Dearest
Mama,
It
is with great sorrow that I write with news that can only add to the grief and
suffering already brought about by the loss of father. However, I pray that you
will take some comfort, as I do, in at least being relieved of all hope.
Mama,
please forgive me for leaving England’s friendly shores. I’m no adventurer and
harboured no desire to follow in my father’s footsteps but after he and
Mumford, his travelling companion, failed to return from their quest to find
the lost tribe of Kihaquetl, I felt compelled to uncover the truth. Not knowing
what had befallen the two intrepid Englishmen was driving me half mad. There
were endless whisperings and speculations at the Club: fatal fever, starvation
after wandering lost in the jungle, and the possibility that they had in fact
succeeded in finding and making contact with the Kihaquetl. There were rumours
of cannibalism and shrunken heads. Once, The Times was left at my table,
folded open at a page on which there was a cartoon. It depicted two missionaries
being boiled alive in a giant cooking pot in the midst of a crowd of wide-eyed,
black-skinned primitives.
With
the ever-loyal Pritchard by my side, I intended to ensure that what remained of
father and Mumford was given a Christian burial.
It
took me ten days to gain my sea legs. Pritchard apparently suffered no sea-sickness
at all for which I was grateful as he was able to tend to me reliably. The weeks
that followed were remarkable only for the remorseless monotony of the unbroken
view from the flat ocean to the sky.
We
disembarked at the port of Merida, a place where a few traces of civilization exist
before the gaping maws of the jungle engulf all. The Spanish (debauched papists
they may be, but at least they share our Christian heritage) are outnumbered by
natives steeped in darkness of every kind: from the tone of their skin, hair
and eyes to their very souls.
Pritchard
was unloading our belongings when two native men emerged from a clamouring
crowd speaking in broken English. After a while I understood that they were
introducing themselves and their unpronounceable names. After a minute, when
they still had not gone on their way, I asked what they wanted, fearing they
were conmen, thieves or worse.
“It
is we, Smith and Jones!” they said, and the fear that had oppressed me from the
moment we had landed at Merida lifted. I knew from father’s letters how much he’d
relied on and trusted these two guides and I’d prayed that we’d find them quickly.
They’d be the source of the most reliable information about father and were the
only men who could lead us to the Kihaquetl. I dropped to my knees in prayer,
thanking God for leading them to us.
Smith’s
Spanish was fluent, so Pritchard served as interpreter and we managed a
conversation of sorts.
“My
father – Mr Francis Crawford – did he make contact with the Kihaquetl?”
“Si
– yes, yes,” Smith nodded and smiled.
“And
did he die of fever or did they murder him?”
Smith
rattled back a reply. Pritchard raised a hand: “Habla mas lento! – Speak
slower!”
“Well?”
I asked Pritchard after Smith had repeated his answer twice.
“He
says your father and Mumford did contract a fever, but they pulled through. It
didn’t kill them.”
“My
God! So, it was the Kihaquetl!” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Was
it a human sacrifice? Did they… did they…?”
Pritchard
shook his head.
“No,
sir. The Kihaquetl are not cannibals and they didn’t kill anyone according to
Smith here. He says they’re both perdio – lost.”
“No!”
The thought of father dying lost and alone was unbearable.
“But
he also says that they are still with the Kihaquetl.”
My
heart thudded in my chest, its beat quickening.
“Pritchard,”
I managed to say. “Ask him directly. Is my father still alive?”
But
Pritchard had gone pale. His expression filled me with dread.
“What
is it?”
“I
think I know what he’s talking about, and I think we should leave right now and
go home.”
For
a second, the look on the man’s face made me want to say ‘yes, alright,
Pritchard. Let us leave now.’
“Don’t
be ridiculous, Pritchard,” I said. “My father’s alive! We have to find him and
bring him home!”
“No,
not alive,” Pritchard said, fixing his gaze on me. “He says muertos
vivientes which means…”
“Stop
jabbering, man. You’re beginning to…”
“Which
means,” Pritchard spoke over me, shocking me into silence. “Which means ‘they
who walk as the dead.’”
“Good
Lord, man! Whatever are you talking about? It must be this place. The heat.
It’s getting to you…”
“No,
no.”
Pritchard
came up close to me. I’ve heard they do this sort of procedure. We have a more
sophisticated version in England called a lobotomy, for curing mania…”
“Do
shut up, Pritchard, please. I know what a lobotomy is!”
“But
here it’s not done to cure anything. They cut out part of a man’s brain to
create the perfect slave – one who causes his master no trouble. He can eat,
drink, walk, and work. But he can’t talk, or think. A man without intellect,
soul or will – it’s inhumanly cruel. And
I’m sorry,” he said as we realised at the same time that tears were coursing
down my cheeks.
“He’s
still my father,” I said. “We can’t leave him here.”
Pritchard
held my gaze for a while then nodded.
“Okay,”
he said and patted my shoulders. “Okay.”
The
journey that followed was Hellish. Smith took the lead, scything a path into
the jungle. Pritchard followed with the lamp and Jones, armed with a pistol, was
behind me.
The
damp heat is difficult to describe, Mama, but imagine having to stand inside
the laundry room on wash day without a candle during a heatwave. The forest
canopy shields you from the light of the sun yet offers no cooling shade.
Instead the heat is intensified. Water drips everywhere constantly, even when
it isn’t raining, and streams along the tangled mass of vines that strangle most
tree trunks, almost indistinguishable from the serpents who lie in wait for the
unobservant to walk right into them.
We
made slow progress despite the path having been forged before by Smith and
Jones; the vegetation here grows back fast and with more density as though
furious at having been mutilated. I was attacked by gigantic insects and
suffered proportionately from their monstrous bites and stings. Pritchard
appeared again to be the more fortunate man than I, his blood being not as much
to the liking of the foreign beasts.
There
were no clearings where we could set up camp overnight. We had no choice but to
keep going, resting only for an hour at a time, leaning against bark that had
to be checked first for deadly creatures.
We
were about to set off again after a brief respite when Smith signalled us to
stop. We stood still and silent. I was about to ask what was afoot when I felt
the whoosh of an arrow as it passed by my ear, smacking into the tree behind
me.
Smith
called out in a strange tongue – guttural sounds the like of which I’d never
heard. Rustling sounds all around us signified not one but many.
“All
okay,” Jones whispered tapping the weapon on his hip. “But no move.”
After
an interminable exchange with the voice in the darkness, Smith waved us on. We
made the rest of the journey under escort, emerging into glorious daylight at
the riverside hub of activity that was home to the Kihaquetl.
Smith
went ahead, leaving Pritchard, Jones and I huddled together at the edge of the
clearing.
“Heccate.
Chief,” said Jones nodding in the direction of the squat tribesman whom Smith
had approached. The rest of the tribe gathered around us chattering, laughing,
poking at our flesh, stroking our hair.
As
we stood suffering such ignominy, I felt Pritchard tense and followed his stricken
gaze.
Walking
towards us from the river, hunched over by the weight of two wooden buckets strung
from each end of a long rod across his neck and shoulders, was a man as tall as
us, dressed in clothes like ours though faded and shredded in places. The sun
had darkened his skin, but his features were unmistakeably European. After a
while, I recognised him.
“Mumford!”
I shouted, breaking free from Pritchard’s grasp as he attempted to hold me back.
I’d got to within a few feet of the man before coming to an abrupt halt.
Mumford was staring right at me but without a trace of recognition in his eyes,
nor any hint of consciousness at all. It was then I saw the silvery scars all along
one side of his hairless scalp and remembered what Pritchard had said about the
muertos viviendes. The Mumford I’d known – a person of faith, renowned man of
letters, keen poet, the brave, faithful companion of my father and beloved by
many at home – was gone.
Without
thinking, I turned towards Heccate and ran at him, screaming: “In God’s name,
what have you done?”
Before
getting anywhere near him I was felled and pinned down by half a dozen men. One
pushed my face into the dusty earth until I choked. Smith was talking quickly,
loudly. Finally, two men dragged me to my feet, pulled me across to the chief and
held me there.
“You
look nothing like your father,” he said in accent-heavy yet perfect English.
“What
have you done to him?” I asked, hoarse after swallowing dirt. “For so many
years he searched for you, the lost tribe of Kihaquetl, only to find a bunch of
monsters!”
The
man threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he said, “The Kihaquetl are
never lost, and we are not the monsters! All we want is peace. It is your kind
who bring only fighting, death and sickness.”
“My
father wanted only to bring knowledge of the Lord, that you might enter Heaven.”
A
voice came from behind: “Instead I found Heaven right here, right now.”
It
was a voice I knew.
Somewhere
Pritchard cried: “No. No. Oh God, no!”
I
turned and sank to my knees at the sight before me.
If
he’d not spoken, I wouldn’t have known my own father. Gone was the rotund, pale-skinned,
elderly English gentleman. Now his body was lean, muscular and tanned. The
single clue to his true age was the silver of his flowing hair and beard. In
his left hand was a long staff, ornate with carvings depicting the creature
gods worshipped by the Kihaquetl. He walked tall without any shame at having
cast off every item of civilized dress. He was accompanied by a group of singularly
beautiful young women, all completely naked but for the long tresses of raven-black
hair that only partly covered their breasts. They emitted a peculiar yet
tuneful trilling sound as they went.
“Mr
Crawford, sir?” Pritchard shouted as he ran over to us. “By Jove, it really is
you! I thought we’d lost you forever.”
“I
am Macazui, now, beloved High Priest of the Kihaquetl people,” said father, his
blue eyes blazing against the chestnut brown of his face.
“But
why did they have to do that to Mumford?”
“He
refused to accept the true gods of Kihaquetl but wouldn’t leave without me. Then
he never let up, preaching out loud, trying to save us when we just wanted him
to shut up. Now it’s your turn, son. You must make your choice.”
Mama, if
you are reading this, Pritchard has kept his promise to deliver this letter.
Forgive
father, forgive me, and forget us. For we are lost.
Your
loving son,
Francis
Jr.
1 comment:
Great story! Shades of Heart of Darkness while still being totslly original. I like the way the plot led the reader on further and further into the jungle alonmg with the narrator,
Nick
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