Michael Devaney - The Elisha Pool

“Can’t be a great help there other than to say they could be anywhere within a one-hundred-mile radius of Manaus, but I’ll keep digging. Although the tribe is mentioned sparingly in a few documents, every search I’ve done looking for records of their village has come back with “zilch.” The best advice I could give would be to start with some of the locals or tour guides and go from there.”

“All right. Anything else?” Finn asked.

“Yes, I do have some encouraging news for you.”

“Great, let’s hear it,” Finn said.

“I ran a background check on our Mr. Stephenson and found out that he just turned ninety-years-old.”

“Ninety-years-old? You’re kidding,” Finn said.

“Nope, not kidding,” Andrew replied. “And travel for a ninety-years-old man, especially through the jungle, can’t be easy…or fast, so maybe we’re not as far behind as we originally thought.”

“Well, I suppose that explains the reason for the second plane ticket,” Andria said.

“Right on,” Andrew said. “Mr. Stephenson also has a rather sizable bank account and has been widowed for several years.”

“We’ll find him, sir.”

“One more thing before I let you go,” Andrew said. “Remember to keep the satellite phone I gave you close at hand. You’ll need it if you decide to head into the jungle. Agent issued satellite phones come installed with a GPS tracker, so we’ll know where to find you if something goes wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no matter what, stick together. The last thing we need is a lost agent wandering around in the Amazon.”

“Will do, sir. We’ll check in daily to report our progress.”

“Please do. Hopefully by then I will have uncovered more information aid in with your search.”

The chartered canoe carrying Stephenson and Owen glided silently through the murky waters of the Amazon. The sun had reached its zenith, transforming the heat from tolerable to oppressive. With every bend of the river crocodiles lay motionless, lining the muddy banks. Vast, overhanging trees and animal vocalizations created a mesmerizing ambiance.

The three of them steadily drifted, mainly in silence, for a couple of hours. The captain steered using the river’s current to power the vessel.

The first arrow struck the front, left side of the canoe about midway down its hull. A hail of others immediately followed, but fell short and splashed into the water.

“What in the world?” Owen shouted, looking to the left.

A group of tribesmen equipped with bows materialized from out of the jungle no more than thirty yards away. With arrows nocked and their bow strings stretched tight, the tribesmen advanced to the edge of water and launched another volley of arrows high into the air toward the canoe. Suddenly, Stephenson and Owen’s tranquil boat ride down the Amazon had turned into a game of real-life target practice, with them as the prize.

Instantly, the captain began to shout something in Portuguese while desperately working to steer them out of harm’s way.

“Get down,” the old man yelled, ducking into the bottom of the canoe. Owen quickly followed suit.

The majority of the second wave of arrows pierced the water a few feet shy of the canoe and disappeared. One however, hit its mark and this time it drew blood. The arrow struck the captain in the left arm just above the elbow. He cried out in pain as the point entered his flesh and embedded itself into the bone causing it to shatter upon impact. The force of the contact knocked him off balance sending him over the side of the boat and into the water.

Owen jumped up and leaned over the side hoping to help but it was too late. The captain sank like a rock. The blood from his wound spread quickly, turning the murky water a dark crimson. Owen held his breath waiting for him to resurface. After several seconds the captain’s head shot up from underneath the water. He frantically flailed around with his good arm gasping for air.

Owen reached out to grab him but it was no use, he was too far away. Then the unthinkable happened. Owen watched in horror as the captain began to scream. Seconds later the water churned in a vigorous frenzy of blood. Hundreds of hand-sized fish attacked at once. He was being eaten alive by a school of starving Piranhas. It was as though someone had poured a glass of red wine into a Jacuzzi. The entire scene was over in less than five minutes. When it was over, Owen fell back against the side of the boat in shock.

The old man looked at Owen then raised his head to look over the side. They had drifted a couple of hundred feet downstream. For the moment, they appeared to be out of danger.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Stephenson said.

Owen didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead as if he were in another world.

“Owen!” the old man shouted, shaking his grandson’s leg. “Do you hear me? I said we’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

Owen blinked a couple of times then turned to look at his grandpa. “What?” he asked. “What did you say?”

“I said we’ve got to get out of here, right now! If those tribesmen catch us there’s no telling what they’ll do to us.”

“Oh, yes. Right. Sorry,” he said, scrambling to the back of the boat. “Oh, my God, Grandpa. Did you see the Piranha? Did you see what they did to him?” Owen asked.

“No, but I heard them.”

“It was horrendous,” Owen said. “There was nothing left of him.”

“I know, son. Try not to think about it.”

“Why would anyone shoot at us?”

“I don’t know,” Stephenson said. “My only guess would be that we drifted too close to their land and they felt threatened.”

“But we weren’t even close to coming ashore.”

“I know, but it’s evident they see us as intruders.”

Stephenson drew in a deep breath, paused, then glanced at Owen. “That said, try to keep us in the middle of the river until we’re well out of their sight.”

“Then what?” Owen asked.

“Then we don’t have much of a choice. We’ll have to continue our float down river and hope for some luck.”

They had floated another hour when a lone rickety, wooden dock appeared in the distance.

Owen perked up and craned his neck. “Is that a dock up ahead on the right?” he asked.

The old man put a hand over his eyebrows to shade the sun and squinted.

“Yes, I think so,” he said.

“Think it’s safe?”

The old man held his pose and thought a moment, weighing their options. They were floating blind, without spare food or water. Although he didn’t know exactly where the captain was supposed to drop them off, he did know that it was somewhere down river and no more than half a day’s float. Based on how long they’d been on the water there were fairly good odds that this dock was the intended drop off point. There was inherent danger in approaching the dock, but so was the danger of floating past the drop off point. If that happened they may never find their way back and could be lost forever.

“Yes,” Stephenson said. “Let’s give it a look. Just take it slow. Any sign of danger we’ll abort.”

Owen nodded then laboriously maneuvered the canoe out of the channel of the river and toward the dock. As they neared the shore Stephenson’s memory unconsciously flashed back to a snapshot of what his eyes saw.

“I know this place,” he said to Owen. “This is the same dock where the Colonel and I were brought during our visit long ago.”

“Are you sure?” Owen asked. “Isn’t someone from the village supposed to meet us here.”

“Yes,”

“There’s no one around.”