James Grippando - A King's ransom

Or, Matthew feared, maybe they’d overheard him and Jan talking.

“Stop here,” shouted Joaquin.

The human chain came to a halt. The guerrillas dropped their packs and began to make camp. It was a suitable place. Firm ground, not the swampy mosses they’d struggled through for the past hour. A thick canopy of trees overhead concealed them from sight. There were plenty of dead branches around for a fire, though it wasn’t essential that they make one. It was noticeably less chilly here than at their other camp. All day long they’d climbed and descended along narrow mountain paths, but the net result was a slightly lower altitude. One of the guerrillas was in shirtsleeves, but that was a little crazy, a machismo thing.

The guards barked out orders in Spanish, and the prisoners were broken into three groups. Matthew and the Swede found a couple of large rocks to sit on beneath a tree.

Jan asked, “Interesting, the way they always keep you and me together.”

“We’re easier to guard this way.”

“But look how they break up the lot of us.”

“Seems logical. The Japanese couple is married, the Spanish speakers are with the Spanish speakers, and you and I speak English.”

“It has nothing to do with language, fisherman. Both the Colombian men speak English. You and I are the troublemakers. That’s why we’re together.”

“Is that something you figured out by yourself?”

“Yes. And the sooner you figure it out, the better off you’ll be.”

Matthew sensed that Jan was going to raise the E word again-escape. “I told you, you’re on your own.”

“Yeah. That’s what the Colombian said, too.”

“You talked to Emilio?”

“Of course. Haven’t you noticed the guards swarming all over me for the past three days? Emilio tipped them off.”

“Emilio’s no snitch.”

“Like hell. Why do you think he got a new pair of boots for today’s march? No one else got so much as a clean pair of socks.”

“They gave him new boots because he needed them.”

“I keep telling you, fisherman, it’s every man for himself here. Can’t you see that we have to do something?”

Matthew didn’t answer. He glanced toward a group of guerrillas sharing a tin of sausages and some white beans. The prisoners hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast-half a cup of coffee and a handful of cold rice. Matthew had forgotten how it had felt not to be hungry.

“Open your eyes,” Jan continued. “They’ve got too many prisoners. They can’t even feed all of us, let alone guard us. Either we make a run for it, or it’s like the Flea Man said: They’ll whittle down the group one way or another. We’ll both end up dead like Will.”

“Nobody’s going to end up like Will unless we do something stupid.”

“You’re wrong. In their eyes you and I are exactly like Will. If they can’t make a quick buck off us, we’re not worth the trouble. The docile ones like the Flea Man they’ll keep forever. But guys like us, it’s fish or cut bait. You can relate to that one, can’t you, fisherman?”

“You’re paranoid.”

“It’s the way these guerrillas think. They’re bored, and we’re their entertainment. They got rid of Will, and pretty soon they’ll decide that somebody else is trouble and needs to go.”

“So what are you saying? I’m next?”

“No. Clearly it’s me. But once I’m gone, it’s only a matter of time before they take care of you.”

“They’re not going to kill me and give up a ransom.”

“Don’t kid yourself. That Japanese couple is loaded, and the Japanese have a reputation for always paying. Joaquin doesn’t need your ransom. One snag in the negotiations, he’ll kill you for the fun of it.”

Up ahead, the scouts emerged from the jungle and reported to Joaquin. Apparently they’d found what they were looking for. Two guards approached the Japanese couple. Joaquin and three others came for Matthew and Jan.

“What now?” said Jan.

“We’re going for a walk,” said Joaquin.

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked single file with the Japanese prisoners toward a densely forested part of the jungle. It was more overgrown and much darker than anything they’d covered all day. An animal growled from somewhere in the thicket, and the Japanese woman clung to her husband. He sniped at Joaquin in Japanese, and the tone if not the words conveyed his message. From behind, a guerrilla shoved him and brandished his weapon, threatening him into silence. The mysterious animal growled again. Hundreds of birds suddenly exploded from the tree branches high overhead. It was nearly deafening, the flutter of wings and all that screeching and cawing. They warned of danger. Unfazed, Joaquin and his two machete-wielding scouts led them deeper into the jungle, brushing back bamboo stalks and droopy green elephant ear plants. Five armed guerrillas followed closely behind the prisoners.

Matthew wasn’t sure what was going on. It seemed odd that the three Colombian prisoners had been left behind.

“Stop,” Joaquin said.

They’d reached a clearing at the edge of a cliff. A canyon stretched before them, a huge gorge with steep walls that descended at least seven hundred feet. A muddy river snaked tortuously below, its raging waters the only audible sound in the valley. With this view, Matthew gained a full appreciation of Colombia’s nickname, “the Tibet of the Andes.”

He focused on what at first glance looked like a huge bird swooping across the canyon, and then he realized it was a man-carrying a pig. A steel cable stretched from one side of the mountain to the other, which Matthew hadn’t noticed right away, because it was covered in part by a low-hanging cloud. The man was seated in a rope sling, zipping across the canyon on a simple pulley-and-tackle system, easily topping thirty-five miles per hour. He was just fifty feet away from the cliff’s edge and closing fast. The cable whined as he applied the brake, a crude wooden fork that the rider squeezed to create friction. The added weight of the pig had given him too much momentum, and he slammed into a wall of old tires that brought him to an abrupt stop. He picked himself up, and he and his pig scampered away without fuss. As if this were just an everyday trip from the market in a country with too few roads and bridges.

Matthew watched as one of the guerrillas strapped himself into the sling on a parallel cable that sloped in the opposite direction for return traffic. He pushed himself off the cliff, shouting like a bungee jumper as he sped away on the steel cable, hanging perilously above a river that churned two hundred meters below, and finally disappearing into the thick white cloud that filled the valley.

“What do you make of this?” Matthew whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jan said under his breath. “But I wouldn’t count on it being good.”

Matthew exchanged a wary glance with the Japanese prisoners, nervously waiting his turn.

Matthew could not believe his eyes.After crossing the canyon, they’d walked for twenty minutes, mostly uphill along a narrow and at times overgrown jungle path. The last hundred-yard stretch had been downright frightening. The path was at its narrowest along the edge of a steep cliff. The rocks were slippery, the footing unsure. Any lapse in concentration could have meant a two-hundred-foot drop straight down into the ravine, instant death. But finally they’d reached their destination, a surprising reward.

“Will you look at that,” said Matthew.

Before them was a large pond, a warm and wet hole in the jungle canopy where the sun streamed in. Clouds of steam wafted up from the calm, flat waters. Matthew could feel the heat in the soles of his shoes, and each step toward the water brought the audible crunch of ancient volcanic cinders beneath the overgrowth of fallen jungle foliage, grass, and mosses that had gathered over the centuries. Joaquin had brought them to an extinct crater, a tiny geothermal paradise where nature warmed the waters to bath temperature. To a man who hadn’t bathed in weeks, this was heaven on earth.