Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

“I was fearful for you as well,” she said. “It gives me pleasure to see you healthy and well.”

That was all the mush stuff Purano needed. His eyes gazed at the ground near Elicia’s feet and he made the longest speech of his brief life.

“It gives me pleasure that you are pleased that I am well. I fear for you, also, and am delighted to find you healthy and well.”

I stood back and watched Elicia Cortez turn into a rose in that moment, budding, blossoming, flowering — more than Purano knew.

I had to break up the unusual courtship, though.

“Why did you come looking for us, Elicia?”

She tore her eyes away from the ground near Purano’s feet and looked at me, steadily, without her usual shyness. “The hermit came to the Indian camp to warn Botussin,” she said. “The Iman from Apalca has given his assent to a revolution in both Nicarxa and Apalca. The revolution is to begin at nightfall. No one else knows that agreement has been reached. Once the signal has been given from Alto Arete, a special contingent of guerillas, part of Don Carlos Italla’s elite corps, is to attack the Ninca lands and kill every man, woman and child.”

“How does Pico know all this?” By then, Antonio and the others had formed a circle around us, all listening with keen ears and wide eyes.

“He has a radio,” Elicia said. “He took it with him when he went to the mountain to live away from man. He makes periodic trips to the capital, disguised as a monk, to buy parts and batteries. He has been listening to frequencies he has learned about in his listening. He has heard coded communications between Don Carlos and the Cubans. With so much time on his hand, old Pico has broken the code.”

A thought came. “I’ve been told that Don Carlos will signal the beginning of the revolution with a flare gun from the top of Alto Arete. If he has sophisticated radio equipment, why doesn’t he spread the word that way?”

“I can answer that,” Antonio said. “We are still a poor country, Senor Carter. Not many people have radios. Not even Don Carlos has been able to equip all his revolutionary groups throughout the island with radio equipment. But a flare at dusk from Alto Arete can be seen from every point on the island, even in Apalca and far out at sea. Even, it is said, in Cuba.”

Good God, I thought. That flare has more significance than I had imagined. Somehow, I had to stop Don Carlos from shooting off that flare. Without it, he might radio a few of his contingents — the Cubans mostly — but not enough to make the revolution a total success. But how?

I thought of old Pico sitting up there on his hidden plateau listening to all of Don Carlos Italla’s radio communications. This man, who had sought a place away from the company of men. I recalled the sadness in his voice when he had told me about what had happened to his beautiful eleven-year-old daughter:

I could tell by his eyes that he was lying. That was when I followed him and his friends and learned that he had indeed lied, and I came away a broken man.

Thoughts began to tumble through my brain. I thought my head would explode trying to sort them out. They were a jumble of thoughts, leading everywhere and nowhere. In that jumble of thoughts was the answer I had been seeking. I grabbed Elicia by her slender arms.

“Elicia, where is the hermit now? Where is Pico?”

“With Chief Botussin. He will stay there and help fight the elite corps when they come to murder the Nincas.”

“Does he know where we are, what we’re trying to do?”

“I don’t know. I only know what he told the chief. After that, they sat down to a big dinner, planning to discuss strategy later.”

It figured. Botussin’s stomach came before everything. Pico didn’t know that we were looking for the cave entrance. If he did...

“Let’s go,” I said to Antonio and Purano. “Elicia, you stay with the others and come back to the Ninca camp. We’ll go on ahead. I have to talk with Pico.”

“Why...”

“Just do as I say. There isn’t a minute to lose.”

As Antonio, Purano and I hurried down the trail, heading for the tribe’s camp, I explained what I hoped to learn from Pico.

Perhaps the old hermit couldn’t remember a day thirty years ago when he had followed Ancio and his evil friends to a cave at the base of Alto Arete, in one of seven hollows.

But there were other memories, other knowledges, that hadn’t been concealed deep in his mind by tragedies. Remembering the one might open the door to the other.

If I could tap those other memories, those other knowledges, there was a slim chance of saving the people of these two island countries.

If not?

I wouldn’t think of that just yet.

My second meeting with Pico, the hermit, was a mixture of pleasures and disappointments. Or, as the comedians like to remind us somewhat monotonously, some good news and some bad news.

First off, he was angry at me for having left his camp on my own.

“I spent years, Senor Carter,” he said, crouching among the short Indians to diminish the effect of his great height, “concealing the trail to my hermitage. No living man but you knows now how to come there. Besides, you weren’t ready to leave. The poultice needed several more hours to do its work.”

We were in the square of the tribal encampment. The hot midday sun blazed down on the mixture of white and brown bodies. Flies the size of teacups buzzed around us. Some of them even attacked the bandages on my side and my right foot. Shooing them away was a dangerous activity, fraught with promise of reprisal.

Antonio and Purano flanked the fat chief on one side of the circle. A little behind them were Elicia and the spearchuckers from the mission to the seven hollows. The body of the dead spearchucker was in a special burial hut, being prepared by the few remaining women of the tribe. I sat beside Pico on the other side of the circle. Filling in the circle, on either side of the hermit and I, were the village elders I had seen that first night in the council hut. Other spearchuckers, jealous that they hadn’t gone on the mission to share in the glory, surrounded all of us, a circle outside a circle.

“The poultice did its work well,” I assured Pico, “If it had done much better, it would be like not having had a wound at all. But I do apologize for breaking your rule. Will you accept?”

Pico grinned. It was all the acceptance I would receive. “You must promise never to tell another living soul how you left my camp.”

“I won’t.” Actually, I couldn’t. It had been darker than the inside of a pig the night I had left his camp. If I were given the chore of finding my way back there, I would probably wander in the jungle for the rest of my life.

“Now, what is it you wish of me, Senor Carter?” he asked after the amenities and the chastizing were over. “What is the purpose of such hurrying back here to talk to me?”

I refreshed his memory about our conversation, about his saying that he had followed Ancio and his friends, had learned that the man had indeed lied, and had seen his daughter and several others covered with oil and burned. I repeated as much as I could remember of what he had said, hoping to spark memories from him. Important memories.

“I want to know everything you saw and heard that night,” I told Pico. “I know it’s painful remembering, but this is important. I want to know as much as you can possibly remember before I show you something of great importance.”

He looked puzzled. So did all the others. But everyone remained silent while Pico considered the request. I was conscious of the minutes ticking away, of the day and the mission being completely shattered, while this old hermit searched back through thirty years of memories.