Eye of the Forest

  “But it’s huge,” argued John. “The trunk must be three or four feet thick. You could bite it all day and probably not get anywhere.”

  “We have one or two advantages in mounting an attack. For one thing, the rain will help to conceal our movement. Also, we have already identified the snake’s head. That is the best place for us to concentrate our attack. You will employ the deep-throat bite and suffocation that is usually practiced by jaguars. I will bite its skull, between the ears, piercing the snake’s brain in exactly the same way you cracked that turtle’s shell. With any luck, the snake will not be expecting anything like this to happen. Especially since it will be looking only at the trail and we’ll be attacking from the jungle, behind the snake’s blind spot. That’s another advantage. But we must also be very careful. If the snake manages to get ahold of us in its coils, we will be crushed like a jam sandwich. If that happens, you must lift your spirit out of the jaguar without hesitation. Then find some other creature and make your way back to the place where I left the bottle containing our transubstantiated bodies. Clear?”

  “Clear,” declared John.

  They began to inch their way forward through the jungle. Whenever Nimrod disturbed a leaf, he stopped to wait for it to stop moving again. Half an hour brought them only ten or twelve feet closer to the giant anaconda. This seemed to galvanize the jaguar possessed by Nimrod. His sinews stiffened and his muscles tensed up and his huge claws extended from his big powerful paws. John copied his example. The snake’s throat, he told himself. Bite and suffocate. Bite and suffocate.

  When it came, the charge was silent. A jaguar’s roar might have helped to terrify and subdue a smaller animal, but it would only have alerted and therefore helped the huge snake. Both jaguars hurled themselves simultaneously through the dripping wet jungle foliage toward the snake’s shovel-sized head like the arrows from two crossbows.

  The attack had begun.

  CHAPTER 9

  A LITTLE TOUCH OF FROGGY IN THE NIGHT

  The little party of three djinn and three humans camped by the river had, except for Groanin, just finished eating Muddy’s excellent dinner when the drums started to beat, rolling rhythmically through the jaguar-haunted night air like a distant locomotive.

  Muddy’s eyes widened and he looked afraid. Sicky threw his chicken leg aside and stood up, inclining his head toward the treetops. The guide’s head may have been unusually small but there was nothing wrong with his sense of direction and, after a moment or two, he pointed westward and picked up his rifle. “Five miles that way. Maybe farther.”

  “Talking drums?” Philippa asked him.

  “Not talk,” said Sicky. “But drums send a message still the same.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” asked Zadie.

  “Let people know they are there. And to be plenty afraid.”

  “Prozuanaci Indian drums?” Groanin’s voice was hopeful.

  Sicky shook his small head. “Prozuanaci Indians don’t drum no more. Prozuanaci Indians prefer to use the telephone. Prozuanaci is private people. Don’t like everyone to know their business. Them is Xuanaci Indian drums. Xuanaci don’t care who knows what they’re talking about. Xuanaci Indians is bad people. Xuanaci drum to make people feel plenty scared. Make people feel nervous.” Sicky took hold of his small jaw and drew a hand across his even smaller throat. “Make tourist people worry about losing heads.”

  Groanin swallowed noisily. “Well, they got that right,” he said. “I do worry. I’ve grown kind of attached to this head of mine. And it’s grown rather attached to me. I should hate to see it on some local witch doctor’s bookshelf.”

  Sicky shook his head. “Xuanaci probably not interested in cutting your head off, Mr. Groanin,” he said, and gently patted Groanin’s bald pate. “You got no hair. Bald head no good for Xuanaci. They prefer plenty of hair to hang shrunken head on trophy pole. Slap head like fat baby no good.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, I’m sure,” Groanin said stiffly. “Slap head, indeed.”

  “Really, there’s nothing to worry about,” insisted Mr. Vodyannoy. “I am a djinn, after all.”

  “Then do something to make us all feel safe,” insisted Groanin. “I say, do something.”

  “Such as?”

  “How about a stockade?” suggested Groanin. “Better still, a castle. With a drawbridge and a portcullis. And a hundred archers to defend us.”

  “You’re overreacting, Groanin,” said Philippa.

  “Am I, miss?” Groanin smiled thinly at her. “That’s easy to say when you’re a djinn and you can disappear inside a little bottle when the going gets tough. But things are different for the likes of Muddy and me. Every time I look at Sicky here, I get a funny feeling on the back of me neck.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll use djinn power to create another propugnator,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “A protective perimeter wish. Like the one Nimrod made the other night. To deter anyone or anything that gets too close to our camp.”

  “Please do that,” said Groanin.

  “Horror show,” said Mr. Vodyannoy and, with his finger, drew a circle in the air, while at the same time he uttered his focus word: “ZAGIPNOTIZIROVAVSHEMUSYA.”

  “Is that it?” inquired Groanin.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “You’ll be quite safe now. More or less.”

  “More or less?” Groanin frowned.

  “Yes,” said Philippa. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you know, child?” exclaimed Mr. Vodyannoy. “You can’t use djinn power inside a propugnator.”

  “Oh. No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” said Zadie. “Didn’t you know that?”

  Philippa bit her lip and tried to contain her irritation.

  “I don’t know what they teach young djinn nowadays,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “Why, in my day, we were told all this kind of thing before we even had our wisdom teeth.”

  “What does it matter?” Groanin said impatiently. “I mean, once we’re inside this, er, propugnator thingy, then it won’t matter what happens, so long as we’re safe, eh?”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “As safe as houses.”

  Safe, but not, it seemed, as dry. Because when Muddy and Sicky went to erect the tents, they found that Muddy’s dog, Hector, had been chewing them and that these were now full of holes, which prompted Muddy to throw stones and sticks at the poor brute until Philippa restrained him.

  “Leave him alone,” she said. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Miss Philippa is right,” Sicky told Muddy. “Hector’s plenty nervous because of the drums, probably.”

  “Me, too, I guess,” agreed Muddy. “I wouldn’t normally hit old Hector. But them tents is ruined.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Philippa. “It’s no big deal. We’ll use djinn power to repair them in the morning.”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain tonight,” said Groanin.

  The Amazon gets nine feet of rain every year, about twice as much as eastern parts of the United States, and that night, it started to rain and rain heavily. Not for nothing is the rain forest called the rain forest. The damaged tents afforded little or no protection against the deluge. Philippa and Zadie awoke to find themselves soaked to the skin. They were cold, too, very cold. Zadie had already donned a scarf and some gloves. The fire had gone out, and Sicky and Muddy were having no luck in relighting it. Groanin was sitting in a pool of water holding a folded newspaper over his head like a hat but it wasn’t doing much good; he might as well have been standing in the fountain back in Lima’s main square.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it?” he complained. “The one night our tents get chewed up by that daft dog and it rains. Like Manchester on a bank holiday, so it is. I couldn’t be more wet if I had a rubber duck and a loofah in my hands.”

  “Listen,” said Zadie.

  Groanin cocked a wet ear at the rain. “Don’t tell me, it’s raining,” he said bitterly.

  “The drum
s,” said Zadie. “They’ve stopped.”

  “If they’ve got any sense, them Indians have gone indoors to keep dry,” said Groanin.

  “She’s right,” said Philippa.

  Groanin shrugged.

  “Don’t you get it?” asked Philippa. “If the drums have stopped, then maybe we don’t need the propugnator. We could use djinn power to repair the tents and get warm and dry again.”

  “You’re right,” said Groanin. “You’d better go and tell Mr. Vodyannoy. Wherever he is. I can’t imagine he’s sleeping in this downpour.”

  They went to Mr. Vodyannoy’s tent, which was as badly chewed up as anyone’s and found him fast asleep on his camp bed. Groanin cleared his throat loudly.

  “I say. Mr. Vodyannoy.” Groanin took hold of the djinn’s shoulder and shook him gently. Groanin tutted loudly. “How does he manage to sleep in all this water?” he grumbled. “That’s what I should like to know. I say, wake up, sir. We need to fix these tents and pronto. On account of the fact that we’re all soaked to the skin.”

  But Mr. Vodyannoy apparently remained fast asleep.

  “There’s summat up here,” said Groanin. “It ain’t natural for anyone to sleep in all this rain.”

  “Maybe he’s dead,” said Sicky. “I don’t feel so good myself. All this rain is making Sicky’s head shrink.”

  “Rubbish,” said Groanin. “Look.” He pointed at Mr. Vodyannoy’s blanket. “His hands are moving.”

  “Them no his hands,” said Muddy.

  “Course they are,” said Groanin, and hauled the sodden blanket off Mr. Vodyannoy’s chest to reveal, sitting on the djinn’s bare chest, a small, bright yellow frog.

  Sicky let out a scream, which made Philippa scream in her turn, and Hector bark in his, so that Groanin nearly had a heart attack.

  “Don’t do that,” Groanin said irritably. He pointed at the small creature sitting on Mr. Vodyannoy’s bare chest. “It’s only a flipping frog. Anyone would think it was a pigging snake. Not that it would matter. Djinn are immune to snake venom. So I’ve been led to believe, anyway.” The English butler bent down to pick up the frog and yelled as Sicky smacked his hand away.

  “What’s the matter, you daft halfpence-worth?”

  “No touch that frog,” yelled Sicky. “That is golden poison dart frog.”

  “You what?” said Groanin, clutching his fingers to his chest.

  “Just about the deadliest creature in the world, that’s what,” said Muddy.

  “That little thing?” Zadie sounded disbelieving.

  “That little frog’s skin contains enough poison to kill ten people,” insisted Sicky. “Frog eats insects that have eaten very poisonous plants in jungle. Indians catch frogs and rub arrowheads and blowgun darts on frog’s skin to make them act more quickly. Him plenty lethal.”

  Sicky lit a cigarette and held it near the little frog which, disliking the proximity of the hot end and the tobacco smoke, leaped away into the bushes.

  “Flipping heck.” Groanin looked anxiously at Mr. Vodyannoy. “Is he dead?”

  “He’s not dead,” said Philippa. “Quite sick, I think, but not dead.” She bent closer to Mr. Vodyannoy.

  His eyes closed tightly, Mr. Vodyannoy whispered something.

  “Don’t touch him, miss,” said Sicky. “Best you don’t. Maybe some of frog’s poison still on mister’s skin. Wait for rain to wash off first.” Gingerly, Sicky opened the old djinn’s shirt, allowing the rain to cascade onto his bare chest.

  Mr. Vodyannoy shuddered visibly.

  “Him got plenty fever,” observed Sicky. “If human, he be plenty dead. But since he djinn, then maybe he stay alive. Need medicine, though.”

  Carefully, Philippa leaned over the sick djinn. “Mr. Vodyannoy,” she said. “You’ve been poisoned. By a poison dart frog. A yellow one.”

  “Phyllobates terribilis,” he muttered deliriously. “Terrible frog. Batrachotoxin. Lethal to humans and almost lethal to djinn. I need … need to get back inside my lamp. Need time to recuperate. Get warm. Feel very cold. Very ill. Only chance to stay alive is to be inside lamp. Get warm again. Do you hear? Find my lamp, child, and bring it to me quickly. Put it in my hands. Or I’ll be dead within the hour. Do you hear?”

  Philippa looked at Sicky. “We have to find his lamp,” she said.

  Sicky was already emptying Mr. Vodyannoy’s backpack onto the sodden ground. Moments later, a black Fabergé bottle decorated with solid-gold filigree appeared in his hands. Quickly, he handed it to Philippa, who removed the scepter-sized stopper and placed the bottle in Mr. Vodyannoy’s trembling hands.

  The sick djinn smiled thinly and sighed a great, long, almost mortal sigh that slowly turned into a djinn transubstantiation, which seemed to last forever. As they watched, the rasping breath leaving his body became visible while the body itself started to disappear in a cloud of thin smoke until only the hands holding the bottle were left, then they, too, disappeared inside the black glass. Instinctively, Philippa stoppered the bottle and wiped the rain from her face.

  Then Zadie took the bottle from her and placed it carefully back in Mr. Vodyannoy’s backpack, next to the map.

  “And then there were five,” said Zadie. “I expect Nimrod and John will be back soon,” said Philippa.

  “I hope so,” said Zadie. “Because I don’t mind telling you, I think we’re in trouble. I never thought I’d be wet and cold in the Amazon jungle. I tried uttering my focus word a minute ago and nothing happened.”

  Philippa shook her head. “I don’t think you understand, Zadie. Mr. Vodyannoy said you can’t use djinn power inside a propugnator.”

  “It’s you who doesn’t understand,” said Zadie. “A propugnator doesn’t continue after the djinn who laid it down has transubstantiated. So I should to be able to use my power. We both should. You try.”

  “FABULONGOSHOOMARVELISHLYWONDERPIPICAL,” said Philippa, but nothing happened.

  Zadie tossed her pet bat, Zotz, into the air and took Philippa’s hands in her own. “Perhaps if we were to try together,” she said, closing her eyes tightly.

  “And let’s think warm thoughts for dry clothes, waterproof tents, and a big blazing fire in the center of our camp,” added Philippa. “Perhaps we can persuade ourselves that it’s not as cold and wet as it is. Mind over matter.”

  “Good idea,” said Zadie. “Mind over matter. Lots of lovely warm thoughts.”

  “Warm thoughts,” repeated Philippa.

  “Hot fires. Baking Polynesian beaches. Thick fur coats,” said Zadie.

  “Deserts,” said Philippa. “Sand. The Sahara. The pyramids.”

  “Sauna baths and steam rooms,” said Zadie.

  “A New York subway in August,” said Philippa.

  “The Dead Sea in July.”

  “Magma, volcanoes, lava.”

  “A boiled egg.”

  “A steak on a barbecue.”

  “Scalding hot coffee.”

  “Chili powder, peppers, curry, hot toast.”

  Zadie squeezed Philippa’s hand. “Let’s go for it, Philippa.”

  “FABULONGOSHOO —” said Philippa.

  “KAKORRHAPHIOPHOBIA,” said Zadie.

  “— MARVELISHLYWONDERPIPICAL,” said Philippa, finishing her focus word.

  Neither djinn needed to open her eyes to know that nothing had happened. At least nothing had happened that was the result of djinn power, anyway. Silently, Philippa and Zadie released each other’s hands and looked around in the gloom. Things were the same and yet they were not. Somehow the camp seemed to have become much smaller. Sicky was crouched down on the ground with his head completely enclosed by his huge hands. Groanin was standing quite still and looking more than a little worried. Muddy, too. Hector, the dog, had disappeared.

  “Sorry,” said Philippa. “But nothing seems to be working in the djinn department. Perhaps if it stops raining and we can get dry, we might warm up a bit, but until then …” She shook her head.

  Groanin star
ted speaking out of the side of his mouth. “I hope that’s sooner than later, miss,” he said. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got company. And I don’t think they want tea, neither.”

  Philippa blinked and rubbed her eyes as she understood how it was that the camp seemed to have become smaller. They were surrounded by Indians. Perhaps as many as a hundred warriors, all of them as silent as the trees and all of them painted like jaguars, so that they blended perfectly with the thick jungle that surrounded them.

  “Do you think they’re friendly?” asked Zadie.

  One of the Indians, who appeared to be in charge of the others, had sharpened bones protruding from almost every part of his face. There was a small bell hanging in his nose. The jaguar camouflage covering his body wasn’t paint but tattoos — hundreds of tattoos. Around his neck he wore a necklace made of claws and teeth and a large black stone about the size of a tennis ball. Except that the stone was a head. A shrunken human head.

  “Not especially friendly, no,” said Philippa.

  “Close your eyes, Miss Philippa,” whispered Sicky. “You, too, Miss Zadie. Mr. Groanin. Muddy. All of you. Close your eyes. I’ll do my Medusa thing.”

  “Do as he says,” hissed Philippa. “Quickly.”

  Suddenly, Sicky stood up and, with a loud shout, he pulled up the front of his wet T-shirt, exposing the deadly tattoo on his huge belly. The three Indians who were close enough and sufficiently unwise to look at this tattoo immediately turned to stone. The others let out a terrible ululating cry, and the next second, Sicky was struck on the head with a war club and bundled into a sack.

  At the same time strong hands caught one of Philippa’s wrists and then the other.

  They were prisoners. Prisoners of the headhunting Xuanaci Indians.

  CHAPTER 10

  HOW LIKE A GOD

  The giant anaconda is an aquatic member of the boa constrictor family of snakes. This means that it kills its prey by coiling its enormous elongated body around its victim and squeezing until the prey is suffocated or crushed to death. Then the snake dislocates its own jaw and swallows the unfortunate creature whole. The name “anaconda” comes from a Tamil word, anaikondran, which means “elephant killer.” South Americans call this huge snake el matatoro, the “bull killer.” Both names are good indicators of the snake’s enormous power and fearsome reputation. Anacondas are slow-moving and rely on the element of surprise to catch their prey, which most often includes alligators, deer, and even jaguars, and it is seldom that a snake like an anaconda is itself the subject of a surprise attack.