tree. “That’s a palo santo.”
The six-inch-thick bole looked innocuous enough to Carter, and he said so.
“Look at the ground again,” Igor advised him. “See how clean it is? Not only are there no insects here, there is very little leaf litter and no young plants. Nothing living.”
Despite the heat Carter felt a chill. “So?”
The guide had him approach the tree … carefully. “See these venous lines running across the bark? They are ant tunnels. The tree provides them for the ants, who make their homes within. In return, the ants cut down any competing plants that try to take root near their home, and kill any creatures which come too close. See?”
He tapped lightly on the trunk with the butt of his machete. Within seconds the gray bark was swarming with angry quarter-inch-long, rust-red ants that came pouring out of holes in the vein-like tunnels.
“They don’t look like much,” was Ashwood’s comment. “Not as threatening as the army ants you’ve showed us or those huge black solitary hunters.”
Carter let out a scream and jumped several inches off the ground, clutching at his left wrist. On the back of his hand a single ant had pierced the skin with its stinger. It was wiggling and twisting like a living drill, trying to drive the tiny weapon ever deeper into the invader. Several slaps were required to dislodge it. Instantly a small red circle began to form around the minuscule hole.
De Soto examined the skin, his expression as phlegmatic as ever. “It must have fallen off a branch.” Carter immediately looked upward and began backing away.
“I got stung by a yellow jacket once,” the actor muttered. “This is worse. How can such a tiny little creature hurt so bad?”
“Their poison is very strong,” Igor explained. “The Machiguenga Indians who live in this region will punish a severe offender by tying him face-first to one of these trees. When they return the following morning the victim is always dead.”
“I think I’ll go sit in a nice mud puddle somewhere,” Ashwood declared with alacrity. They left the sunny, bug-free clearing to its owners.
After another day of oppressive heat, choking humidity, stinging plants, and maddeningly persistent biting insects Igor matter-of-factly announced that from that point on, progress was likely to become difficult.
“I know that in this day and age it’s hard to believe, but we really are entering unexplored territory. Only true fools leave the rivers to travel this country on foot.” He smiled. “I greet my fellow fools.” Turning, he gestured toward the jungle ahead. “Nobody in their right mind comes here for a hike. Too steep and slippery. Maybe we’ll see something interesting. New species are being discovered in this country all the time.”
“What about Indians?” Carter asked as they resumed their advance.
“There are still tribes in the Manú district who’ve had only the most marginal contact with civilization, people whose languages are not understood. I do not think we are likely to encounter a previously untouched tribe, but it is possible.”
When it wasn’t raining they could see through breaks in the trees. They were climbing a green wall, ascending by means of switchbacks and angles, only to descend the opposite side, wade a creek, and start the process all over again. It was painfully slow and miserably uncomfortable. The blue sky overhead seemed an abstract unattainable ideal, pure and unsullied by drifting spores and bugs.
Carter could see why no one would want to visit such a place: not prospectors, not poachers, no one. It was ruggedly inaccessible. Even if you found anything worthwhile it would be hell packing it out.
Two days later they encountered the Indian. He did not fit the image Carter had constructed during idle moments of speculation.
Certainly he was old. His skin resembled a banana peel that had been left too long in the sun. Their appearance startled him erect and Carter estimated he was barely five feet tall. His attire consisted of a pair of fraying khaki shorts and an equally threadbare undershirt. A temporary structure of saplings and palm leaves stood behind him. Off to one side unidentifiable skinned animals and a couple of neatly filleted fish dangled from a horizontal limb supported by crossed poles set in the ground. They had been recently cut.
“Poacher?” Ashwood wondered aloud.
“We’ll see.” Their guide stepped forward and addressed the old man in a peculiar singsong tongue. He responded haltingly, shaking his head. Igor tried again.
Eventually he returned, some strain on his face. “He’s not a poacher. Says his name is Minga. Claims to be a local shaman. He lives by himself and people come to him when they need help. He’s been as far as Shintuya. That’s an advanced Indian settlement farther down the Alto Madre de Dios. What’s interesting is that while his speech is similar to that of the Machiguengas there are also significant differences. But we can understand each other.
“He says there are no villages near here and that no one else camps in this vicinity. That I can believe.” His eyes shifted from Carter to Ashwood. “I told him what you told me: that we were looking for a place where two pillars of rock almost meet to form an arch. He says he’s been all over this country and that he knows of only one such spot that might fit the description. Also that he is the only human who’s ever been there.”
“Can he, will he, take us?” Ashwood inquired anxiously.
Igor nodded. “He wants to be paid in something real. He knows about paper money but doesn’t trust it. Intis or dollars, it is all the same to him. I have a couple of small solar-powered flashlights. I think he will accept one of those.”
“What do you think?” Ashwood stared at the skinny old man. “Is he just telling us a story to get the flashlight?”
“There is no way of knowing except to follow him. I do not think he’ll lead us around in circles. Whether he actually knows of such a place remains to be seen.”
“Has he ever heard of Paititi?”
“I will ask him.” Igor did so. When he turned back to them there was a hint of excitement in his voice. “He does not know the name, but he claims that there is a place near the notched rocks where the stones have been carved by the gods.”
“The gods?” Carter asked.
“These jungle Indians remember nothing of the Incas or their civilization. Or it might be nothing more than a rockfall that he finds interesting. Again, the only way to find out is to go and have a look.”
“Promise to give him the flashlight,” Ashwood decided, “but only after he’s led us to the place.”
VII
