An Inauspicious Visit Read online

  Diogo lowered his eyes. “You’re right, Gerard. I saw Oludara’s arrival as a chance to divert Antonio from this rotten business and go back to what we should be doing: saving those in need from the ravaging monsters which plague this land.”

  “You are a good man,” said Oludara. “Why do you follow one such as Antonio?”

  “You didn’t know Antonio before. When he formed the banner, his intentions were noble. We fought mighty battles and saved countless lives. Antonio always ran first into danger, with never a moment’s hesitation. He was the best of us, with both sword and gun: a man to inspire. If you could have seen him like that, you would have followed him as well.

  “But then his thoughts changed to profit, and the Indians. It weighs heavily on me, this business of slaving. The Indians were our allies. They fell from favor only because the sugar mills were built, and the Africans couldn’t be brought fast enough to run them all.”

  “They aren’t Indians,” said Gerard, “they are Tupinambá, and Tupiniquim, and many others. And they are as much my people now as the Dutch ever were. I beg you, Diogo, don’t tell Antonio. It’s only a few more days, then you’ll be off on your next adventure.”

  Diogo stood silent for a long time. With a sigh, he tossed the eye patch back to Oludara.

  “Very well, Gerard. This one time, you can have your ruse. Just be off quickly, before anyone finds you here.”

  #

  During the extreme midday heat typical of the Brazilian forests, Gerard took a welcome afternoon rest. Four days of travel had exhausted him. He sat against a fallen log and rummaged through his pack for something to eat.

  The rations he had taken from the Tupinambá village were almost gone, but he had carried little enough to begin with, living off the land along the way as much as he could. Oludara had been right to insist on their spending time among the Tupinambá; the natives had imparted invaluable knowledge upon them. Where Gerard had once seen the forest as an imposing wall of green, it now felt as comfortable as a city street. Wherever he looked, he recognized plants and animals by the dozens.

  He unwrapped the cloth containing the last of his cassava hard crackers and cut open a pineapple to accompany them. A hot meal of fish or game would have suited him better, but he hadn’t risked a fire since his visit to Antonio’s camp.

  When he tossed his pack on the ground, it tipped over and the potion Yandir had given him rolled out. Gerard had forgotten about it after stuffing it into the bottom of the pack, but that was before he had consumed most everything else inside.

  Gerard picked up the gourd and held it close to his face. He examined the strange carvings, but they held no meaning to him.

  “Heathen magic,” he said. He cocked back his arm to throw it.

  A snap sounded from the north. Gerard absently fumbled the potion back into his pack and moved to investigate. As he walked, he caught the scent of something sweet, and the forest opened to reveal a lake surrounded by rows of sugar cane. He spotted an estate to the east, at the far end of the lake. The only buildings Gerard had seen for many months had been the Tupinambá longhouses, and the sight of brick-and-mortar construction pleased him to no end. The white plaster walls and ceramic, salmon-colored roofs rekindled memories of cities back home in Europe.

  “Ah, society,” he sighed. “Has it been so long?” Since his departure from Oludara, he had ever more frequently spoken to himself to pass the time.

  “Hello!” he called out several times, to no response.

  Gerard circumnavigated the lake and crossed an orchard of quince and fig trees on his way to the estate. The constructions resembled those in other sugar plantations he had seen. The two-story building would be the owner’s house. Nearby stood a private chapel with square columns in front and a wooden cross on top. A pillar with a bell stood next to it. A roofed pavilion protected the massive wooden press and other equipment used for sugar extraction. The only structure not built to last—a clay building with a thatched roof—would be thesenzala: the slave house. Gerard estimated the structure capable of holding some two hundred slaves, based on the way the mill owners typically packed them in.

  Despite a thorough search of the buildings, Gerard found no one. Drawers, cabinets, and other containers had been emptied and closed, suggesting abandonment rather than thievery. The kitchen still smelled of expensive spices like cinnamon and pepper, but none remained. Strangely enough, he found claw marks on some furniture and walls, but no trace of violence to any person.

  Gerard returned to the orchard to see what he could scavenge. The quince trees held no fruit, but he would have had to cook them to make them edible, so it was no great loss. He did discover some ripe figs, so he stuffed several handfuls into his pack. He considered continuing his search of the estate, to try and find some clue as to what had happened there, but dark clouds had formed out west, the direction from which he had come.

  “Glad I’m not in that,” he said. “I’d best move on to Ilhéus, in case it comes this way.”

  He found a well-worn cart path leading east. Near the path, he spotted some tracks. At first sight they looked like overly large human feet, but gashes beyond the toes indicated claws.

  “Strange,” he said. “Oludara might recognize them, but they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  Out of caution, Gerard loaded his harquebus.

  #

  Oludara couldn’t imagine a more appropriate way of topping off four days of hard marching and banana eating than the torrential rain that now assaulted Antonio’s group.

  A swollen river, its water rushing by in an endless roar, halted their progress. The bank’s wet clay suctioned Oludara’s feet as he watched Antonio and Diogo confer with the group’s principal guide, Tinga.

  Tinga was one of the group’s caboclos, a mix of European and native. He was taller and lighter skinned than most natives Oludara had met, with a broad, muscled chest. His hair fell in waves, unlike their characteristic straight hair.

  In all other respects, however, he would not be confused for a European. His only clothing consisted of a band on his head with a few yellow feathers poking up from it, a leather belt, and green stones in his ears. For weapons, he carried a carved wooden club and wore a dagger at his belt.

  Oludara, pretending to examine the river, edged closer to the group to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “We can’t cross,” said Tinga, shaking his head.

  “I can see we can’t cross here, you fool,” responded Antonio. “I want to know where we can.”

  Tinga shrugged. “We can follow the river back west. We can round the source perhaps ten leagues back.”

  “That’s the wrong direction. Can’t we cross farther east?”

  “Yes, but…” Tinga hesitated. “That will take us through the Kaa’ité.”

  “ ‘Bad Forest?’ ” asked Diogo.

  “More like ‘Terrible Forest,’ ” replied Antonio.

  Oludara had been surprised to discover Antonio spoke Tupi at least as well as he and Gerard. But Antonio used it only for yelling commands or curses at the native slaves.

  “Why are you so reluctant to cross this forest?” asked Antonio.

  “It is said to harbor dangerous creatures,” replied Tinga.

  Antonio scoffed at him. “I certainly hope so! We haven’t had a decent battle for months.” Antonio turned to the group. “Lift that equipment, laggards, we’re moving on.”

  Tinga turned to leave, but made eye contact with Oludara as he strode away. Where the others had ignored Oludara during the march, the caboclo had been sizing him up for days. Oludara had avoided speaking with him, trying to play the part of the timid slave. Tinga, however, didn’t appear to believe the farce.

  That one will make a great ally or a great enemy, thought Oludara. I had best try to sway him to my side.

  The company continued its march until dusk, penetrating the forest along a thin yet discernible path. From time to time, they sent a scout south to check the river
, but found only the same: a rushing, uncrossable torrent along a sticky clay bank. Exhausted, the company set up camp in the forest.

  As the group hung their hammocks and lit fires, Antonio walked among his bannermen with words of: “Take heart, men. We’ll be in Ilhéus on the morrow.”

  Oludara spotted Tinga clearing away a bit of ground under a tree and decided to take the opportunity to speak. As he approached, however, the caboclo stood to attention.

  “Captain,” called Tinga, “look at this.”

  Antonio strode over, followed by Diogo and a few others. Oludara snuck in behind the group for a peek.

  Tinga pointed down toward a rotting corpse. Oludara could tell there was something unusual about it; it had not decomposed naturally.

  Antonio bent over for a look. “Well, that’s a repulsive corpse.” He pointed to a couple of natives nearby and said in Tupi, “You two, bury this mess.”

  “Wait!” said Oludara.

  When everyone stopped and trained their eyes on him, Oludara regretted his outburst, but decided it was too late to go back. He stooped down over the corpse, keeping his face low.

  “There is something wrong here,” he said. “It has not rotted away; it is as if something dried it out, like a fruit in the sun. I have never seen anything like it.”

  He did not add the obvious: that the corpse had not been dried by any natural cause. Anyone could see that almost no sunlight made it through the dense forest canopy.

  “Slave,” said Antonio, “don’t ever speak to me unless I ask you a question.”

  “He may be right, Antonio,” interjected Diogo. “This corpse is unusual. We shouldn’t make camp here.”

  “Nonsense! Look at it, it’s been rotting here for ages.”

  “Why should we take the chance?”

  “Are you frightened, Diogo? We have eighty strong men here, sixty of them harquebusiers. Not to mention fifty savages for fodder. What could possibly harm us?”

  “I’d rather not find out.”

  “Ha! We’ve slain countless beasts in our travels. If another waits nearby, so be it. It will suffer the same fate as the others. There is nothing in this forest capable of stopping Antonio Dias Caldas.”

  As Antonio walked away, Diogo glanced at Oludara and frowned.

  #

  Gerard spotted Ilhéus on the horizon and breathed a sigh of relief. He examined the town as he hiked the gradual slope that led up to it.

  On the far side of the city ran a massive river: navigable even by the largest of ships, from the looks of it. Out to sea, he spotted islands dotting the horizon. Only one caravel anchored in port, where he would have expected a half-dozen. As he approached, he noticed that the caravel’s main mast was broken.

  He had heard stories of Ilhéus’s decadence, caused by many years of raiding by the formidable Aimore warriors, but the disrepair went beyond his expectations. Many buildings had been burned out and left to ruin. Most of the others were dirty, their whitewash flaking away, some even crumbling apart. He couldn’t spot a freshly painted building in the lot. A wattle-and-daub fort stood on a rise with its gates open, apparently abandoned.

  The only building in reasonable condition appeared to be the church. It was a solid, two-story structure with a bell tower at one corner. Gerard guessed that Jesuits had erected the building; it resembled others of theirs that he had seen. The whitewashing was soiled, but immaculate compared to the rest of the town.

  A commotion arose when the few people walking the streets spotted him. They scattered around, calling to others. By the time Gerard arrived at the pillory in the central plaza, it seemed the entire town, perhaps a hundred people, had flooded out to surround him. Like most towns in Brazil, he spotted ten men for every woman, and several of those women were natives.

  As the crowd closed in around him, a man in black, priestly robes emerged from the mob. The man was portly with a stubby nose and wore his brown hair in a tonsure. Gerard had the sensation that the priest gazed almost hungrily at his harquebus and rapier.

  “I am Father Nicolau, shepherd of Ilhéus’s flock,” said the priest, opening his arms to encompass the crowd around him. “And who are you, kind sir?”

  “My name is Gerard van Oost, and I represent the Elephant and Macaw Banner.”

  “God be praised!” shouted Nicolau, holding his hands toward the sky. “A banner has arrived to save us!” A cheer spread through the crowd.

  “Save you?” asked Gerard.

  “We’ve been attacked,” said Nicolau. “Didn’t you hear? I thought you came at our summons.”

  “You’ve been attacked?”

  “Yes, by a most terrible creature.”

  “Really?” asked Gerard. He looked skeptically at the crowd. “This isn’t some type of farce?”

  “Farce?” said Nicolau, almost choking on the word. “Of course not! How dare you ask a man of God such a question? What kind of person are you?”

  “My apologies,” said Gerard, turning red. “You have my word that I’ll do all in my power to help.”

  “Thank you then,” said the priest, more coldly this time. “Now, where is the rest of your banner?”

  “The others have been detained,” said Gerard. “For now, it’s just me.”

  “Oh, terrible day,” cried Nicolau. “We require a troop of hundred men. Nothing less could possibly defeat Labateau!”

  #

  A break in the rain allowed Antonio’s troop time to distribute supper. Oludara collected his ration of bananas and pondered what he might say to Tinga. He searched the camp to find the man playing an intricate bone flute.

  Tinga played a deliberate, melancholy melody. When he finished the song, he set the flute down beside him and stared off at nothing.

  “What is it you play?” Oludara asked in Tupi.

  Tinga spared a quick glance at him, then looked away again. “I was just making that up.”

  “I mean to ask what you call that instrument?”

  Tinga picked up the flute and turned it in his hand. “It is called ‘thing which makes music.’ ”

  Oludara laughed.

  Tinga paused for a moment, then joined in the laughter. “Yes, it seems funny once you learn the language of the white men. They have names for everything. They even name things with languages they do not speak. SpiritusSanctus,” he said, the Latin words rolling clumsily off his tongue.

  Some of the nearby bannermen looked at them suspiciously. Most of them didn’t speak Tupi.

  “You are not Tupinambá,” said Oludara.

  “No, I was Caeté,” responded Tinga.

  “Was?”

  “My people are no more.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was a child at the time, but my tribe captured a group of shipwrecked Portuguese and devoured them.”

  “That has occurred many times in Brazil.”

  “But one of the men we ate was a bishop,” said Tinga.

  Oludara whistled. The bishop was the second most powerful man in Brazil, behind only the governor. While eating a few shipwrecked sailors wouldn’t normally cause a commotion, the death of a bishop would have grave consequences.

  “After that,” said Tinga, “we had no more peace. The Portuguese slaughtered or enslaved all of us...thousands.” Tinga used the Portuguese word to express the value, which did not exist in Tupi, then switched back. “A few were taken in by other tribes, but most wanted nothing to do with us. I was taken as a slave, and a valuable one because of my young age and European blood.”

  “Excuse me if it is an offense to ask, but how did you come to be born of mixed blood if your tribe hated the Europeans so much?”

  “It was the custom of our tribe to offer women to our captives, before their sacrifice. A European captured by my tribe fathered me before he was eaten. My tribe would have eaten me too, eventually, for having his blood.” He shook his head. “The slaughter of my people became my salvation. But I would trade my miserable life to have them back.”

/>   “Why do you serve Antonio?”

  “What is my choice? I am a slave, and can hope for no better. I could run away and live alone in the wilderness, but what kind of life is that? This business of enslaving natives is wretched, but we have done good as well, killing the accursed creatures of this land which harassed my people for generations.”

  A nearby man drinking water from an ox horn hocked and spat in their direction. “Stop speaking like that!” he said. “Speak in Portuguese if you want to talk.”

  Oludara, changing to Portuguese, replied, “Sorry, I only desired to practice the language.”

  The man stood and approached him. “How did a slave learn to speak like the savages, anyway?”

  “From the Indian slaves in my master’s sugar mill. We work side by side with them.”

  “Hmph,” replied the man. The response seemed to satisfy him, though. He turned and walked back to sit on a rotten log. Just after he sat, he scrunched his face and jerked his shoulders.

  “Now what’s that?” he said. “I’ve a strange feeling in my arse.”

  Someone nearby said, “Perhaps it’s from all those beans you ate at dinner!” Everyone laughed.

  The man gasped for breath. He stood, but the log came with him, firmly attached to his bottom. He got no more than half way up before the imbalance caused him to fall to the side.

  The log came alive, pieces of it folding out, which Oludara recognized as limbs. It took a form reminiscent of a rotten, wooden cadaver, and embraced the man in its arms. Within seconds, the man dried to a lifeless corpse, like the one they had discovered earlier that day.

  Bannerman jumped in shock on all sides. Two arms stretched out from what appeared to be a pile of sticks and grabbed hold of another man, who dried up just like the first. All around them, leaves scattered as the ground moved.

  “God save us!” someone cried out. “It’s the Dry Bodies!”

  #

  Gerard took dinner with Father Nicolau in the church’s sacristy. Through the open doorway, he could hear the front doors opening and closing as people entered.

  A native brought in a meal of mussels and bread. The mussels smelled of vinegar, garlic, and peppers, and Gerard downed them by the handful. He washed them down with a glass of wine made from local fruit.