bale?”
“Of course I did. I told you everything in the voicemail. Didn’t you listen to it?”
Zane’s phone beeped again and shut off. He pounded the power button with his finger, but as he did the phone slipped out of his clammy hands. Bing . Bing . Bing . It bounced off the beams of the launch pad as it plummeted, hitting the ground and exploding into a thousand shards of plastic and glass. Some of the pieces slid across the slab and stopped at the feet of a man. Where had he come from? The man looked up and Zane’s heart leaped—it was Miguel. The knife he held in his hand, Zane guessed, was no doubt the same one he had used to slay the agent.
“Well look at you,” said Miguel. “Stuck like a treed coon.”
Chapter Eleven
No one talked around the fire that night. The Timucuans gathered mussels and snails from the slow, gloomy river beside which they had made camp and steamed them on a bed of wet moss placed over the coals. They showed Dominic how to extract the meat from one of the shells and left him to prepare the rest of his supper himself. His stomach could finally tolerate solid foods again, but he doubted he could eat enough of the tiny mollusks to feel full.
All night the natives prayed. When the moon rose they kneeled before it and, with tears in their eyes, delivered up pleas and lamentations in lilting tones that were as beautiful as they were haunting. Somewhere in the distance, a pack of red wolves joined the chorus with their sorrowful howling. While the others prayed, the native to whom Ona had given his shell sloped off to sit alone in the darkness. He looked as despondent as a widower and Dominic watched him remove the necklace, look at it for a long time, and then put it back on.
“Who is he?” Dominic whispered to Francisco.
Francisco, morose, looked at the man. “That is Utina, our new chief.”
“A reluctant one, I’d say.”
Francisco had been holding a piece of half-eaten snail meat in his hand for several minutes. He looked at it, and then tossed it into the fire. “Utina knows he can never be as just and tireless a leader as Ona. No one can. Ona is—Ona was—irreplaceable.”
“Will the Ais kill Ona?” asked Dominic.
“For certain,” said Francisco. “But first, he will be beaten and tortured. They will parade him in front of their village like a prize and call a council to try him for trespassing. A spectacle, nothing more. His sentence will be death. The gods, they will say, demand it. Then the real suffering will ensue.”
“In what way?” Dominic’s appetite had disappeared and he pushed the pile of shellfish away.
“It depends on their mood, I guess. They will most likely cut off his limbs and cauterize the wounds to ensure he lingers for a while. After that they will mount what’s left of his body on a pole outside their village and leave him there, until he…” Francisco seemed unwilling to let the word pass from his lips.
“Until he dies,” said Dominic.
Francisco frowned. “Yes.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Francisco gazed at the river. “Because we used to punish our enemies in the same way. Before Ona became chief.”
The next morning, the sound of chopping jarred Dominic awake. The river basin filled with warm sunlight and the thin fog that had materialized overnight swirled away. Dominic looked around the camp; he was surprised to find himself alone. He considered fleeing but decided against it; at this point, he felt safer with the natives than he did on his own. Between the vicious animals, toxic plants and savage Ais, he knew he could never survive in such wilderness by himself.
He traced the chopping sound to a thicket of trees in the distance and set off down the bank to investigate. The fragrance of freshly-cut wood filled the damp riverside air and as he approached he could see the natives hacking the insides out of a felled cypress tree. Francisco leaned on a nearby stump, using Dominic’s sword to carve the
“Of course I did. I told you everything in the voicemail. Didn’t you listen to it?”
Zane’s phone beeped again and shut off. He pounded the power button with his finger, but as he did the phone slipped out of his clammy hands. Bing . Bing . Bing . It bounced off the beams of the launch pad as it plummeted, hitting the ground and exploding into a thousand shards of plastic and glass. Some of the pieces slid across the slab and stopped at the feet of a man. Where had he come from? The man looked up and Zane’s heart leaped—it was Miguel. The knife he held in his hand, Zane guessed, was no doubt the same one he had used to slay the agent.
“Well look at you,” said Miguel. “Stuck like a treed coon.”
Chapter Eleven
No one talked around the fire that night. The Timucuans gathered mussels and snails from the slow, gloomy river beside which they had made camp and steamed them on a bed of wet moss placed over the coals. They showed Dominic how to extract the meat from one of the shells and left him to prepare the rest of his supper himself. His stomach could finally tolerate solid foods again, but he doubted he could eat enough of the tiny mollusks to feel full.
All night the natives prayed. When the moon rose they kneeled before it and, with tears in their eyes, delivered up pleas and lamentations in lilting tones that were as beautiful as they were haunting. Somewhere in the distance, a pack of red wolves joined the chorus with their sorrowful howling. While the others prayed, the native to whom Ona had given his shell sloped off to sit alone in the darkness. He looked as despondent as a widower and Dominic watched him remove the necklace, look at it for a long time, and then put it back on.
“Who is he?” Dominic whispered to Francisco.
Francisco, morose, looked at the man. “That is Utina, our new chief.”
“A reluctant one, I’d say.”
Francisco had been holding a piece of half-eaten snail meat in his hand for several minutes. He looked at it, and then tossed it into the fire. “Utina knows he can never be as just and tireless a leader as Ona. No one can. Ona is—Ona was—irreplaceable.”
“Will the Ais kill Ona?” asked Dominic.
“For certain,” said Francisco. “But first, he will be beaten and tortured. They will parade him in front of their village like a prize and call a council to try him for trespassing. A spectacle, nothing more. His sentence will be death. The gods, they will say, demand it. Then the real suffering will ensue.”
“In what way?” Dominic’s appetite had disappeared and he pushed the pile of shellfish away.
“It depends on their mood, I guess. They will most likely cut off his limbs and cauterize the wounds to ensure he lingers for a while. After that they will mount what’s left of his body on a pole outside their village and leave him there, until he…” Francisco seemed unwilling to let the word pass from his lips.
“Until he dies,” said Dominic.
Francisco frowned. “Yes.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Francisco gazed at the river. “Because we used to punish our enemies in the same way. Before Ona became chief.”
The next morning, the sound of chopping jarred Dominic awake. The river basin filled with warm sunlight and the thin fog that had materialized overnight swirled away. Dominic looked around the camp; he was surprised to find himself alone. He considered fleeing but decided against it; at this point, he felt safer with the natives than he did on his own. Between the vicious animals, toxic plants and savage Ais, he knew he could never survive in such wilderness by himself.
He traced the chopping sound to a thicket of trees in the distance and set off down the bank to investigate. The fragrance of freshly-cut wood filled the damp riverside air and as he approached he could see the natives hacking the insides out of a felled cypress tree. Francisco leaned on a nearby stump, using Dominic’s sword to carve the
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