Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume XII

"If you come back in less than six months, you better have him with you. Or you will be on your way to where Brazil and Maranhaos send their undesirables. Angola."

They slowly filed out. "Good," said Diogo to the sergeant. "That solves more problems than one."

"I still think we should make a sail," Mauricio said. '"It's not easy for the two of us to row upstream. With a sail, we can take advantage of the trade wind." He let go of the paddle for a moment, opened and closed his hands a few times to limber them up, and took hold of the wood once again.

"And you brought the cloth after all. You can cut some branches and vines for the mast and stays."

Henriques shook his head. "A sail will be visible from a great distance. And the natives don't use sails."

"Not before Europeans came. But a few do."

"Not enough, just those who are in service. It would still draw attention. Even if the searchers didn't think it was our sail, they would approach the canoe, to ask if we had been seen, or perhaps to recruit more rowers. If they got close enough-" Henriques drew his finger across his neck.

"Then why don't we just head upriver with the tide, and lie doggo in a cove the rest of the time. We need to conserve our strength."

"It will be easier soon. We'll leave this channel, then cut across the varzea, the flooded forest."

Henriques wiped his forehead. "We're lucky that we had to make our escape during the rainy season. If this had happened a few months later, we would have been limited to the regular channels, they could catch us more easily.

"And there's less of a current in the varzea, too."

"Also, less in the way of anything to eat. The land animals have fled to high ground, and the fish are hiding in the deep water."

"We have enough food to get us to a friendly village."

"And another thing. It's easier to get lost in the varzea."

"I never get lost."

"Okay, we're lost."

The good news was that Henriques and Mauricio had made it back to the main channel of the Amazon. Hard to get lost; you always knew which direction was upstream.

The bad news was that they had emerged, closer than Henriques had planned, to the fort at Gurupa. They had to worry about being spotted, not just by Portuguese troops, but also by the Indians who traded with the fort. They might pass the word on. And they would be a lot harder to avoid.

"You, there!" shouted Corporal Bernaldo. He was addressing a lanky Indian, sitting in a small canoe, and holding a fishing rod. His companion seemed to be asleep. "Speak-ee Portuguese? Have you seen a white man? About so tall?" He stood up, and gestured, almost losing his balance. The Indian shook his head.

"Ask him if he has any fish to sell?" one of his fellow soldiers prompted.

"You have fish?"

The Indian pulled up the line, showing an empty fishhook.

"Ah, let's stop wasting time, we've got plenty of rowing to do." They continued upstream, and rowed out of sight.

The apparent sleeper opened his eyes. "I thought they'd never leave," Mauricio said.

Henriques smiled. "Well, you were a cool one."

"Cool? I'd have shit in my pants… if you had let me wear my pants, that is."

Henriques and Mauricio had hidden their European clothes, and Henriques had painted himself with black genipapo. The vegetable dye not only made him look like a native, at least from a distance, but also protected him from insects. Both wore loincloths, which observers would assume was a concession to European morality, but which would in fact conceal that they didn't follow the native custom of having their pubic hair plucked.

Now that the pursuit was in front of them, they could take it easy for a while. But not too easy. There were other soldiers, after all.

Corporal Bernaldo and his men, with six impressed Indian rowers, strained at the oars of their longboat, fighting against the current. They had set aside their helmets and cuirasses, so their heads were bare, and their torsos protected only by leather vests. These exposed the sleeves of their shirts, cotton dyed with red urucum.

As the western sky darkened, they beached their craft and wandered inland, looking for a suitable campsite. They couldn't see more than fifteen feet or so in front of them, so it wasn't an easy task.

They gradually became aware of a rumbling sound.

"Sounds like rapids," Joam suggested.

"Perhaps it's an elephant," said Antonio.

"There are no elephants in the Amazon."

"That's what you think."

The Indians became agitated. Bernaldo tried to figure out what they were talking about, but their excitement made them more difficult to understand, and Bernaldo was the sort of person who felt that if you couldn't understand his question, the solution was to repeat it, louder.

After a few verbal exchanges which satisfied no one, the Indians fled.

"What's was that all about?" Joam asked.

"What do you expect?" Bernaldo shrugged. "They're cowardly savages."

Antonio wondered whether the natives knew something that they didn't. He also knew better than to say anything.

They could now hear a clicking sound.

"Giant crickets?"

"What's that stench? Some kind of skunk?"

Several dozen white-lipped peccaries burst out of the undergrowth. They were pig-like animals, each about two feet high and about fifty pounds. They weren't happy to discover the Portuguese party. Had they not been clicking their tusks to warn other creatures to get out of their way? The herd included several youngsters, which made the adults especially temperamental.

Peccaries are also known as javelinas, because of their formidable weaponry. They charged. Manuel stumbled, and was gored to death. Antonio and Joam tried scooting up the same tree. Antonio, already on edge, had made his move earlier, and made it up without difficulty, but Joam lost his hold, and slid down. An angry male swung its tusks, slicing open his leg. Joam screamed, but was able to get hold of Antonio's outstretched hand, and was pulled out of the immediate danger. The other three soldiers were on the periphery of the peccaries' axis of march, and they simply ran out of the way.

It was hours before they were reunited. The survivors congratulated each other on their narrow escape.

"Where are the Indians?" asked Bernaldo.

Antonio was studying the river bank. "More importantly, where's the boat?"

" Dios mio!" Plainly, the Indians had decided to row off without them. The five survivors were stranded in the rain forest.

Despite his perilous situation, Henriques was happy. According to his reckoning, today was a Friday, and at sunset he intended to celebrate the Sabbath as best he could. He had improvised Sabbath candles from the stems of a resinous plant, and he had allowed a fruit juice to ferment to make wine. He would have to use the concavity of a stone as a kiddush cup.

He had no bread, let alone challah, unfortunately. But he had a tortilha made from manioc flour, and that would have to do. The Lord would understand when Henriques uttered the prayer, "Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth".

"So, do I pray, too?" Mauricio asked.

"Sure."

"I don't know. Is it a good idea for me to call God's attention to us? You're a heretic, after all."

"Mauricio…"

"He might send an angel to tell those idiot soldiers where to find us."

"Mauricio…"

"Or perhaps he'll just hurl down a lightning bolt." Mauricio darted a quick look at the threatening sky.

"Or-"

Mauricio's mouth was open, and Henriques deftly thrust a tortilha where it would do the most good.