A Garden Party
We make our way in the direction of the drum beats screams and leave the river behind us. Lou has found a seldom used path through the jungle, one that he thinks might have seen travel several days ago.
He practically has his nose to the ground, like a hunting dog, scanning every inch of this trail before we take our next step. After walking point on countless recons and hunting parties in the jungles four decades past it is second nature to recognize camouflaged pits and trip devices that might be set along our path. He seems oddly relieved that this path is here in the Amazon. I suspect it is due to the absence of that explosive viciousness that accompanies war. No... here it is just little brown Indians with sharp sticks and darts. Still lethal, but nothing that will blow you apart if you don't see it first.
His hand comes up and we stop. Lou reaches behind his head and pulls the machete out of its scabbord between his pack and his back. We retreat a few steps and he reaches as far as he can, the machete at arms length. He lets it drop on the trail and after a moment of hesitation a sharpened pole arcs through the foliage and swings across the trail at shin level.
"I know these guys are short, but that wouldn't kill anyone... would it?"
"It's probably used for hunting."
Now that the trap is sprung, he uses the machete to probe on the other side of the crude trip device. In the long grass there are berries and seeds of some type.
"Probably trying to trap peccary or monkey."
"Peccary?"
"Yeah, Nancy, peccary... a type of wild boar. I didn't think they were up this far."
"What the hell did you do in that bar you owned, read the damn Encyclopedia Brittanica all day long?"
"We need to make tracks." Lou starts moving up the trail.
"Anything you say, Rainman."
Night is falling. There is the smell of woodsmoke... and as we close in on their position we can see flickers of fire light reaching through the jungle. The screaming has ceased for the time being. That has been replaced by a low chanting from a large group. They float this mantra into the humid night air of the Amazon and it seems to hang there like the smoke from the bonfire.
Lou retrieves the night vision scope from his pack and takes in the jungle around us. He wants to make sure we aren't under surveillance before we even make it to the outskirts of the camp. When he is satisfied we move up. There is enough noise emitting from the natives and the crackling fire to mask our approach. We find a spot beneath a huge outcrop of ferns, protected and providing the best overall view of the situation.
Their camp is in a clearing of sorts. There is a large mound of rock, might be the side of a mountain for all we know. The reach of the night vision is impared by the firelight. Lou makes his evaluation and then passes the scope to me.
"I count... what, maybe thirty of them?" I whisper my report.
Lou acknowledges with a shallow grunt.
"There, with his back to us... is that Chris?"
"Tied to the tree on the far side of the fire."
"Yeah... is that him?"
"Has to be. With him on the far side of the camp like that we should be able to circle around and let him know we are here."
We back out into the jungle a bit, putting fifty feet between us and the camp before we arc around and make our way to the other side of the clearing. You can see the main group of them, all painted up and chanting as though they are in some kind of trance. There is one of them standing, well... dancing. A Shaman of some sort wearing a mask that reflects a dull glow from the dancing fire light. They seem too pre-occupied to bother with us.
Sitting at the base of a small tree, his hands bound behind the trunk, is Chris. He is busy talking to himself. There are two other men bound in the same fashion, their trees farther away from the bonfire and Chris' position. We examine them from a distance with the night scope. They wear a uniform shirt, Keenan Mining Corporation, the same type of shirt we had seen in the pit. They too are talking to themselves, their mumblings are indistinguishable from the chanting of the natives.
The problem with getting to Chris is that the bulk of the chanting natives are facing our position. The only possibility of a stealth approach is that the light of the bonfire may be enough to blind them to our presence. Those little Indians on this side of the bonfire have their backs to us.
We leave our equipment packs in the bushes. Lou keeps his knife and Kimber. I move the strap on my MP5 so it lays on my back. We start to move on our bellies, Lou in the lead and me following, to keep our profile in as small as possible.
As we approach Chris, the tree blocks the light of the fire and we can see his face. His eyes are wide, his expression a combination of fright and surprise. He is talking to himself. The closer we get we get into a foliage a foot deep. From Chris' position it must look like a big black snake weaving its way toward him. His voice gets louder, the mumbling is more pronounced and we can hear him counting.
"One,two, three, four, five... toes on that foot." Over and over again he counts, pausing as his wide eyes look from his one foot, absent of any shoe or boot, to where his prosthetic foot should be.
I grab Lou's ankle and he stops. I slide up next to him.
"He doesn't have his foot. How the hell are we going to get him out of here without his foot?"
Just then the chanting stops, as though they overheard us... which is impossible. We shrink down as the crowd around the bonfire stand as one. The Shaman yells something and then points to a long pole of a tree that is next to the rock face that we now can see is indeed the side of a mountain of rock. He yells again and they start for the far tree and the man bound to it.
Some of the natives walk within a few feet of us and stop, their attention rivetted to their captor.
A small group of the Indians remove the man from the tree and carry him over their heads to the pole tree. Now another group grabs hold of tethering vines that are fastened to the top of the tree and they walk back toward the bonfire, pulling the tree over to the point the that top of it is near the ground. Others help to pull the top down and all but a few of the vines are tied through a tangle of roots from a tree long since cut down.
Now, with the pole tree locked down, the prisoner is tied to the trunk, hands bound at arms length over his head, feet bound in the same manner. Lastly, they tether him at the waist with some type of ceremonial sash of some kind. The man is still mumbling to himself... his eyes wide, seemingly unaware of the peril he is in.
The Shaman hushes the gathering and then chants over his victim. We can now see that the mask he wears is made of gold. In his hand he holds a sceptor with an animal claw. He motions to one of his minions and with head bowed one of the natives holds a small bowl at arms length to the Shaman. The witch doctor dips the claw in the bowl and then puts the claw in the mouth of the prisoner. He repeats this until we hear the man scream. He starts to talk now, brought out of the trance by the potion in the bowl.
"Hey now... what is this? Where am I?" He struggles against his binds. "Now, HEY... HELP, someone HELP ME."
The Shaman holds his hand high and the crowd goes wild. When he drops his hand the crowd stops and axes fall. The tree springs from its tether and the man screams as he flies toward the mountainside. Then the screams stop with an unnerving sound as the tree slaps his body into the rock face. It sounds like bags of wet laundry dropped from a third floor window. When the tree flies back, blood and body matter splatters the crowd and the bonfire. The tree volleys to a stop and the crowd goes wild again. The man's body is flat where it meets the trunk, the skull flatened, the eyes pushed from their sockets and hanging in the mess.
"Oh, Christ." I turn away.
Lou tugs my arm and then motions to the crowd of natives. They all seem to be waiving sticks or spears, some have a couple of feathered banners of some kind. One of them, his back to us and at the edge of the crowd, waives a lower leg and foot that is bound to a staff.
Lou smiles in the darkness.
"Its time to get the hell out of here."
He practically has his nose to the ground, like a hunting dog, scanning every inch of this trail before we take our next step. After walking point on countless recons and hunting parties in the jungles four decades past it is second nature to recognize camouflaged pits and trip devices that might be set along our path. He seems oddly relieved that this path is here in the Amazon. I suspect it is due to the absence of that explosive viciousness that accompanies war. No... here it is just little brown Indians with sharp sticks and darts. Still lethal, but nothing that will blow you apart if you don't see it first.
His hand comes up and we stop. Lou reaches behind his head and pulls the machete out of its scabbord between his pack and his back. We retreat a few steps and he reaches as far as he can, the machete at arms length. He lets it drop on the trail and after a moment of hesitation a sharpened pole arcs through the foliage and swings across the trail at shin level.
"I know these guys are short, but that wouldn't kill anyone... would it?"
"It's probably used for hunting."
Now that the trap is sprung, he uses the machete to probe on the other side of the crude trip device. In the long grass there are berries and seeds of some type.
"Probably trying to trap peccary or monkey."
"Peccary?"
"Yeah, Nancy, peccary... a type of wild boar. I didn't think they were up this far."
"What the hell did you do in that bar you owned, read the damn Encyclopedia Brittanica all day long?"
"We need to make tracks." Lou starts moving up the trail.
"Anything you say, Rainman."
Night is falling. There is the smell of woodsmoke... and as we close in on their position we can see flickers of fire light reaching through the jungle. The screaming has ceased for the time being. That has been replaced by a low chanting from a large group. They float this mantra into the humid night air of the Amazon and it seems to hang there like the smoke from the bonfire.
Lou retrieves the night vision scope from his pack and takes in the jungle around us. He wants to make sure we aren't under surveillance before we even make it to the outskirts of the camp. When he is satisfied we move up. There is enough noise emitting from the natives and the crackling fire to mask our approach. We find a spot beneath a huge outcrop of ferns, protected and providing the best overall view of the situation.
Their camp is in a clearing of sorts. There is a large mound of rock, might be the side of a mountain for all we know. The reach of the night vision is impared by the firelight. Lou makes his evaluation and then passes the scope to me.
"I count... what, maybe thirty of them?" I whisper my report.
Lou acknowledges with a shallow grunt.
"There, with his back to us... is that Chris?"
"Tied to the tree on the far side of the fire."
"Yeah... is that him?"
"Has to be. With him on the far side of the camp like that we should be able to circle around and let him know we are here."
We back out into the jungle a bit, putting fifty feet between us and the camp before we arc around and make our way to the other side of the clearing. You can see the main group of them, all painted up and chanting as though they are in some kind of trance. There is one of them standing, well... dancing. A Shaman of some sort wearing a mask that reflects a dull glow from the dancing fire light. They seem too pre-occupied to bother with us.
Sitting at the base of a small tree, his hands bound behind the trunk, is Chris. He is busy talking to himself. There are two other men bound in the same fashion, their trees farther away from the bonfire and Chris' position. We examine them from a distance with the night scope. They wear a uniform shirt, Keenan Mining Corporation, the same type of shirt we had seen in the pit. They too are talking to themselves, their mumblings are indistinguishable from the chanting of the natives.
The problem with getting to Chris is that the bulk of the chanting natives are facing our position. The only possibility of a stealth approach is that the light of the bonfire may be enough to blind them to our presence. Those little Indians on this side of the bonfire have their backs to us.
We leave our equipment packs in the bushes. Lou keeps his knife and Kimber. I move the strap on my MP5 so it lays on my back. We start to move on our bellies, Lou in the lead and me following, to keep our profile in as small as possible.
As we approach Chris, the tree blocks the light of the fire and we can see his face. His eyes are wide, his expression a combination of fright and surprise. He is talking to himself. The closer we get we get into a foliage a foot deep. From Chris' position it must look like a big black snake weaving its way toward him. His voice gets louder, the mumbling is more pronounced and we can hear him counting.
"One,two, three, four, five... toes on that foot." Over and over again he counts, pausing as his wide eyes look from his one foot, absent of any shoe or boot, to where his prosthetic foot should be.
I grab Lou's ankle and he stops. I slide up next to him.
"He doesn't have his foot. How the hell are we going to get him out of here without his foot?"
Just then the chanting stops, as though they overheard us... which is impossible. We shrink down as the crowd around the bonfire stand as one. The Shaman yells something and then points to a long pole of a tree that is next to the rock face that we now can see is indeed the side of a mountain of rock. He yells again and they start for the far tree and the man bound to it.
Some of the natives walk within a few feet of us and stop, their attention rivetted to their captor.
A small group of the Indians remove the man from the tree and carry him over their heads to the pole tree. Now another group grabs hold of tethering vines that are fastened to the top of the tree and they walk back toward the bonfire, pulling the tree over to the point the that top of it is near the ground. Others help to pull the top down and all but a few of the vines are tied through a tangle of roots from a tree long since cut down.
Now, with the pole tree locked down, the prisoner is tied to the trunk, hands bound at arms length over his head, feet bound in the same manner. Lastly, they tether him at the waist with some type of ceremonial sash of some kind. The man is still mumbling to himself... his eyes wide, seemingly unaware of the peril he is in.
The Shaman hushes the gathering and then chants over his victim. We can now see that the mask he wears is made of gold. In his hand he holds a sceptor with an animal claw. He motions to one of his minions and with head bowed one of the natives holds a small bowl at arms length to the Shaman. The witch doctor dips the claw in the bowl and then puts the claw in the mouth of the prisoner. He repeats this until we hear the man scream. He starts to talk now, brought out of the trance by the potion in the bowl.
"Hey now... what is this? Where am I?" He struggles against his binds. "Now, HEY... HELP, someone HELP ME."
The Shaman holds his hand high and the crowd goes wild. When he drops his hand the crowd stops and axes fall. The tree springs from its tether and the man screams as he flies toward the mountainside. Then the screams stop with an unnerving sound as the tree slaps his body into the rock face. It sounds like bags of wet laundry dropped from a third floor window. When the tree flies back, blood and body matter splatters the crowd and the bonfire. The tree volleys to a stop and the crowd goes wild again. The man's body is flat where it meets the trunk, the skull flatened, the eyes pushed from their sockets and hanging in the mess.
"Oh, Christ." I turn away.
Lou tugs my arm and then motions to the crowd of natives. They all seem to be waiving sticks or spears, some have a couple of feathered banners of some kind. One of them, his back to us and at the edge of the crowd, waives a lower leg and foot that is bound to a staff.
Lou smiles in the darkness.
"Its time to get the hell out of here."
posted by Jake Allen at 5:48 AM
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