Silence Is Golden

  Going Wild

  We reached the village by sundown. It sat atop a cliff high, high above the rainforest, and the sinking sun cast everything into a golden light. That didn’t make the two dozen or so sharp spears pointed at us any more visually appealing in my mind, however.

  Mr Ambrose had been right in one respect - the natives were curious. They also, however, as suggested by the raised spears, the half-drawn bows and the searching gazes they directed at us, were immensely suspicious. They muttered to each other in hushed voices, using a strange, completely alien tongue that I had no hope of understanding.

  ‘What are they saying?’ I hissed at Mr Ambrose as we were slowly escorted up a path to the top of the cliff.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘What? You don’t understand their language?’

  ‘Strange though it might seem to you, Mr Linton, I do not, in fact, know everything there is to know.’

  ‘How the hell do you expect to talk them into helping us if you don’t speak their language?’

  ‘Father Marcos told me that their leader speaks Portuguese.’

  ‘And if they decide to kill us before we reach this multilinguistic gentleman?’

  ‘That would be most unfortunate.’

  We were at the edge of the village by now. The ring of men around us split at the front, giving me, for the first time, a view of an Indian village.[20] Honestly, at first glance, it wasn’t much to write home about. About as much as this:

  Dear XYZ,

  My holiday in South America is going splendidly so far! I’m standing here with mosquito bites all over me and a spear jabbing into my back, struck dumb in awe at the sight of a few round, mud-brown huts with thatched roofs. Oh, and have I told you yet that there are mud-streaked paths leading from door to door? Isn’t that wonderful? Oh, and of course, there are weapons leaning against the outside of the huts - really lovely weapons, with which we’ll probably soon be violently killed.

  I hope everything is going well with you at home, too? Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain,

  Yours truly,

  Lilly Linton

  There, you see? Not much at all. Oh, except, of course:

  P.S: There are a lot of naked people staring at me!

  P.P.S: I don’t just mean scantily dressed. I mean stark-buck-blasted naked!!!

  P.P.P.S: I hope you had fun at the ball last week?

  It wasn’t just naked men anymore, either. Oh no. Women and children, scattered all around the village, were gathering quickly to stare at the newcomers, whispering excitedly to each other. The children weren’t the problem. Eve’s cousin was married with about half a dozen babies, so I had seen (and smelled!) my fair share of bare babies’ bottoms in my life, although it wasn’t exactly an experience I was keen to repeat. The women, however…

  Let me put it this way: in London, if a woman shows too much of her unmentionables - also known as legs to the uneducated - she would be decried as a loose woman. If any of these women here were to show up in London, people wouldn’t get to the decrying. They would faint at the first sight of these ladies.

  They were completely, utterly stark-naked.

  Well - maybe it wasn’t strictly true. They did wear something. A leather strap, about one inch wide, resting loosely on their hips. I was not one hundred per cent sure whether to count this as clothing, since it didn’t actually cover more area than two or three postage stamps. The rest of them was visible. Very visible. In fascination, I watched a woman detaching a baby from her breast with no more ceremony or secrecy than I would use to open a letter or wave a fan. She met the eye of one of the armed men surrounding us, and sent him a meaningful look.

  I pursed my lips, thoughtfully.

  ‘Don’t go getting any ideas, Mr Linton,’ Mr Ambrose voice came in a growl from behind me.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Sir?’

  My fingers strayed to my chemise. It really was still quite hot, even up here on the cliff. And, if I was going to be killed soon, I might at least be comfortable in my last few minutes…

  Mr Ambrose’s hand closed around my wrist like a vice.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  ‘About what?’ Half turning towards him, I fluttered my eyelashes up at him. ‘I’m afraid I really do not know what you could mean, Sir.’

  He snorted. ‘Yes, of course you don’t! And my tailcoat has pink pig tails!’

  ‘That could be arranged, if you want. I know a tailor back in London who is open to unusual requests.’

  A spear jabbed me in the small of the back. I winced.

  ‘However, that will probably have to wait until we’re back in London. If we get out of here alive.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll get out of here alive all right.’ Flexing his fingers, Mr Ambrose stepped towards the biggest of the huts, from which a large man with sharp, dark eyes had just stepped into the murky sunlight. ‘Just don’t take any more clothes off while I negotiate!’

  ‘I’ll do my best to restrain myself.’

  Another jab in the back made it clear that we had better get moving. Armed men still hovering around us, curious women and children gazing on from everywhere, we were led to the big hut. The big man waited for us with arms crossed in front of his solid bulk.

  ‘Their leader,’ Mr Ambrose murmured. ‘Let’s see what he is made of.’

  He came to a halt a few steps away from the big Indian, and met his gaze. The Indian, eyes hard, stared at Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose stared back. The man also stared back. Upon which Mr Ambrose reacted by staring back and narrowing his eyes infinitesimally. The Indian also narrowed his eyes infinitesimally, which made Mr Ambrose cock his head, threateningly. And then he continued to stare. Whereupon the Indian also continued to stare, to which Mr Ambrose responded by staring some more.

  ‘Um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Is this going to go on for long? Not that I mind - you have fun with your staring contest, if you want. I’d just like to have an opportunity to step behind a bush for certain necessary business in the not-too-distant future, if you get my meaning.’

  Mr Ambrose gave a snort. ‘I’m surprised you’d bother with a bush! Why don’t you just do it here?’

  Beside me, I saw all colour drain from Karim’s face.

  ‘Now, that wouldn’t be at all ladylike, would it?’ I asked, sweet as sugar. ‘Can you please speed things up? You can growl at each other to find out who is the more manly man later.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Linton. Let’s see what this leader of theirs has to say.’ Showing the big Indian both of his hands, presumably to demonstrate he was unarmed, Mr Ambrose took a step forward and asked: ‘Você fala português?’

  The Indian studied him for a moment - then shook his head. Motioning for us to follow, he ducked into the hut. The three of us followed, Karim and I throwing each other puzzled glances. But our confusion didn’t last long. Inside the gloomy hut, a hunched figure sat on the ground, legs crossed. As we approached, the figure lifted his head-

  And I saw it wasn’t his head at all.

  It was hers.

  The old woman smiled a crooked, gap-toothed smile. The big Indian marched to her side, gestured down and said, in a voice that brooked no argument: ‘Português!’

  Behind Mr Ambrose, I grinned. ‘Oh yes, let’s see what that leader of theirs has to say, Sir. Go ahead, Sir. This should be interesting.’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Be silent!’

  ‘Yes, Sir! As you wish, Sir!’

  A muscle in his cheek twitching, Mr Ambrose folded his long legs and settled down in front of the old woman, who met his icy glare with another gap-tooth smile, totally unperturbed.

  I liked these Indians already.

  *~*~**~*~*

  It took a while to get the preliminaries out of the way. Apparently, the natives in these parts had certain customs which included having the face of any passing visitor you welcomed into your home painted with red and yellow stripes. I m
ust say, I hadn’t thought these diplomatic negotiations would be that much fun. Mr Ambrose, suffering in silence, glaring at a wall of the hut as if it were solely to blame for all the problems of the world, was one of the most amazing sights I had ever seen. Karim was nearly as much fun. When the old lady was done with him, he looked like a demon from (a very colourful part of) hell.

  ‘You look very handsome, Sir,’ I congratulated Mr Ambrose when my own makeup was finished, trying my best not to laugh.

  His icy gaze cut into me like a knife into butter. ‘I would not have put up with this tomfoolery,’ he growled, ‘if it did not have some practical value!’

  ‘Practical value?’

  ‘Why do you think they paint the faces of their guests?’

  ‘Um…because they like to watch people squirm?’

  ‘No. Because it’s a signal to the whole tribe that they shouldn’t kill you at first sight.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Yes, I could see how that could have some practical value. Indeed.

  ‘So, they have decided not to kill us?’

  ‘For now, Mr Linton. The paint can easily be washed off.’

  ‘True. So…what now?’

  ‘Now?’ Mr Ambrose flexed his fingers and fixed his cold gaze on the little old Indian lady. ‘Now that they are finished, I will have my fun. It is time to negotiate. Karim, bring out the bag, please.’

  The Mohammedan reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small leather bag, which he handed to Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose undid the knot that held the bag closed, but didn’t pull it open yet. Instead, he focused on the old lady.

  ‘Estamos à procura de um lugar. Um lugar secreto escondido na selva. Precisamos de alguém para nos guiar no cofre caminhos. Você pode fazer isso?’[21]

  ‘What did you say to her?’ I whispered.

  I had learned some Portuguese on my way up here, but nowhere near enough to understand this.

  ‘I told her what we want from them. That we need guides to see us on safe paths through the jungle.’

  ‘You didn’t mention the Brazilians, did you?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  That manipulative, scheming bastard…!

  The old woman regarded him through narrowed eyes. They were old eyes. Eyes, which, I did not doubt, had seen much.

  ‘É que todos?’

  My Portuguese was good enough for that one. Is that all?

  Oh, this old lady was good. Very good.

  ‘Não,’ Mr Ambrose was forced to admit, grudgingly. ‘Há homens nos seguindo. Homens perigosos. Eles querem nos matar e tomar o que buscamos.’[22]

  The old woman nodded, sagely.

  ‘Estou entendendo.’[23]

  ‘They know about the Brazilians now, don’t they?’ I enquired sweetly.

  ‘What did I tell you about keeping quiet, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Oops. Sorry, Sir, I forgot.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’

  The old lady had watched our exchange with interest. If I wasn’t very mistaken, I saw amusement twinkling in her eyes. They focused back on Mr Ambrose alone, not quite as hard and sharp as before.

  ‘O que você está oferecendo?’[24]

  What are you offering?

  This was the prompt that Mr Ambrose had apparently been waiting for. With an air of reverence that made me think he was handling the Crown Jewels, he opened the leather bag on his lap and pulled out a small, shiny necklace of glass beads.

  That was it.

  That was all.

  Still holding the thing as if it were made of diamonds, he handed it to the old lady with a little bow. The old lady for her part, without betraying any emotions, took the small necklace and lifted it into the air, gazing at it thoughtfully.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at Mr Ambrose.

  ‘I am negotiating, Mr Linton.’

  ‘You want them to lead us dozens, maybe hundreds of miles through the jungle, to risk getting in the way of professional soldiers for that?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘You are the most mean, miserly, stingy, tight-fisted and avariciously greedy bastard I have ever met in my life.’

  ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Mr Linton.’

  The old woman was still holding up the glass beads, watching how a ray of sunlight that fell in through a tiny gap in the roof sparkled on their surface. I could see it in her eyes - the almost childlike fascination for western marvels that had cost so many Indians their lands and freedom. Inside, I was fuming! I didn’t want this old lady to be cheated! But what could I do?

  Finally, she nodded, seeming to come to a decision. Returning her gaze to Mr Ambrose, she smiled.

  ‘Eu aprecio seu senso de humor. No entanto, se você não quer acabar pendurado de cabeça para baixo de uma árvore com uma cobra morta enchido na sua bunda , eu sugiro que você se abstenha de piadas como esta no futuro.’[25]

  Mr Ambrose stiffened, his eyes freezing over completely.

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’

  No reply.

  ‘What did she say, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Karim? What did she say?’

  The bodyguard cleared his throat. It sounded like a mountain belching. ‘Um…I don’t know if I should…’

  ‘Tell me now, or you-know-what happens!’

  Reluctantly, Karim yielded to superior force.

  ‘She told the Sahib that she appreciates his sense of humour, but that if he does not wish to end up hanging upside down from a tree with a dead snake stuffed up his, um…posterior, he should refrain from jokes like this in the future.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’ As inconspicuously as possible, I peeked at Mr Ambrose out of the corner of my eye. His face was as unreadable as a book written upside down in coded Chinese with invisible ink. ‘My oh my.’

  This old lady was really good. If she kept this up, she would end up on my list of role models, right next to Jeanne D’Arc and Mary Astell.

  I sent a smile to Mr Ambrose. ‘That didn’t go quite as expected, Sir, did it?’

  A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched. ‘Indians aren’t what they used to be,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, just imagine, they don’t want to be used and exploited anymore. Shocking, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’

  I didn’t think he was joking.

  ‘So? What now, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

  The old lady seemed to be interested in the answer to the very same question. Smiling her toothless smile at Mr Ambrose, she raised one eyebrow. The meaning was clear to everyone: Anything else to offer?

  Mr Ambrose sat there, studying her for a moment in cool silence. He raised his hand and thoughtfully stroked two elegant, long fingers along that chiselled chin of his. Then, suddenly, he leapt to his feet and strode to the door. The big Indian stepped in his way, raising his spear, but the old woman barked a command at him, and he pulled back, letting Mr Ambrose pass. Without hesitation, he ducked through the doorway and stepped outside.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I demanded.

  ‘I do not know,’ Karim rumbled, looking just as puzzled as I felt. Jumping up, we started after our dear employer. To judge by the rustling and thumping from behind us, the old lady and her bulky guard were hot on our heels.

  Outside, we found Mr Ambrose standing next to the extra packhorses we had acquired after our encounter with the Brazilians. Pulling back the leather coverings of one of the packs, he pulled out something long, sleek, and dangerously metallic. He had his back turned towards me, so I couldn’t see exactly what it was - but I didn’t need to. I knew what was on that horse.

  Ka-cluck!

  The metallic sound made my heart leap into my throat.

  Good God! What is he doing? Is he going to…no! He can’t threaten them! He can’t be insane enough to try and force them to do what he wants at gunpoint!

  But maybe he thought he could. He was Rikka
rd Ambrose, after all.

  Kaboom

  Mr Ambrose whirled around, a shining rifle in his hand. Shouts rose from the natives all around. Apparently, they had seen rifles before. From the looks on their faces, I would guess they had felt them, too. Bows, arrows and spears went up in a perfect symphony of threatening violence.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t seem perturbed. Swinging the rifle upwards, he fired, once, into the sky. I jumped, and so did nearly everyone else. Only the old woman remained standing still near the entrance of the hut, watching Mr Ambrose with a speculative glint in her eyes.

  Mr Ambrose lowered the rifle until it was pointing straight ahead. Bowstrings all around were suddenly drawn back, arrows ready to be fired. But Mr Ambrose wasn’t aiming at any of the natives. As best I could tell, he was aiming at a spot about a dozen yards to my left, where nothing stood but an old, empty bowl on the ground.

  Bam!

  The muzzle flashed, the rifle bucked, held in place only by Mr Ambrose’s strong hands. With a crack, the bowl splintered into a dozen pieces and mud splattered up into the air. Mr Ambrose, as if completely unaware of the danger he was in, with hundreds of probably poison-tipped arrows aimed straight at him, marched over to the old Indian lady and held out the rifle to her, offering it with both hands. The old lady took it, and, a gleam in her eyes, ran her withered old hands along the shiny metal. Mr Ambrose marched back towards the packhorses and flung back the covering over their load all the way.

  An excited murmur went up from all around as the sun sparkled on the barrels of at least forty rifles. Mr Ambrose focused his cool gaze on the old lady. She gazed back at him, clutching the rifle. He cocked his head in a gesture as clear as hers had been, earlier: good enough for you?

  The old lady gazed down at the rifle in her hands once more - then nodded.

  From all around, cheers erupted.

  *~*~**~*~*

  I had to hand it to him. I really had to. He was hands down the hardest, coldest, most devious negotiator I had ever met in my entire life. He had basically managed to get everything he wanted in exchange for something that didn’t actually belong to him. Nice trade, that, right?

  I didn’t know whether to be angry, impressed, or simply relieved. I probably would have been all three if I hadn’t been busy being so thoroughly exhausted.