particular, he was an occasional journalist.
With no
real need to work, he had described it as a kind of vanity. Jeremy
hadn’t actually seen any of his work, but that meant
nothing.
He and
Uncle Harry had some sort of gentlemen’s agreement on an exclusive,
whether or not they ever found anything. Venezuela, and especially
the hinterland, was like the other side of the moon to the average
reader. According to Mister Day, a certain kind of person ate up a
certain kind of sensationalized adventure.
Jeremy
had nothing better to do than listen.
Most
interesting of all, were Mister and Mrs. O’Dell. An American
millionaire, thickening up in the middle according to him, easily
late fifties or early sixties, Peter was a collector. He was
looking forward to the thrill of discovering evidence and proving
the existence of an unknown people and culture. This was rumoured
to exist in the high hills a hundred miles inland. It would make
his name as he put it. His wife, Melody, quite a bit younger, was
the most perfectly decorative woman Jeremy had seen in quite some
time. Yet there was the spark of a deeper intelligence in behind
those quiet eyes, and it was interesting to note the sick thrill
when he caught her examining him in some kind of assessment,
possibly even amusement.
Hopefully he didn’t appear too callow in her eyes, although
he knew he was young, very young.
Especially when she looked at him like that—
That
didn’t necessarily make him a fool.
So far,
nothing much had happened, other than being sleepless from hot
steamy nights, queasy from sleeping on a boat, always in motion,
bitten by bugs, afraid to drink the water, and almost afraid of
going ashore at all. Not after seeing the biggest snake in the
world poke its head up and then swim along, outpacing the boat on
her port side and then disappearing into the low, overhanging
branches and into the dappled green shadows where land presumably
met water at some mysterious and unknown point.
Once
he’d seen a half a dozen crocodiles, sunning themselves on a
sandbar, and heard one or two stories of unknown creatures taking
people in the night, he’d been pretty much convinced. He’d seen
some very large spiders, and those were in a hotel room in Caracas.
They were all over the boat as well.
The
jungle was a place of disease, blood-sucking bats, foot-fungus,
dysentery and uncivilized tribes, some of whom had not yet been
discovered.
***
Jeremy had to marvel. London to Southampton to New York, New
York to Caracas. Local steamer east again, then down to Guyana
City, after threading the maze that was the Orinoco Delta. Days at
sea, days on a coastal steamer. Days aboard the Paloma, her shallow draft designed
for river travel, and now he stood on the red, gravel soil of the
riverbank.
It was a
completely different world and he knew nothing of it.
Unfamiliar birds and possibly monkeys screeched unseen in the
trees overhead. Insects buzzed and hummed. Sweat trickled
down.
It never
seemed to stop and after a while one stopped worrying about it.
Your socks and your underwear were never completely dry.
The
village of Buena Vista, population maybe fifteen hundred, wasn’t
much to look at. Now, they were going up the Rio Cuao, by
motor-canoe, and after that, overland to the area where the temple
of the Jaguar god was said to exist, at least in those legends that
the doctor had heard and so had Mister Smith.
And it
really was another world, where you could hire native bearers and
boatmen for what seemed like pennies for a day’s work. It was
brutally hard work, from dawn until dusk. They seemed cheerful
enough for all of that.
Mister
Smith was now satisfied with the loading and that they hadn’t
missed anything. There was nothing where they were going—nothing.
They would have to make do with what they had, which seemed pretty
extensive in Jeremy’s observation. All of the dockside piles were
aboard.
The
labour had been paid, but they seemed in no
With no
real need to work, he had described it as a kind of vanity. Jeremy
hadn’t actually seen any of his work, but that meant
nothing.
He and
Uncle Harry had some sort of gentlemen’s agreement on an exclusive,
whether or not they ever found anything. Venezuela, and especially
the hinterland, was like the other side of the moon to the average
reader. According to Mister Day, a certain kind of person ate up a
certain kind of sensationalized adventure.
Jeremy
had nothing better to do than listen.
Most
interesting of all, were Mister and Mrs. O’Dell. An American
millionaire, thickening up in the middle according to him, easily
late fifties or early sixties, Peter was a collector. He was
looking forward to the thrill of discovering evidence and proving
the existence of an unknown people and culture. This was rumoured
to exist in the high hills a hundred miles inland. It would make
his name as he put it. His wife, Melody, quite a bit younger, was
the most perfectly decorative woman Jeremy had seen in quite some
time. Yet there was the spark of a deeper intelligence in behind
those quiet eyes, and it was interesting to note the sick thrill
when he caught her examining him in some kind of assessment,
possibly even amusement.
Hopefully he didn’t appear too callow in her eyes, although
he knew he was young, very young.
Especially when she looked at him like that—
That
didn’t necessarily make him a fool.
So far,
nothing much had happened, other than being sleepless from hot
steamy nights, queasy from sleeping on a boat, always in motion,
bitten by bugs, afraid to drink the water, and almost afraid of
going ashore at all. Not after seeing the biggest snake in the
world poke its head up and then swim along, outpacing the boat on
her port side and then disappearing into the low, overhanging
branches and into the dappled green shadows where land presumably
met water at some mysterious and unknown point.
Once
he’d seen a half a dozen crocodiles, sunning themselves on a
sandbar, and heard one or two stories of unknown creatures taking
people in the night, he’d been pretty much convinced. He’d seen
some very large spiders, and those were in a hotel room in Caracas.
They were all over the boat as well.
The
jungle was a place of disease, blood-sucking bats, foot-fungus,
dysentery and uncivilized tribes, some of whom had not yet been
discovered.
***
Jeremy had to marvel. London to Southampton to New York, New
York to Caracas. Local steamer east again, then down to Guyana
City, after threading the maze that was the Orinoco Delta. Days at
sea, days on a coastal steamer. Days aboard the Paloma, her shallow draft designed
for river travel, and now he stood on the red, gravel soil of the
riverbank.
It was a
completely different world and he knew nothing of it.
Unfamiliar birds and possibly monkeys screeched unseen in the
trees overhead. Insects buzzed and hummed. Sweat trickled
down.
It never
seemed to stop and after a while one stopped worrying about it.
Your socks and your underwear were never completely dry.
The
village of Buena Vista, population maybe fifteen hundred, wasn’t
much to look at. Now, they were going up the Rio Cuao, by
motor-canoe, and after that, overland to the area where the temple
of the Jaguar god was said to exist, at least in those legends that
the doctor had heard and so had Mister Smith.
And it
really was another world, where you could hire native bearers and
boatmen for what seemed like pennies for a day’s work. It was
brutally hard work, from dawn until dusk. They seemed cheerful
enough for all of that.
Mister
Smith was now satisfied with the loading and that they hadn’t
missed anything. There was nothing where they were going—nothing.
They would have to make do with what they had, which seemed pretty
extensive in Jeremy’s observation. All of the dockside piles were
aboard.
The
labour had been paid, but they seemed in no
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