How

Teddy Roosevelt

Slew

The Last Mighty T-Rex

A novel by

Mark Paul Jacobs

Copyright © 2013  by Mark Paul Jacobs

All rights reserved

Cover design by AM Design Studios

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents: How Teddy Roosevelt Slew The Last Mighty T-Rex

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 1

José Bonifácio Telegraph Station

Mato Grosso, República dos Estados Unidos do Brasil

February 22, 1914

Colonel Theodore Roosevelt—former President of the United States of America, living legend and enigmatic leader, world-renowned for rallying his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill—had long surrendered any notion of growing accustomed to the relentless Amazonian rains. Bone-weary and exhausted after a grueling seven week slog up and across the muddy Brazilian divide, Roosevelt tossed uncomfortably atop a threadbare cot and listened to the incessant rush of falling rainwater against the thatched roof of his daub-and-wattle hut. Even the downpours he and his second-born son, Kermit, had so frequently endured while wandering the African savannahs just four short years before, seemed subdued compared to the saturating deluges that tumbled routinely from the bleak skies over the Brazilian highlands. And this dreary night would prove no exception, he fittingly concluded.

Roosevelt swatted an invading sand flea and casually brushed aside some other nocturnal creepy-crawlies. He pulled his body inward and stared out of the open doorway and into the sopping wilderness. Teddy Roosevelt’s typically unfaltering mind swirled with countless troubling thoughts.

The rains were an eternal annoyance and certainly an impediment to the expedition’s progress, he mused, but the humidity that smothered these lands was constant and nearly unbearable. The permeating heat, combined with Teddy’s lifetime struggle with asthma, often felt like a prizefighter’s right-handed roundhouse to his fifty-four-year-old gut. And to make matters worse—and verified by personal accounts offered by the experienced Brazilian officers—his misery would only worsen as they descended into the heart of the Amazon’s sweltering jungle. Theodore Roosevelt possessed a keen sense of own body’s steady decline with his advancing age, and he inwardly bemoaned the lessening of his usual copious vitality. If only I could recapture just a sliver of youth, he pondered. If only I could gather enough strength to reclaim some of my former vigor, before all is lost on this most inhospitable continent.

Yet most worrisome of all was the crushing reality that the most daunting part of the journey remained ahead of him. Mapping the last unexplored waterway of the Amazon basin would be without question Roosevelt’s greatest challenge, and the headwaters of the Dúvida River—the so-called “River of Doubt”—snaked peacefully northward just a few day’s journey away. Merely a decade after being mangled in a trolley accident, having his retina torn while boxing in the White House, and less than two years following an assassination attempt that left a bullet permanently buried in his chest, Theodore Roosevelt marked each grueling day fighting what he derisively called, “The withering fortitude of lesser men.”

Yet Roosevelt himself remained hopelessly human, and the dark minions of doubt did occasionally attempt to invade his normally stalwart psyche. But unlike ordinary men, Roosevelt learned at an early age to conjure up barriers to restrain his most destructive proclivities. He simply took a deep breath and stirred himself to anger—it was not his nature to let any physical task stand in the way of his stated goals, regardless how demanding or seemingly impossible. He owed it to his beloved Kermit, his wife Edith, the men of his expedition, and finally to the American Museum of Natural History. He had to remain unwaveringly resolute.

Roosevelt rolled over and peered at his snoring twenty-four-year-old son, cloaked within the hut’s darkness. Beside Kermit’s cot and under a dying candle, Teddy could discern an open book, a parcel of paper and a pen, and a dog-eared photograph, presumably of Kermit’s fiancée, the lovely Belle. Having his son on this expedition was one of several factors sustaining Roosevelt’s hope and buoying his spirit. Yet another was the inclusion of the expedition’s co-commander, the legendary Brazilian military officer and explorer Cândido Mariano da Silva Rondon. Theodore Roosevelt sustained a strong feeling of unflappable confidence in Colonel Rondon from the very first moments they met upon disembarking the side-wheel steamship Nyoac after it had settled upon the docks of the Paraguay River’s upper reaches. Rondon had personally directed the carving of Brazil’s newly commissioned telegraph lines through this brutal wilderness, a wondrous and heroic task of which Roosevelt never tired of hearing tales on the trail or by the nightly campfires. In fact, they had followed the fearless Brazilian commander’s blazed pathway across the Mato Grosso plateau, and his strategically placed telegraph stations became welcome respites during their plodding overland journey.

But having Kermit by his side through this ordeal is what really warmed Roosevelt’s heart. Kermit had been working in South America for over a year, and the ever-adventurous Teddy beamed proud knowing that his own son had chosen to strike out on his own by carving railroads and building bridges upon one of the most mysterious continents on earth. His only regret was diverting the young man from his new career and keeping his son separated from his first true love. Smiling inwardly, Roosevelt suspected from the start that his wife had conspired to ensure Kermit’s presence on the expedition. Edith’s worries were plainly evident during the months leading to Teddy’s departure. The old, broken-down goat would have to be looked after, Roosevelt thought, with a mocking and indignant grin. And yet Roosevelt pondered another twisted aspect of he and Kermit’s relationship, formed in part by closely observing his son’s actions during their recent African adventure. Although encouraged by Kermit’s tireless work habits and bravery, Kermit’s recklessness often gave his father great pause, giving rise to the obvious question: “Who would ultimately be responsible for looking after whom?”

Kermit’s snoring suddenly ceased, and the younger Roosevelt rolled and released a deep and repeated cough. With a moment’s pause and an incoherent grunt, Kermit flopped again and resumed his cadenced snore.

Theodore Roosevelt’s eyes narrowed with concern. Kermit had been afflicted by recurring bouts of malaria since childhood and malarial diseases were one of the expeditions’ paramount concerns. Roosevelt felt fortunate to have a doctor like Jose Cajazeira along on their journey. The intrepid medic administered doses of quinine on a regular basis attempting to restrain the diseases’ onslaught. But even Colonel Roosevelt himself was not immune to the scourge of the equatorial jungles, and recently he was beginning to notice flashes of fever during the overland trip, an inconvenient hindrance that he kept, at least for the present, to himself and Dr. Cajazeria.

Roosevelt tried to settle himself comfortably upon his bug-infested cot. His eyes opened slowly, gathering in the shadowy doorway—the crude wooden frame dripped rainwater rhythmically to the muddy ground below. The sounds of the Brazilian wilderness echoed in his ears and danced through his head.

There was a dark foreboding that weighed on Roosevelt’s mind as the expedition moved deeper into the unknown and farther from modern Brazil’s more established settlements and flourishing cities. And this feeling most assuredly was shared by the rest of the intrepid troupe, especially his fellow naturalists, George Cherrie and Leo Miller. These lands were hardly unoccupied when Rondon slashed his way through this wilderness, bringing with him a measure of contemporary technology and disrupting the native’s nearly Neolithic lifestyles. The Pareci Indians were a harmonious lot, whom Rondon quickly made peace. The Pareci even drew salaries helping to protect Rondon’s telegraph station at the village of Utiarity. But the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition was now intruding deep into the lands of the naked and warlike Nhambiquaras, one of the most primitive tribes of the Amazon, and Roosevelt had deep reservations.

Colonel Rondon had made first contact with the Nhambiquaras just six years previously, and the natives appeared impervious to Rondon’s overtures of a solid and lasting peace. They were nomadic hunter-gatherers, settling down only for the rainy season, and their tribes were scattered into independent bands making Rondon’s task nearly impossible. But as testament to Rondon’s perseverance—and through the issuance of many lavish gifts, Roosevelt noted—the Nhambiquaras gradually succumbed to Rondon’s big-heartedness. And eventually, through the passage of time, they settled into a trusted relationship with the intrepid Brazilian Colonel and fashioned an uncomfortable peace with his telegraph workers. Although friendly to Rondon personally, the Nhambiquaras’ unease with outsiders was palpable—even the slightest provocation could turn badly and even the simplest misunderstanding could be deadly to Roosevelt and his expedition.

And as Rondon recently and ominously warned, the lands surrounding the River of Doubt would be, quite probably, inhabited by Nhambiquaras or other native groups unknown even to Rondon himself. These Indians would regard them only as invaders, an unsettling thought to Roosevelt, who always remembered the first law of wilderness survival whilst trespassing upon occupied lands: “Friends proclaim their presence; a silent advance marks a foe.”

Theodore Roosevelt’s battered body finally succumbed to weariness as the dim shadows flickered upon the highland’s gentle breeze. He harkened back to feelings of powerlessness, of a dark stalking force that he could, and yet he could not, quite comprehend. Roosevelt was beginning to notice that Rondon’s “friendly” Nhambiquaras were becoming increasingly bolder with himself and his men as each day passed. The natives danced, smiled, and joked before their visitors, and they even accepted Rondon’s gifts as a gesture of goodwill. And yet there was an underlying tension, a palpable sense of infringement, a feeling that the expedition was encroaching upon these people’s lands and threatening the basic underpinnings of their simplistic and ancient culture.

Teddy sensed an ever-present monster stalking the expedition, a most dangerous and deadly predator with many probing eyes, capable of wiping all trace of the expedition from the forest in a flash of an eye, if they suddenly and arbitrarily chose to do so. But, unlike any other predator or foe Roosevelt had faced in the wilds of Africa or across the lines of battle, this potential adversary hid in plain sight.

Theodore realized that the greatest threat to the expedition was not drowning or starvation, or even by the claws of a jungle animal, or a deadly biting fish. Staring out into the wilderness, Roosevelt’s stomach soured knowing that their greatest menace was explicitly obvious and also inherently human.

CHAPTER 2

Roosevelt woke early, greeting the new day in much the same way as he did every morning since leaving the relative comforts of the steamship Nyoac and beginning the overland journey. He stretched some kinks in his neck and back, took a deep breath, and then strolled to the encampment’s edge for his morning constitutional. Returning gratified and reinvigorated, he ritualistically shielded his head with netting before sitting down and documenting the previous day’s events.

Despite the early hour, Roosevelt noticed the expedition’s makeshift camp already stirring with hushed Portuguese chatter and restless pack animals. Colonel Rondon’s assembly of rough-and-tumble camaradas—the expedition’s laborers, porters, and future paddlers—lined up with military precision against the backdrop of the isolated Bonifácio telegraph station. Roosevelt chuckled inwardly, watching the diminutive Rondon donned in camouflage Khakis pacing before his rugged men with his hands clasped behind his back and barking his daily orders like Alexander the Great leading his men against the Persian Empire at the Battle of the Granicus.

Cândido Rondon was the type of man Theodore Roosevelt could not help but admire. Barely five feet three, the Brazilian Colonel’s regal bearing and rugged forthrightness and adherence to strict discipline embodied just about every trait that Roosevelt himself advocated passionately his entire storied life. Rondon was already a national hero for his ventures across uncivilized Brazil, and it was he and his trusted Lieutenant Joao Lyra who, just a few years previously, had discovered and mapped the expedition’s targeted destination: the headwaters of the River of Doubt.

Roosevelt initially thought Rondon’s daily military ritual a bit overindulgent, especially for a civilian scientific expedition. Only later, and after getting just a small taste of the harshness of the Brazilian wilderness, did the former president fully comprehend the extreme nature of their mission. Colonel Rondon knew beforehand what Colonel Roosevelt could only have imagined before setting out on this adventure. Armed with the experience of leading men through these lands Rondon fully understood that conditions could deteriorate quickly, and the jungle could overwhelm and suffocate the unprepared with unmerciful ruthlessness. And it wasn’t long before the intuitive Roosevelt realized that strict discipline and ritual would bind these men together when all appeared hopeless—frankly, it would become their only chance at survival.

Rondon dismissed his camaradas to their daily tasks, and the men dispersed to feed and pack the stubborn mules and volatile oxen. Roosevelt finished up his notes and joined the naturalists Cherrie and Miller by the fire for a bold cup of boiled coffee and a rationed breakfast. The ever-dedicated doctor Cajazeira remained amongst the camaradas dispensing the men’s daily dose of quinine. “One can never take enough precautions against malaria,” Roosevelt would hear him preach often and repeatedly. “It would be foolish to miss even a single day’s ration while the life-saving drug is readily available.” Teddy Roosevelt quickly acquired a great deal of confidence in the expedition’s doctor, and it wasn’t long before the doctor’s sermons were ingrained into the expedition’s collective consciousness.

Kermit emerged from his hut and staggered to the fire. Roosevelt could not help but notice his son’s long and drawn face, which Teddy presumed was from a lack of restful sleep. Wordlessly, Kermit poured a cup of coffee and scooped a tin of steaming beans.

Theodore Roosevelt’s breakfast routine usually consisted of as much chit-chat as the taciturn Cherrie and the patient Miller could stomach. Kermit knew his gregarious father far too well and generally kept to himself, although he chucked gently on occasion, watching the expedition’s members weather the storm of incessant blather. Colonel Rondon, perhaps out of respect for Roosevelt’s military rank, offered the ex-president his most patient audience, and Roosevelt, true to his easygoing nature, always appreciated the gesture. Roosevelt often mused of his and Rondon’s nearly polar opposite personalities, and yet how fitting the co-commanders grew to understand each other so very well.

Rondon finished up relaying his final orders to his designated leader of the native camaradas—a strong and hard-nosed taskmaster named Paishon, a sergeant in Brazil’s Fifth Battalion of Engineers and a veteran of several of Rondon’s telegraph expeditions. The wiry Brazilian Colonel strolled to the fire and mixed himself a cup of herbal tea. Taking up a chair beside Roosevelt, he took a long sip. Roosevelt delighted in watching Rondon’s eyes glow following such a trifling indulgence.

“Good morning senhor Roosevelt.”

“And a hardy bom dia to you, Colonel Rondon.” Roosevelt pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “I just wanted to say that I have been very impressed with your choice of leaders on this expedition. I like this man Paishon. He’s as strong as an ox and has an excellent work ethic, and he leads by example. Good for him.”

Rondon smiled faintly as if lost momentarily within his own thoughts. “Sim, obrigado, Colonel Roosevelt. Paishon has been loyal to me through several of the Commission’s expeditions. I can proudly say we have survived some very hard times together.”

“Well, he is welcome on any of my future expeditions anywhere in the world. You can tell him so—anywhere, anytime. And I stand by my word. That is, if I can gather the strength and the willpower to leave New York and the States once again following this relentless grind.”

Rondon took another sip of tea. “I will tell him.”

Roosevelt laughed. “Oh, and I did not mean to imply that I was contemplating stealing him from you. I know good men are hard to find, especially amongst the native populations.”

Rondon shook his head. “I took no offense, Colonel. This man Paishon is free to come and go as he pleases.”

“Good, good.”

A bustle among the livestock caught both commanders’ attention. Two bucking and snorting mules broke loose and tossed their newly packed burdens to the ground. Four camaradas chased the mutineers down in what looked to Roosevelt like a comical rodeo. The camaradas had everything back under control a minute later.

Rondon shook his head. “The pack-animals are losing their minds, I fear.” He pointed to the north. “Luckily, only thirteen miles lie between us and the Dúvida headwaters. We will meet up with Captain Amilcar and the rest of our provisions six miles from here. There, we can divide our rations for the river journey. I pray the majority of our animals survive until then.”

“I’m sure they’ll oblige,” Roosevelt replied. “But I feel the acquisition of canoes is a more pressing concern at this juncture. Have you any new ideas in this regard since we last spoke?”

“I’m afraid nothing has changed, senhor.” Rondon poked a stick into the fire. “The camaradas will require a week to construct the dugouts once we arrive at the embarkation point. Several years ago I supervised the construction of a small bridge spanning the river’s upper tributary. From there, we will launch downriver and to the north.”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “This is very unfortunate, of course. A more efficient expenditure of our time would be to proceed downriver immediately and not waste precious rations camping in the wilderness and building boats.”

“Yes, senhor Colonel, yet simply swimming through the rapids would be even more problematic, do you not think?”

Roosevelt laughed hardily. “That is an excellent point, dear man.” He sighed. “Well, I guess there is nothing we can do now but succumb to fate, for it has certainly dealt us a troubling hand.”

“Unfortunately, that may be—”

Roosevelt interrupted with a pointing finger. Teddy noticed several camaradas staring to the south and toward the desolate scrubby forest of the high plateau. All activity around the telegraph station suddenly and eerily ceased.

Kermit and the naturalist Cherrie slowly rose to their feet. “What is it?” Cherrie asked.

“I thought I heard a human holler,” Kermit whispered, waving his fingers gently toward the wilderness’s edge. “But I might’ve been mistaken.”

Just then, Paishon sprinted back toward Rondon and Roosevelt. He arrived panting. “Nhambiquara,” he said to Rondon in Portuguese. Teddy Roosevelt knew enough of the language to thoroughly understand.

Colonel Rondon nodded.

Kermit reached for his gun, drawing an almost instantaneous reaction from the normally unflappable Rondon. “No,” he hissed.

Teddy Roosevelt was acutely aware that Colonel Rondon remained a tireless advocate for native’s rights. He was one of the first men who dared approach the Nhambiquara tribes just a handful of years before—until then, the Nhambiquara would simply kill any outsiders who attempted contact. This was an extreme act of bravery in Roosevelt’s eyes and he deferred any command decisions regarding the natives to the heroic Brazilian commander.

“Put that gun away. And I do not want to see any firearms for the duration of their visit. No exceptions!”

Theodore Roosevelt caught Kermit’s eye and then nodded subtly. Kermit backed down. Hurriedly, the younger Roosevelt hid the rifle under a pile of palm fronds.

Paishon ran to the station’s boundary before halting abruptly. He cupped his rough-hewn hands to his mouth and released a loud howl.

They waited. The wilderness answered back a few moments later.

Paishon repeated this ritual several times while the rest of the expedition remained frozen like statues. Roosevelt took a few measured breaths.

Teddy Roosevelt noticed several black faces emerge from the wilds. They trickled out slowly at first, eventually building to a crowd of perhaps three or four dozen. The men, women, and children were completely naked except for some of the grown men, who wore a band around their waist that covered virtually nothing. Like all of the Nhambiquara tribes they had encountered over the last few weeks, the men had pierced noses and lips filled with fine rings of straw. The natives’ wide smiles put the expedition’s members at ease.

“A friendly visit?” Kermit muttered.

“Indeed.” Cherrie replied tepidly.

Roosevelt watched Colonel Rondon huddle with Lieutenant Lyra for a brief moment. Lyra nodded curtly and then wandered away. Roosevelt thought he overheard the Portuguese words observar and segurar: “watch” and “hold”. Teddy agreed wholeheartedly with Rondon’s carefully executed precautions. Useful items and even animals often had the misfortune of “disappearing” following a Nhambiquara visit.

Several Nhambiquara men strolled directly to Rondon. They all smiled broadly and jabbered without pause, pushing uncomfortably close to the Brazilian commander in the same manner that Roosevelt had observed at other native villages. Only Rondon and Paishon appeared to understand even a few of their words. A rather large group of women and children congregated around Roosevelt. They laughed and smiled and whispered, forming an ever-tightening circle around the former president.

Rondon muttered, “Word must have spread that you are a great and famous chief.”

Feeling a bit stifled, Roosevelt politely pushed some of the natives aside. He strode to the center of the encampment pulling his entourage along with him. Two malnourished dogs followed the natives into camp. They each wore collars of beads around their scrawny necks. Kermit’s dog Trigueiro and Rondon’s companion Lobo ran out eagerly to greet them. Roosevelt watched with pity as Trigueiro and Lobo sniffed their unfortunate cousins, never bothering to take the typically aggressive dog-like stance when confronting strange animals of their ilk. Even our dogs were sympathetic to their plight, he thought.

Kermit and Cherrie returned with cameras. The Nhambiquara men lined up with their bows and arrows for what appeared to be an exhibition of some sort. The natives pulled the bows tight and pointed straight upwards. Slowly they lowered their bows, aiming at the target before releasing their arrows. They repeated this odd maneuver whilst missing the majority of their shots, often quite badly.

Kermit took a photograph and shook his head. He turned to his father saying, “If their intention is to intimidate, they are doing a very poor job.”

Roosevelt noticed two older native men making a grand entrance with noses tilted upward. They each had three or four female companions who strode gracefully beside them carrying various items. The women appeared to be well treated and also well fed.

“And now arrives the aristocracy,” Cherrie mumbled.

Roosevelt’s set his sights on a strikingly tall man striding into camp alongside one of the native’s harems. He had no female companions, yet he was also quite naked and carried a spear and bow in Nhambiquara fashion. As the man approached, Roosevelt’s mouth lay agape noticing that he bore a full beard and his skin pigmentation was unquestionably white, and yet he was weathered to a leathery brown.

The oddly out-of-place man strode directly toward the dumfounded president, even ignoring Rondon, who stood only a few feet away bearing a most confused and astonished look. The man halted before Theodore Roosevelt, meeting the ex-president with brightened blue eyes and a smile that communicated mild delight. “I’m so honored to meet you President Roosevelt. I have come to offer my services to your fine and noble expedition.” He bowed slightly.

Roosevelt stood tongue-tied for a moment, allowing the sight of this man to fully inundate his brain. The fact that this man had obviously lived amongst these natives was enough to pique Teddy’s interest, but equally remarkable was his almost infallible discourse. But it was the stranger’s dialect that immediately betrayed his origins, known to everyone in nearly every corner of the world from Indonesia to Timbuktu. His grand words identified him as an educated man but also, unquestionably, as an Englishman in every respect.

CHAPTER 3

Only a few moments had passed before every officer and scientist of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition had taken notice of the peculiar white man who wandered into camp amongst the Nhambiquara natives. Colonel Rondon, at least outwardly, appeared to show the least curiosity. He remained engaged with the native chieftains whom he must have deemed his highest priority; although Roosevelt spied Rondon sneaking a glance or two.

Kermit and Cherrie managed to break away from the natives, joining Roosevelt who ushered the lanky Englishman aside. Theodore Roosevelt was wholly taken aback by the man’s unreserved lack of modesty standing before a group of strangers without a stitch of clothing. Roosevelt also noticed that the man bore several rows of deep scarring across his boney back. The unusually tongue-tied former president motioned for him to sit.

“But first,” Roosevelt asked tepidly. “Would you be so kind to cover… to wear… Well, needless to say, your appearance is quite disconcerting.”

The man laughed. “But of course, and I sincerely apologize for my nudity. It appears I may have forgotten some basic decorum when greeting men who have ventured from beyond central Brazil. In fact, it has been somewhat freeing and a bit exhilarating living among these natives and breaking so many taboos intrinsic to our heritage. Yet covering my nakedness is the least I can do.”

Kermit searched around, but all he could find was an old dish towel.

The man quickly tied the rag around his waist and sat on the hard ground, crossing his muscular legs beneath his scrawny frame like a Buddhist monk. He shook his head. “Alas, it has been some time since I have been amongst a group of ‘civilized’ men. And now I sit before one of the great world leaders, President Theodore Roosevelt!”

“Former president,” Kermit corrected flatly.

“Please call me Colonel,” Roosevelt added, making a mental note of the stranger’s indulgent flattery, something he’d always thought masked ulterior intent, or worse, indicated downright deception.

“Ah, I see,” the man replied. “Without a doubt I have been away for quite some time.”

Colonel Rondon finally joined the group. He bent to pour himself another cup of tea. Roosevelt noticed Rondon’s eyes focus on the stranger.

“My name is William James Martin, Lieutenant On Her Majesty’s Service. Or should I say, formerly in the service of the Queen.”

Roosevelt nodded curtly. “And I do thank you for clarifying your status, Lieutenant Martin. I could not imagine welcoming a deserter into our midst.”

“Indeed,” Martin replied with a wide grin. “Rest assured, I have been granted leave by Commander Fawcett himself.”

“Fawcett,” Kermit said. “Percy Fawcett? What is he occupied with nowadays?  Train-sized anacondas? Five-headed frogs?”

“Kermit!” Roosevelt cautioned with a raised finger. “Lieutenant Colonel Percy Fawcett is a greatly respected mapmaker and explorer. He has been trekking through many parts of the Amazon for years and has added numerous and previously unknown chapters to our understanding of this continent. He is a man who should be offered the utmost respect.”

Kermit Roosevelt shrugged.

Teddy Roosevelt grimaced at his son’s gentle insolence. Turning back to Martin, he asked, “And on what particular mission did you part with Commander Fawcett?”

Roosevelt noticed a bit of hesitation on Martin’s part. He watched the man’s eyes dance between himself and upon Rondon’s tea. “Your stark appearance,” Roosevelt continued, “has robbed me of my manners it appears, dear sir. Would you care to share in our breakfast? Perhaps you would like some coffee, or a biscuit and beans?”

“I’m afraid even a small sample of your diet would make me quite ill at this moment, since I’ve grown accustomed to the native’s fare spanning several years. But a spot of tea would be lovely.”

“Of course…”

Colonel Rondon poured Martin a cup of tea. Martin tipped his cup back and took a long sip. Roosevelt watched Martin’s eyes close slowly as if attaining pure nirvana.

“I was inquiring about your mission with Commander Fawcett?”

“Oh, oh yes, Colonel.” Martin took another sip. “I was part of Fawcett’s expedition that mapped the Rio Verde.”

“Then, is Fawcett currently in the Amazon?”

“That is a question that I cannot rightfully answer. My last contact with Commander Fawcett was… hmmm… five summers ago by my reckoning.”

“Five years!”

“And I have not heard news of him since.”

“Then you have not lived in total isolation?” Kermit asked.

“I have never stated such, yet I have taken up with the Nhambiquara as well as several other tribes, some of which I’m certain even Colonel Rondon has yet to make contact.”

Rondon shook his head. “How is it possible to stay hidden in the Amazon for so long? I have never been informed of any white man living amongst the natives. News travels slowly in the wilderness, but it does proliferate, nonetheless.”

Martin smiled widely, still maintaining eye contact with Roosevelt. “Perhaps Colonel Rondon’s sources are somewhat inadequate.”

Cândido Mariano Rondon slowly poured his cup’s contents onto the campfire’s flames scattering sizzling drops across the searing embers. Kermit and Cherrie exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Theodore Roosevelt’s welcoming face suddenly straightened. “There is no call for insolence, Mister Martin.”

“My humble apologies… It was not my intent to insult Colonel Rondon or anyone else in your expedition. I was simply offering some justification for adding me to your intrepid troupe.”

“And exactly what are those qualifications?” Kermit asked.

Martin waved his hand toward the Nhambiquara. “I have studied these people and have lived amongst them. I know their language and, most important of all, they have accepted me into their culture.”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Indeed, that is impressive on its face.”

“And what else?” George Cherrie asked.

“I have a Doctorate in Social Anthropology from Cambridge University, bestowed graciously in the year of our Lord, Eighteen hundred and ninety-eight.”

Cherrie raised a brow. Kermit poked at the fire.

“An Anthropologist,” Roosevelt said, eyeing Rondon for reaction. “Then, should we address you as Doctor, Mr. Martin?”

“With all respect, referring to me as Martin or Lieutenant Martin will suffice.”

Kermit snickered, perhaps realizing that he was the only person present who understood and recognized his father’s sublime humor.

“Regardless, senhor Martin,” Rondon said. “We simply cannot afford another mouth to feed once we embark on the river journey. Our supplies are already stretched to their limit.” Rondon waved his hand dismissively.

“I am well versed in living off whatever the jungle provides.”

“Paishon and I already have a good relationship with the natives—”

“Yes, dear Colonel, but I have—”

“Silence,” Rondon said, eyeing Martin with razor-sharp darts. “Consider yourself fortunate that you are not currently under my command, or you would have most likely already earned fifty lashes.”

“Gentlemen,” Roosevelt said with a gentle, waving hand. “Gentlemen, please.” Teddy sighed deeply. “Mister Martin, let me just say that in just a few minutes time you have managed to burn some important bridges with this expedition. Now I must ask you to plead your case quickly and concisely. Both Colonel Rondon’s and my patience does have its limits, and daylight is advancing. Can you offer anything else that could entice us to agreement? Otherwise, we must part ways.”

Martin smiled quite confidently, a recurring trait that annoyed Roosevelt to distraction. This man was either extremely self-assured, a fool, or he was a raving maniac—or perhaps a bit of all three.

“Well, I have travelled down the river tributary to which you are now destined. Does this not pique your interest?”

Roosevelt’s heart skipped a beat upon hearing Martin’s simple declaration. The entirety of the last six months of anticipation and dire hardships would be in vain, if they could not rightfully declare that they were the first outsiders to trace the Amazon’s last unmapped river to its base. Teddy cared less about the possible ridicule he’d endure with such a revelation, but he cringed with disappointment knowing that he was now in the midst of his final adventure of any significance—his aging and battered body could take no more.

“The river has many twists and turns and countless rapids. The white water and sheer rocks would likely tear your canoes to shreds if the obstructions are not anticipated by an experienced guide.”

Kermit asked the bleak question that his famous father could not manage to articulate: “Then you have trekked the entire length of the river?”

“No, unfortunately I have not progressed farther than several weeks journey beyond Colonel Rondon’s bridge.”

Theodore Roosevelt sighed deeply. He exchanged relieved glances with Rondon, Kermit, and finally Cherrie.

“But I can tell you that these lands are scarcely populated, yet there are tribes who will slaughter any unprepared outsiders upon sight. And I needn’t tell you that fresh meats are scarce in the deep jungle, and, let us just say, civilized mores are practically nonexistent. And I shan’t get any more graphic than that, dear fellows.”

Roosevelt shuttered. “And how do you propose to help us?”

“I am a professional Social Anthropologist, Commander Roosevelt. I have already forged a relationship with some of these tribes, and if we encounter new groups, I pledge to offer my expertise in this regard.”

“One important question comes to mind,” Kermit said abruptly. “Why? Why would you want to subject yourself to such a journey?”

“Why?” Martin laughed. “Why? I entered the Amazon for roughly the same reasons as you and Colonel Roosevelt, dear man—for fame and accolades and for science and to understand the human condition. I did not proceed further because I travelled alone, and I heeded the native’s warning that the lands beyond were bleak and horrifically dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Roosevelt said. “Well, the entire Amazon is dangerous, sir. Of what nature of danger did they speak?”

“I cannot say. The natives often weave tall tales to ward off strangers, yet I took this particular warning very seriously.”

Roosevelt scratched his head. “I see…” He glanced toward Rondon, who stood crossed-armed and staring into the campfire. “Thank you for pleading your compelling case, Mister Martin. Now I must ask you to excuse yourself so that Colonel Rondon and I can discuss your application.”

Martin rose to his feet. He nodded curtly and then strode amongst the dancing Nhambiquaras. He laughed merrily pointing out his new nappies to the swirling ebony-colored women and children, their faces glowing with a mixture of mild ridicule and sheer delight.

Colonel Rondon shook his head. “I would like to say firstly and most ardently that I do not like him. And even more importantly, he would be another mouth to feed, which we cannot afford.”

“Colonel,” Roosevelt said. “I trust your judgment of men beyond any second-guessing. I only ask that you consider what this man can offer the expedition.”

“The only thing he will likely offer is the real potential of mutiny amongst my camaradas. He is arrogant and a threat to morale. I have seen this before.”

“That is a justifiable concern, yet his knowledge of the river’s headwaters may be instrumental in protecting our canoes and could possibly save our lives. And he could help with the natives.”

“If he is telling the truth…”

Roosevelt turned to Kermit. “What do you think, son?”

“Father, there is no doubt that this man is an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. And having someone along who knows the river would make our lives easier and safer. But there’s something puzzling about this man, something that struck me while I was listening to his tale. How does he know so much about our expedition? And if, as he says, he has been wandering the Amazon for years, how did he know our destination? And how did he know when to intercept us here at the Bonifácio station?”

“Those are excellent questions, Kerm.”

“Do you not see, senhors,” Rondon interjected, “this man is deceitful and will have to be watched at all times. He keeps things to himself—things that reflect poorly on his past or things that he may use at a later time to enhance his personal situation. I don’t trust him.”

Roosevelt paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Unquestionably, this man Martin is not perfect, and there does seem to be many legitimate concerns about his background.” Roosevelt looked skyward before turning back to Rondon. “I may regret this decision, but I would like to give this man a chance.”

Rondon shook his head. “As you wish, Colonel Roosevelt, but please understand that it is against my innermost instincts.”

“I understand,” Roosevelt replied somberly. “And it shall be thusly noted in my journal. This is my decision alone.”

Colonel Rondon waved as if he’d washed his hands of the entire matter.

Roosevelt called out for Martin to return to the campfire. Martin strolled back sporting the same bothersome grin. He sat on the very spot that he’d recently vacated.

“I have decided to allow you the opportunity to join our troupe.”

“Splendid! And I commend you upon your astute decision. Apparently, President Roosevelt, you are as wise as your reputation suggests.”

Roosevelt hurriedly eyed Kermit, Cherrie, and then finally Rondon. “But first we have a condition for which you must agree, and we also have task for you to perform to prove your mettle. Complete the task admirably and you will be welcome to join our expedition.”

“Oh?” Martin laughed. “A task? How positively delightful!”

“Firstly, you will not have officer status within this expedition. You will be granted the position of a lowly laborer amongst Colonel Rondon’s ranks and completely under his command—one of his hard-working camaradas. I will see to your compensation upon the mission’s end.”

Martin bowed. “I was to expect no special treatment, Colonel.”

“Secondly, you are tasked to contact one of the Nhambiquara tribes near the river and negotiate the procurement of seven canoes for our journey.” Roosevelt fired Rondon a quick glance. The taciturn Brazilian raised a brow, but Roosevelt also noticed a trace of concurrence written across Rondon’s leathery face.

Martin stroked his chin; his grin evaporated. “That is a tall task, Colonel Roosevelt. Canoes are highly valued possessions amongst these people.”

“Colonel Rondon will gladly provide some items to sweeten your bargaining.”

Martin paused for a moment, eyeing each of the officers in turn. Finally, he sighed with resignation. “Well, if this is what must be done, then I will accept this challenge and apply my utmost effort to see to its successful completion.”

Theodore Roosevelt had made numerous decisions during his long and storied career—some were good, some bad, some indifferent, and some that turned out to be absolute disasters. He always firmly believed that the nature of a good leader was not to be perfect—men were mortal and not Gods—but to be bold, hold true to your own principles, and to issue quick and decisive edicts. Roosevelt often marveled at the instincts granted so graciously to him, and he did not know whether it was by his unique upbringing, hard work, or even by divine providence, but he was ever thankful, nonetheless. And in many ways he felt humbled by this gift that enabled him to experience life like no other human on earth—the innate ability to persuade other humans to his own position. Thank God I was not born with evil in my heart, he often thought to himself, never sharing such dark contemplations with anyone, even his most intimate confidants like Edith, or Kermit, or any of his other children. I shudder to think of myself as a potential Genghis Khan or Caligula.

But experience taught Roosevelt another great gift: the ability to search his gut and divine the potential fallout of his decisions. Perhaps this is why he was such a successful politician, he reasoned. Yet here, before this smiling and near-naked stranger, Theodore Roosevelt felt conflicted and confused. His head told him to accept the stranger without prejudice and be on with the mission, but his gut told him to be extremely cautious. And more importantly, his instincts cried out that perhaps he had just made a monumental blunder.

Roosevelt accepted Martin’s outstretched hand and shook firmly. He noticed Colonel Rondon strolling away, brandishing a most rude and uncharacteristic grin. For the first time in his life, Theodore Roosevelt wished he had the special ability to read another person’s mind. In fact, at this very moment, he wished he could eavesdrop on the thoughts of two men.

CHAPTER 4

The azure sun rose slowly above the Mato Grosso’s bleak forest welcoming Roosevelt and the expedition’s mule train as they plodded along between clusters of stubbly brush and rock outcroppings the girth of a modestly-sized home. Within a few short hours, Roosevelt noticed that the open prairies had all but disappeared as they began to twist their way downward and off the Brazilian plateau, and the nature and species of the trees began to transform, growing thicker and taller and spaced such that their limbs touched in a broad tangled mesh. Although Colonel Rondon and his navigator Lieutenant Lyra insisted that they still trekked upon what they considered “The Highlands”, Roosevelt could smell and sense the approach of the infamous Amazon jungle, deep in the lowlands ahead and to the north.

Roosevelt removed his hat and brushed his sweaty brow. He looked skyward, watching the sun draw a misty haze against the matted branches while his mule bounced along the overgrown pathway. He could feel the moist stale air trapped within the forest’s underbelly swelter like a blacksmith’s oven, pressing his exposed skin and penetrating deeply his body and dampening his spirit.

Roosevelt’s mule took a few uneven steps in the slick mud and Teddy grabbed his saddle to regain his balance. Roosevelt reasoned sadly that his loyal beast, so severely weakened by the poor feed and strenuous journey, would not survive a fortnight after reaching their goal. Such was the fragility of life in this harsh and deadly country, he concluded.

As the team crossed a small brook, Roosevelt noticed a frail mule slurping darkened water from a stagnant pool. The pathetic creature glanced up with brown eyes set upon the travelers, apparently not able to gather enough strength to bolt away. Teddy shook his head. Three oxen carcasses littered the earth beside the shaky mule. Two of the beasts appeared to be hurriedly butchered while the other animal seemed to have simply collapsed. Huge black birds pecked relentlessly at the remains. Teddy noticed the mule’s scrawny legs quiver as if awaiting death’s sweet escape.

Roosevelt raised his hand and the mule procession halted. Teddy Roosevelt climbed to the ground and stroked the dying creature’s snout. Roosevelt had seen this sight far too many times over the past month—castoffs from Captain Amilcar’s advance supply train that could no longer pull their weight—the truly innocent casualties of the expedition. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking gently, “Do you suppose we can spare one shell?”

Colonel Rondon grabbed hold of his reins attempting to steady his anxious mule. He leaned forward and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, senhor Colonel, but bullets are a precious commodity. We had best reserve what we can for senhor Cherrie’s specimens and to defend against large predators and unfriendly natives.”

Roosevelt turned back to the dying mule and nodded in inevitable agreement.

Rondon sighed deeply. He stroked his chin and turned rearward. “Paishon!”

Paishon hustled forward, brandishing his knife in one swift motion.

“No,” Rondon ordered suddenly. “Eu quero Martin.”

Paishon stopped in his tracks. He eyeballed Colonel Rondon and scratched his head.

Lieutenant Martin stepped forward without a heartbeat’s hesitation. He dug his roughened toes into the spongy earth, tugging awkwardly on his newly acquired attire—shirt and trousers purchased by Roosevelt from a telegraph worker at Bonifácio. He accepted Paishon’s knife with a quick nod, and then strode with head held high in classic British fashion directly to Roosevelt and the sick mule. “Sir,” he said, positioning the knife’s blade against the mule’s brain.

Roosevelt glanced away just in time to miss the fatal jab. The mule released a sickening yelp and dropped to the ground. A pool of expanding red formed beneath Roosevelt’s boots. Rondon’s dog Lobo sniffed the carnage before turning away and whimpering. Martin bent to the stream and nonchalantly swished the blood from Paishon’s blade. Without a word, the Englishman marched back to Paishon and returned the knife.

Roosevelt solemnly returned to his own mule and exchanged a quick glance with the expressionless Rondon. He pondered for a moment about the myriad differences between Rondon and his own style of command, and yet, at least in this one area, they were in complete and total agreement. Orders must be obeyed without question, and all new men under one’s command should be thoroughly tested.

With an abrupt tug on his reins, Colonel Rondon turned and urged his beast forward. And, with a leg-up from Paishon, Roosevelt hoisted himself upon his saddle and dutifully followed the taciturn Brazilian commander down the path.

By early evening and nearly seven backbreaking miles from the Bonifácio station, Rondon’s and Roosevelt’s mule train finally arrived at a modest campsite set beside a small brook littered with tents and a variety of pack animals. Colonel Rondon pulled his mule alongside Roosevelt’s beast. “We have nicknamed this area Sete de Setembro,” Rondon said. “This brook flows directly into the Dúvida, or the River of Doubt, as you have preferred.” He pointed. “Our actual embarkation point is six miles farther north.”

Roosevelt had reviewed the plan with Rondon countless times over the past several weeks. They were to meet up here with Captain Amilcar and combine and reallocate their supplies and then split their group into two separate expeditions. Amilcar, along with the naturalist Leo Miller and several other men, would continue overland for three days to the west and then descend the previously explored waters of a stream named the Gy-Paraná, and then they would proceed down the Madeira River to the Brazilian city of Manaos. He and Rondon, and Rondon’s navigator Lyra, along with Kermit, Cherrie, and Dr. Cajazeira would strike out upon the unknown waters of the Dúvida. The only variable to this equation were the number and makeup of the camaradas eventually invited to partake in Roosevelt’s flotilla.

If, as expected, Lieutenant Martin failed to secure the canoes from the  Nhambiquara natives, then the Dúvida mission would be delayed an entire week while the camaradas painstakingly constructed a half-dozen vessels for their river journey. Roosevelt inhaled deeply, wishing that the mysterious Englishman would come through in the end and prove Rondon wrong. Hope springs eternal, he thought, but, alas, practical realities appear to rule our sacred existence.

Roosevelt and Rondon dismounted their mules, and the camaradas swarmed around the officers and gathered in their exhausted pack-beasts. Roosevelt stretched his stiffened back while Kermit leaned down and scratched Trigueiro’s ear. Captain Amilcar greeted the two Colonels with a firm handshake and a wide smile. “Welcome to our little retreat,” the stalwart Brazilian officer said. “We arrived nearly two days ago, safe to a man, yet our animals are certainly in poor shape. But now, thankfully, their journey is nearing completion.”

Roosevelt replied, “And this while our adventure only enters a new phase.”

“Yes, Colonel Roosevelt, yes.”

“What of the supplies?” Rondon asked directly.

Amilcar’s smile faded. “We have opened some of the crates and have found a large portion to be… How can I say this…? Useless.”

Rondon’s eyes narrowed. “Useless?”

“Yes commander, hundreds of kilos of stuffed olives and spices for gourmet meals, and even fine wines from Europe. Yes, quite heavy and quite impractical for a river journey in small canoes.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “How many days of good, honest stake can be set aside for the Dúvida mission?”

“Enough for forty or fifty days.”

Roosevelt and Rondon exchanged wordless gazes. Roosevelt sighed. “Then we will have to make do with what fate has provided.” He laughed. “It appears that we have little choice at this point. I cannot speak for the others, but I have no intention of turning back. We have come too far and have risked too much.”

“Indeed,” Rondon said. “We can fish and hunt when we are able. We can also supplement our meals with wild nuts and palmito, the core of immature palm trees which is bland to the tongue but will fill our bellies and fight off hunger.”

Roosevelt rubbed his belly.

“Besides,” Rondon continued. “Our canoes must be packed light and be flexible enough to withstand turbulent waters. Minimizing our provisions will have its advantages. We must also strive to reduce our personal baggage, stripping such to our most elemental needs.”

Colonel Rondon’s eyes wandered amongst the camaradas, who were busily tending to the pack animals and sorting provisions. “And have there been any disciplinary problems?”

“No, commander,” Amilcar replied. “All has progressed without incident.”

“Good, good.”

Roosevelt noticed Amilcar peer at a group of three men, one of which was a young, brawny full-blooded Portuguese man that Amilcar had hired in Tapirapoan named Julio de Lima.

True to his sociable nature, Theodore Roosevelt had gotten to know—within the bounds of military and social decorum—most all of the camaradas who had accompanied them on their mission. Generally, and despite the obvious language difficulties, he had found them to be hard-working and hardened men, dedicated to their tasks and fiercely loyal to Rondon. But one exception was this man Julio. Even by Roosevelt’s casual observations, Julio did only what was asked of him and nothing more, complained about what he had done to most everybody who would listen, and had as much distain for the other camaradas as they had for him. Through Roosevelt’s social networking, the ex-president discovered that Captain Amilcar experienced his own flare-ups with the fiery Brazilian early in their mission, having to disarm the violent camarada during a knife fight—a fight that Amilcar later confessed would have assuredly led to the death of either combatant.

In subsequent meetings with Amilcar, Roosevelt never asked why he had granted such a despicable and unworthy man a chance at redemption, and he could only guess why Amilcar did not report his concerns about the simple laborer to Colonel Rondon—Teddy Roosevelt had resigned himself to leave such personnel decisions to the expedition’s Brazilian commanders. Yet he knew Julio’s standing with Amilcar remained tenuous at best, and he remained under the Captain’s and Roosevelt’s constant watch. Military commander Colonel Theodore Roosevelt shook his head in mild disagreement regarding the entire affair. Captain Amilcar is a good man and an excellent officer, he thought, but perhaps a tad too lenient in some circumstances. If these camaradas were under my solitary command, a man like Julio would never be allowed to continue with the expedition. The fact that Julio was a strapping and healthy lad—qualities in short supply at this point—appeared to be the only plausible explanation.

Roosevelt, Kermit, and Cherrie pitched their tent for an anticipated two day’s stay beside the brook. There, they intended to finalize their plans and to rest the animals. They retreated to the bonfire for a light meal of roasted oxen and fried potatoes, after which the officers exchanged stories until weariness overtook them and they turned in under brilliant southern stars that radiated across the full arc of the Brazilian sky.

The following morning, Roosevelt and Cherrie awoke to the familiar sounds of heavy raindrops against their tent’s canvas roof. The two men donned rain gear and slipped out the flap. Roosevelt noticed Rondon, Amilcar, and the camaradas already hard at work under the forest’s sopping canopy. Roosevelt and Cherrie gathered themselves over the sputtering fire and poured themselves hot cups of coffee.

The two men chit-chatted for several minutes about the nasty conditions and whether or not they should forsake the day and not collect additional specimens for Cherrie’s collection, when suddenly Roosevelt noticed Colonel Rondon pull Lieutenant Martin aside. Martin stood completely naked before the Brazilian commander, and he appeared quite comfortable standing in the elements while rainwater rolled off his leathery skin to the forest’s floor. He carried a spear in his left hand in native fashion. Rondon offered Martin a bag tethered with a leather strap. Martin accepted with a nod, slinging the bag around his bare shoulder. Rondon turned away while Martin strode in the opposite direction and toward the sopping woods.

Roosevelt saw another shadowy figure intercept Martin just as the Englishman was about to enter the forest. The two men conversed briefly amid several abrupt glances to any who might be observing. Julio! Theodore Roosevelt rubbed his chin.

Roosevelt recalled vividly Kermit’s observation upon first meeting the Englishman two days previously: How did Martin acquire such an intimate knowledge of their mission? Teddy Roosevelt was supremely confident in his ability to be a skillful observer of men. And these two men, he surmised instantly, were no strangers to one another.

CHAPTER 5

“From the very moment I received Frank Chapman’s invitation,” confessed George Cherrie to Theodore Roosevelt as they crept through the thick forest, “I had serious reservations about joining the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition.” Roosevelt listened intently, cradling his shotgun and adjusting his spectacles. Kermit moved in tandem twenty steps behind, scanning the woodland’s perimeter for skulking predators.

Cherrie manipulated his hat’s ridge between thumb and finger. He peered high into the canopied branches. “But I’d be the first to admit that the letter was indeed elegant, emblazoned with the seal of the American Museum of Natural History and signed by our good friend Frank Chapman, head of the museum’s ornithology department. This would have been a bird-man’s dream in most circumstances.”

Teddy Roosevelt, being a lifelong benefactor for the museum, knew the museum’s president Henry Fairfield Osborn and Frank Chapman quite well. Osborn was a paleontologist of great note, having sent shockwaves through the scientific world just a few years before with his newly classified Tyrannosaur.

“Yet I suspect there were other factors at play,” Cherrie continued. “Chapman and Osborn most assuredly thought of me as a walking insurance policy of sorts. That is, if the expedition went awry and your life was somehow endangered.”

“Of course,” Roosevelt said. “Osborn fears less the expedition’s failure as he does that I return to America packed up snug in a wooden box. It could very well hinder the museum’s donations.” Roosevelt chortled.

Cherrie snickered, then continued, “Yet there I lay, just last July on my Vermont farm holding that letter in my hand, rocking in my hammock under my favorite shady apple tree, mulling over twenty-five previous collecting expeditions to South America and having reached the age of forty-seven, I began to reason it was about time I took a break and spent more time with my family, whom I managed to neglect these many years.”

“Bravo,” Roosevelt said.

“But alas, I succumbed to the lure and prestige of an expedition headed by the former President of the United States.”

“Excellent! And we are all so very fortunate—”

“Not to mention Chapman’s generous stipend of $150 a month.”

Roosevelt grinned. “And the money will be well earned, my friend. Your vast experience in the Amazon is worth every penny expended.” Roosevelt pulled closer. “Let me tell you, I was absolutely elated when I heard such a distinguished scientist as George Cherrie had agreed to join our little party.”

“Alas, you are very modest in this respect, Colonel Roosevelt. I know for a fact that you are quite an accomplished amateur naturalist in your own right.”

Roosevelt suddenly halted. He pointed to a tiny fluttering speck perched on a distant tree branch. Cherrie followed the direction of Roosevelt’s finger and then shook his head.

Cherrie motioned for Roosevelt and Kermit to move onward. “I have read that you have studied creatures great and small since childhood, and as a teenager you had already cataloged and donated scores of specimens to the Museum of Natural History.”

“My father helped establish the museum, did you not know…?”

“And even as president you made many quests into the woods and devoured every textbook on natural history that you could find.”

“Book knowledge only, dear sir. It will never substitute for professional field experience.”

“And yet your thirst for knowledge of wild creatures has never been satiated.”

Roosevelt halted. He turned to Cherrie and sighed deeply. “Yes, I am guilty of all that you have so gleefully charged. But you must realize that is has been my lifelong dream to explore the equatorial jungle with its myriad prowling, flying, and creeping creatures.” Roosevelt’s eyes brightened. “And you, my good man, have made it all possible, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Suddenly a blue blur sprung from a nearby branch. Roosevelt hurriedly raised his gun and fired.  A fraction later, a second shot by Cherrie brought the feathered beast tumbling to earth.

Still peering around like a soldier on patrol, Kermit strode forward. Cherrie bent and hoisted the brilliant baby-blue carcass to shoulder height.

“Ah,” Roosevelt said, “I see a fine example of Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus. What a beautiful specimen!”

George Cherrie grinned broadly. “Yes, Colonel, you are correct… the Hyacinth Macaw.  It is one of the largest parrots in existence.”

Roosevelt pulled closer, manipulating the bird’s long beak and stroking its soft feathers. “Is it male or female? I recall reading that it is almost impossible to distinguish the sex merely by casual observation.”

Cherrie laughed. “Once again, you have proved the depth of your knowledge of South American birds, Mr. President.” Cherrie turned the bird over and moved his thumb gently under the plumage, and announced, “It’s a female, I think…”

Cherrie placed the bird gingerly into his burlap specimen sack. He continued onward, pushing aside a large bush with broad leaves resembling an elephant’s ear. “I am just curious, Colonel, why you did not pursue the world of science as a primary vocation? You and I seem to possess the same fiery hunger regarding the natural world.”

“It very much started out that way,” Roosevelt replied with reflection. “I entered Harvard as a freshman with high ideals and grand aspirations, and yet my passion dimmed when I experienced their curriculum, which was dominated by lab work and experiments, and not the more freeing and interesting fieldwork that I love so dearly. So, with a heavy heart and with great despair, I made a life-altering decision to abandon the life of a scientist, instead focusing my efforts on politics.”

“I would say, without doubt, you have reached the absolute pinnacle in one career, and yet you have always carried enormous potential in another. Do you have any regrets?”

“No, very little. Oftentimes one’s vocation is best kept separate from one’s passion, and I have been fortunate enough to dabble in both.” Roosevelt nodded curtly. “Now, tell me more about you, Mr. Cherrie. I have only been enlightened to just a fragment of your illustrious life.”

George Cherrie laughed. “I feel quite humbled speaking of my own inconspicuous voyage with the former President of the United States of America…”

“Go on,” Roosevelt replied earnestly. “Every man has the God-given right to he heard and respected. And you, sir, are no ordinary man by anyone’s measure.”

Cherrie paused for a moment, his eyes focused on Roosevelt. “Well, my upbringing was a tad more modest than Theodore Roosevelt’s. I began working in sweat shops at the age of twelve, eventually scraping up money to enroll myself in Iowa State University where I studied Mechanical Engineering. And just like you, I spurned my chosen major and learned the basics of Taxidermy after I left school. Following that, I wandered throughout Central and South America where I found my passion for Ornithology and collecting.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “I envy you in many ways, Mr. Cherrie.”

“It has been a strenuous life, yet not as stressful perhaps as leader of one of the most powerful nations on earth, would you not agree?”

“Indeed, I have had my share of harrowing moments.”

“So I’ve heard. I followed the last election.”

Both Cherrie and Roosevelt chuckled merrily. Finally Roosevelt said, “And here we are, talking birds in the middle of South America. One wonders how we have both reached this same destiny whilst coming from such diverse backgrounds.” He grasped Cherrie’s lean shoulder. “But I am eternally happy we did.”

“I have to admit,” Cherrie said. “I had serious doubts about this expedition and your personal dedication as a naturalist, Mr. President. But you have changed my mind with absolute certainty. And now I feel I have gained a lifelong friend.”

Roosevelt grinned broadly.

“But now,” Cherrie continued, “we should get these beautiful specimens back to camp and prepare them for storage.”

**********

“Well, what is the prognosis, doctor?” Roosevelt asked wryly, swatting vainly one of the score of fierce mosquitoes swarming his bare chest and back. “Fit as a fiddle?”

Doctor Cajazeira gently shook his head. He held Roosevelt’s wrist between his thumb and finger while glancing at his pocket watch. “Please, senhor Colonel. I beg of you, just few moments of silence.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “That is a tall order for me indeed, good man. Well, get on with it. I need to scale Pike’s Peak before dinner and then swim the English Channel before nightfall.”

Cajazeira placed his palm across Roosevelt’s temple. Glancing skyward, he scowled. “Your fever worsens…”

“Brazil is a tad warm, if you had not—”

“Make light of this all you wish, Colonel Roosevelt, but you understand with certainty the underlying reality of your ailment. I’m sure you need no doctor’s lecture on this subject.”

Roosevelt’s grin slowly evaporated. He snapped up his shirt and began buttoning up. “Fiddlesticks.”

“My advice to you would be to leave with Captain Amilcar and exit the Amazon as quickly as possible. Then sail back to New York and relax for a year or two, do a few lectures and write a few columns. You are a fifty-four-year-old man who has experienced things very few can even imagine. The deep unexplored jungle is no place for…”

“—washed up dreamers?”

Doctor Cajazeira nodded painfully. “I have no stomach for such unkind words, senhor, but I do offer my guidance with great earnestness.”

Roosevelt sighed. “Well, I have always appreciated honesty and directness. But I have also stated very succinctly my willingness to sacrifice my own life in the name of exploration.”

“And would you gamble with senhor Kermit’s life also?”

“My son’s malaria concerns me a great deal, doctor. Perhaps he should be sent back with Amilcar and get the treatment he needs in a regular hospital, although it would be like sending a dagger through my chest.”

“Kermit is young and relatively robust, Mr. President. He can likely survive such a trip as you have planned to embark upon, yet he is unlikely to alter his plans. He will follow wherever his famous father leads, if you have not already noticed.”

“As we say in politics, I will take this under advisement.”

Cajazeria shrugged and carefully placed his examination instruments into his black bag.

The doctor’s sudden silence rang loudly through Roosevelt’s head. “Listen,” Roosevelt continued with a touch of gentleness. “I believe you are a fine doctor, and I now consider you a close friend and confidant. Men like me make decisions based on our hearts, not our heads. Our inflated egos guide us through the tangled intricacies of our existence. Without it, we are sham—meaningless—we fail to exist in any consequential way.  I have seen men such as myself, simply die away on the Sargasso Sea of idleness. It is quite sad.”

“One cannot depend on a heart that does not continue to beat?”

“A fair point, certainly, but I don’t intend to burden this expedition if I reach incapacity.” Roosevelt reached into his pocket and removed a simple vial. He held it forth between thumb and finger.

“Morphine?! But that dose would most assuredly…” Doctor Cajazeria turned away, waving his hand. “Put that thing away! For a man of your stature to even think of doing such a thing… It’s abhorrent.”

Teddy Roosevelt shrugged.

Cajazeria stroked his chin and sighed deeply. “Well, I am foremost a physician, and I will treat you as I will treat any man on this expedition, regardless of the direction you have decided to take.” A tiny smile cracked the doctor’s grim face. “I have come to enjoy our time together, President Roosevelt, more than I could have imagined when we first met these many weeks ago.”

“What is, for anyone, not to love?” Roosevelt replied, grinning widely and pointing toward his own chest.

“And yet you are as pig-headed as your reputation asserts, and you are as frustrating as you are pragmatic.”

“Thank you, good doctor. I will accept your depiction as a sincere and heart-felt complement.” Roosevelt looked skyward through the treetops and into the brilliant blue Brazilian afternoon sky. “The Devine created me this way for a reason. And even Theodore Roosevelt lacks the political sway to alter His plans.”

Cajazeria chuckled. He grabbed his black bag as if preparing to leave.

Roosevelt noticed Kermit approach from the direction of camp. “And doctor,” he continued whispering. “I trust that any of our little visits will be kept confidential, would they not?”

“Yes, as you wish, Colonel.” With a tip of his hat, the doctor strolled back toward camp, passing Kermit on the way.

Kermit Roosevelt smirked. “A good, clean bill of health, I presume?”

“Doctors!?” Teddy waived his hand dismissively. “They worry like wives and fret over the most trivial symptoms. His diagnosis was that I was an old and broken man.”

“He is very perceptive.”

“Hmmm. And what does Amilcar and Rondon have to report?”

“The provisions are packed and ready for the Dúvida mission.”

“Excellent. And has there been any sign of Lieutenant Martin’s return?”

Kermit shook his head. “No, but Rondon insists that our contingent reach the river tomorrow so that the camaradas can begin constructing the boats.”

“I had hoped we could wait another day.”

“Amilcar and Miller’s group will remain here for a day or two, and then they hope to catch up with us before we depart.”

“Good, good.”

“And please, father, don’t fret about Martin. He was most likely a confidence man, out to swindle some money, as many do who are of their ilk. The task you assigned him was no less than brilliant. It probably saved us great embarrassment in the long run.”

“I suppose you and Rondon may have been right all along. I might have made a terrible blunder trusting this stranger. And yet I still maintain hope, but it might be wildly misguided.”

They started out the following morning even earlier than usual. Rondon and Lyra led their way along the twisting creek, followed closely by Roosevelt, Kermit, and Cherrie. The sluggish team of malnourished and over-packed oxen trailed behind, coaxed along by sixteen bare-footed camaradas.

By early afternoon they had trekked nearly four grueling miles, and the officers dismounted their mules and sat on some flat rocks beside the brook while the animals rested. Now obsessed with the thought of finally reaching the end of the overland journey, Colonel Roosevelt insisted they move forward, and the others, to a man, readily agreed.

They crept forward while the sun passed behind the trees to the west, finally descending a modest hillock where the creek merged peacefully into a larger river perhaps sixty feet across.

A simple wooden bridge spanned the river, and Teddy Roosevelt could see a solitary, naked white man sitting directly upon its center beams. Approaching closer, he noticed the naked man’s wide smile.

“I’m glad you and Colonel Rondon could make it,” Martin said nonchalantly. “I was beginning to think all my efforts would be for naught.”

Dismounting his mule, Roosevelt peered upon and beneath the structure. Before him, seven dugout canoes constructed in Nhambiquara fashion swayed upon the dark waters, their crude bows tethered to the bridge by vine-laced ropes.

CHAPTER 6

With his hands braced upon his narrow hips, Colonel Cândido Rondon stood upon the Dúvida’s riverbank waiting patiently for Paishon and Lieutenant Martin to reposition the last of the seven Nhambiquara canoes to the near shoreline. The two men leaped to shore, and with the help of the other camaradas, lugged the bulky dugout onto dry land.

Paishon climbed the bank, reporting directly to Rondon and Roosevelt. He huffed deeply, speaking to the commanders in broken Portuguese, “Several of the dugouts are in need of serious repair, senhors.” He pointed. “Two are very old, one is small, and one is…” He shook his head. “Let us just say its structure is questionable. But the other three canoes appear to be in workable shape.”

Roosevelt scratched his stubbly chin. “We could have done better, or we might have done worse.”

“Repairable?” Rondon asked.

“Sim, Colonel Rondon, repairable yes.” Paishon motioned with his hands. “The two oldest can be lashed together to make them stronger.”

“For supplies?”

“Yes, for supplies. The others can be patched, almost… good.”

“How long will it take?”

“If we work very hard, senhors, I feel we could launch tomorrow at noon.”

Teddy Roosevelt smiled. “That is certainly grand news, good man. And it should give Amilcar and Miller enough time to meet up with us before we depart. Splendid!”

Rondon nodded. “Yes, these craft are simple, yet they should hold together and fit our needs.”

“And, more importantly,” Roosevelt added. “We will not waste an entire week of the camarada’s time constructing new boats.”

Colonel Rondon thought for a moment. He turned toward the riverbank where the camaradas were scouring the dugouts and discussing needed repairs. “Lieutenant Martin,” he called, motioning forward.

Martin’s head popped up from beside the nearest canoe. Now dressed in civilized shirt and trousers, he strode up the bank, chest forward yet unsmiling.

“Martin,” Rondon said flatly. “I want to commend you on your fine acquisition.”

Roosevelt reached out and grasped Martin’s hand. “Well done, old chap, and a hearty welcome to the expedition.”

Martin nodded politely. “The tribal chieftain at the nearest village was a difficult negotiator, but he finally succumbed to the generous gifts I offered. Let me just add that the craft were not the finest in their fleet by any estimation.”

“Regardless, you have saved the expedition a great deal of time and effort.”

Colonel Rondon motioned back toward the dugouts, waving his finger impatiently. “Well then, go now. We have more than enough work to do and in very little time.”

Theodore Roosevelt caught briefly Rondon’s dubious eye as Martin tromped down the bank to join the other camaradas. It will take a great deal more to convince Rondon to trust the wayward Englishman, Roosevelt pondered. And yet, Rondon can hardly be blamed for his stubborn reluctance, perhaps it will require even more to convince me.

The sun set abruptly beyond the shrouded western skyline, and the camaradas constructed a huge bonfire following a grueling day’s work. Roosevelt sensed a jubilant mood amongst the laborers as they sat around gnawing on fresh oxen-meat and scooping rations of beans and potatoes. To a man, the camaradas patted Lieutenant Martin on the back and exulted praise, a consequence of sparing the workers several extra back-breaking days of hard labor, Roosevelt surmised. Sitting amongst the officers, Roosevelt also sensed Rondon’s private brooding as the Brazilian Colonel watched helplessly while the Englishman’s popularity surged amongst his carefully selected and tightly-knit crew; although Roosevelt knew, without any doubt, the proud commander would never admit to such a blatant insecurity.

Theodore Roosevelt also kept one eye on the lazy and conniving camarada Julio de Lima between swapping stories with Kermit, Cherrie, and the Brazilian officers. Roosevelt noticed that Julio simply kept to himself and apart from the others, which wasn’t particularly unusual in Roosevelt’s eyes, since Julio was never popular amongst the strongly bonded group. And yet the separation between Martin and Julio appeared a bit overdone to Roosevelt, solidifying Teddy’s theory of an ongoing conspiracy of some sort.

Roosevelt, owing primarily to his stint as New York City’s Police Commissioner, delighted in playing sleuth in these types of situations; although he kept his observations to himself so long as the circumstances remained relatively trivial and didn’t endanger their mission. And yet this little affair puzzled the curious former president to no end. Why did Julio not just simply state that he knew and communicated with Martin before the Englishman strolled into their camp at Bonifácio? And why did Martin not mention Julio when he petitioned to join the expedition? And what can be gained by either man continuing this charade?

Teddy searched deeply yet found no immediate and concrete answers. Perhaps Martin is simply embarrassed to be associated with a slug like Julio. And yet, what could a lazy termite like Julio hope to gain by bringing a lonely wanderer on an expedition where he could possibly challenge him for a lucrative job? After the incident with Captain Amilcar, Julio most assuredly would have realized that he would be the first camarada fired if the officers decided to trim excess crew.

Roosevelt’s head spun, realizing he didn’t possess all the pieces necessary to solve this puzzle, and yet he vowed to unravel its layers like a garden-fresh onion. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned mystery, he thought playfully. But for now, Roosevelt would let the whole storyline play out without interference.

With full bellies and light hearts, both officers and crew retired early for the night upon a campsite nestled in the clearing beneath Rondon’s telegraph lines. Before crawling into his tent, Teddy Roosevelt glanced up at the crackling wires, lamenting perhaps the last trace of civilization the expedition would encounter for weeks, if not months, once they set out upon the mysterious waters of the Dúvida, thrusting headlong through the untamed Amazon forest.

The following day began well before dawn for the members of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition. By the time the stars began to fade amid brightening skies, every officer and high-ranking member was awake and sipping their second cup of coffee. Roosevelt attributed their rousing ambition to the excitement of beginning a new and perhaps final phase of their arduous mission. Meanwhile, the camaradas swarmed within the forested dimness completing repairs to the dugouts and distributing provisions under Rondon’s and Lyra’s watchful eyes.

By late morning, the dugout canoes were packed and ready for launch. Roosevelt and Cherrie cheered upon the timely arrival of Captain Amilcar and Miller’s Gy-Paraná splinter expedition. The two groups of officers and scientists greeted each other with firm handshakes and fond farewells and good-lucks. With a heavy heart, Theodore Roosevelt bid farewell to his loyal mule, sending the poor creature away to an uncertain fate with Amilcar’s men.

As the sun reached its zenith, the camaradas stood before Rondon and Lyra receiving their assignments. The Englishman Martin, Rondon, and Lyra would take the lead canoe to execute their painstaking surveys and mapping. Kermit Roosevelt would follow Rondon, accompanied by two camarada paddlers. The largest dugout would carry Theodore Roosevelt, Dr. Cajazeira, Cherrie, and three paddlers. The remaining camaradas would guide the supply canoe.

Just before shoving off, Rondon and Roosevelt pulled Martin aside. Colonel Rondon asked, “What obstacles can we expect to encounter during the first few day’s float?”

Martin pointed downstream. “The river is placid for several kilometers. We will encounter our first native group within a few days. There should be signs of their habitation along the way. I hope that I can convince them to let us pass without incident, if they don’t find us first.”

Roosevelt turned to Rondon. “And one last request, senhor Rondon. I would like to have the Portuguese Julio de Lima as bowman on my canoe.” Roosevelt caught briefly a flash of unease amid Lieutenant Martin’s blue eyes.

Rondon sniffed. “There are certainly better men than Julio, Colonel.”

Roosevelt stood his ground. “That is what I wish.”

Rondon shrugged. “Fine, it shall be done.” Rondon whistled and waved Julio forward to Roosevelt’s canoe.

A short time later, the camaradas shoved the dugouts upon the over-flowing river while Amilcar and Miller stood upon the wooden bridge holding their cameras. With a final wave, Roosevelt settled into the canoe’s center along with Dr. Cajazeira and George Cherrie. And with a final push from their steersman, the creaky vessel launched into the swirling water.

Bending over his notes, Theodore Roosevelt wrote briefly: “12° 1´ latitude south and 60° 15´ longitude west of Greenwich. February 27, 1914, shortly after midday, we started down the River of Doubt into the unknown.”

Watching the narrow bridge disappear from view upon the river’s first bend, Teddy could not help but think: those words are probably the greatest understatement of the young century.

CHAPTER 7

Teddy Roosevelt sat quietly while the dugout skidded softly through the tumbling waters of the swollen Dúvida River. He rested his hands upon his chest and watched an endless wall of green giants stretch for a dreary sky. Roosevelt was struck by the relative stillness of the seemingly impenetrable forest with its sagging vines and broad leaves, its silence broken only occasionally by a distant odd and unidentified call or a solitary fluttering bird. Certainly this was not the Brazil he had dreamed of in his youth, teeming with slithering anacondas, snapping caimans, and colorful birds that filled the skies in never-ending droves.

Below the vessel’s hull, the river swirled effortlessly—shallow and impervious to sunlight and littered with sunken logs that jutted above the current like the spires of a rotting pier. Roosevelt’s steersman, a Mato Grosso native named Luiz, stood tall above the dugout’s stern with his eyes focused on the water searching for an impending rock or a misshapen stump. He frantically dipped his paddle to maneuver port or starboard while Roosevelt took a deep breath and closed his eyes drifting off for a brief nap.

Ahead and upon a left-hand turn in the river, Kermit ordered his canoe to shore for the thirtieth time since taking to the river. He carefully found solid footing and swatted some swarming insects and then pounded his survey rods a meter apart within sight of Lieutenant Lyra’s scope placed five-hundred meters upriver. Roosevelt turned and noticed Colonel Rondon dutifully reading his compass and scribbling in his notebook. Hurriedly, the two groups climbed back in their canoes and moved onward, only to repeat these steps a short way downstream.

Roosevelt and Cherrie grew weary of the survey team’s slow grind as the afternoon wore on, and they notified Rondon of their intent to forge ahead, taking with them the double-wide supply dugout along with its camarada pilots.

And upon the paddler’s powerful strokes, they moved down the river for a few hours before Roosevelt ordered the crewmen to shore and to make camp. With broad swipes of their axes and machetes, the camaradas cleared a patch in the dense underbrush in short order, pitching the officer’s tents on lofty dry land. And soon, a fire crackled at the campsite’s center sending smoke high into the stately trees.

Both Roosevelt and Cherrie sighed with relief when they noticed Rondon’s and Kermit’s canoes round the river’s bend shortly before nightfall. Soon after dragging their canoes to shore, the skies cleared and the stars shone brightly with the appearance of a new moon, and the air cooled.

Roosevelt sat beside the campfire conversing with Lieutenant Lyra. He noticed Julio and Lieutenant Martin continuing their overt—and somewhat suspicious—separation. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking casually, “How has Martin fared with the survey task?”

Rondon shrugged. “He listened to my orders. He kept his mouth shut, and he did what he was told.”

“Good, good.”

“Is there something on your mind, senhor Roosevelt?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” Roosevelt replied.

Retiring to their tents, both Teddy and Kermit Roosevelt fell immediately into a deep and restful sleep.

The survey teams pushed off early the following day. Roosevelt’s canoe remained beached at the campsite while George Cherrie shot and collected an assortment of exotic native birds. Cherrie finished preparing his specimens shortly before noon, and they set out upon the river amid intermittent showers that drenched them to the bone.

The procession of dugouts arrived at their first river confluence a few hours later. A small river merged from the east nearly doubling the Dúvida’s volume, Roosevelt calculated. When they reached their next campsite Colonel Rondon informed Roosevelt that the river was probably the same stream they had crossed ten days earlier on the road to the Bonifácio telegraph station. Colonel Roosevelt asked Martin to confirm this hypothesis and the Englishman concurred quite categorically. Measuring their effort so far, Lieutenant Lyra announced proudly that they had progressed sixteen and a half kilometers along the twisting river on the flotilla’s second day.

Roosevelt and Cherrie woke before dawn on the first day of March. They exited their tent and crept down to the river as the Brazilian wilderness’ pre-dawn nightlife buzzed in their ears. Hurriedly, they stripped to their underwear and tossed their filthy clothing upon the flattened rocks. Roosevelt slipped cautiously into the water, its torrent cool to the touch yet not uncomfortable under the Amazon’s incessant balminess. Roosevelt felt refreshed for the first time in days, wiping away a week’s layer of dirt and grime. Teddy harkened back to the days of his carefree youth, leaping buck-naked into a cool Adirondack lake on a bright and crisp late August morning.

Cherrie laid his rifle on the ground and followed Roosevelt’s lead. He waded into the stream, splashing like a child.

“My word, good man,” Roosevelt said suddenly, “stop that blasted splashing! The piranhas are quite content lying about without a dinner bell to entice them from their nooks.”

George Cherrie laughed heartily, dipping chest deep into the water.

Roosevelt glanced around nervously. “Blasted little finned carnivores…”

Cherrie smiled wryly. “Ah, but Mr. President, the piranha should be the least of your worries while mucking about in the waters of the Amazon. The candiru is a tiny catfish no bigger than a toothpick, yet it is known to invade and parasite the human urethra.”

Roosevelt furrowed his brow. “But how…? How does…?”

“Some say it follows the warmth of a man’s urine stream. Eventually it gets lodged in…” Cherrie smirked and pointed downward.

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He grabbed his crotch. “Bloody hell.”

Cherrie laughed.

Teddy shook his head and chortled.

The two men waded back to shore and dried the best they could amid the oppressive humidity. They dressed quickly attempting to thwart the ferocious gnats and pesky mosquitoes.

Roosevelt secured his hat and gun. He turned and listened to the soft and familiar sounds of rainfall in the distance. Looking upstream, the storm approached like a monster lumbering though the forest’s canopy. Roosevelt felt the first heavy raindrops moments later.

Cherrie looked to the sky and shook his head.

“How I long to feel truly dry once again,” Roosevelt said. “And yet I feel I will not, until we are safe on the steamship sailing comfortably homeward.”

The camaradas packed up camp amid a torrential downpour. Before pushing away from the shore, Lieutenant Martin huddled with Colonel Rondon and Theodore Roosevelt, reminding them they would most likely encounter a native village during this day’s float.

“They are a sub-group of the Nhambiquara,” the Englishman said. “I have named them the Navaïté, but you may call them whatever you wish. I have stayed amongst them on several occasions, yet my last visit was two years ago before the onset of the rainy season. Their chief is a man named Chahknu. He is a very weak monarch, but he has accepted me into his camp in the past. Needless to say, his political position amongst these unruly natives remains tenuous at best.”

“Will they let us pass unscathed?” Roosevelt asked.

“We shall see,” Martin replied. “Nothing is certain when dealing with these volatile and unpredictable tribes.”

Colonel Rondon raised his brow and then nodded in unequivocal agreement.

The sopping morning turned into a gloomy afternoon as the dugouts wound their way down the meandering river. George Cherrie and Dr. Cajazeira sat quietly, huddling close to the canoe’s center while Luiz and Julio pushed the vessel along with long graceful strokes. Roosevelt became mesmerized by the forest’s unique sights and somewhat monotonous sounds.

Roosevelt noticed Julio lurch with fear upon hearing any strange noise coming from the woods. The camarada dropped his paddle and stared nervously before resuming his pace upon Luiz’s growing impatience and overt ridicule. “What a disgusting coward,” Roosevelt thought. “And here sits a man who has spent nearly his entire life in the Amazon and he acts like a frightened child.”

Rounding a bend, they came upon several cultivated fields just as Martin had predicted. The fields were overgrown and studded with burned-out stumps. They found an old fish-trap a few hundred meters beyond the fields—the primitive but ingenious devise lay in disrepair at the mouth of a small stream. Roosevelt ordered Luiz to catch up with Rondon’s canoe.

Just ahead, Roosevelt spied a rope bridge spanning the Dúvida. The structure was fashioned of vines and suspended just above the water. Part of the bridge was intact but much of the assembly appeared to have been swept away some time ago. On either side of the river, Roosevelt noticed remnants of palm-thatched huts riddled with weeds.

The camaradas beached the canoes on the western riverbank. Roosevelt and the other expedition members climbed upon the muddy shore.

Kermit glanced around the abandoned village, saying abruptly, “They appeared to have all gone on holiday.”

Lieutenant Martin shook his head.  “These are a nomadic people. Perhaps the river’s flooding forced their hand.” He rubbed his beard. “And yet I’m not absolutely certain.”

“Then we will be safe to pass?” Roosevelt asked.

Rondon said, “They could have rebuilt farther downriver. In such a scenario, we could be placing ourselves in great danger.”

“Yes, Commander Rondon,” Martin said. “That hypothesis is quite likely, although they may have headed west to the shores of the Madeira or even the Gy-Paraná.”

“That leaves us quite a dilemma,” Roosevelt said. “Does it not?”

“Yes,” Rondon replied thoughtfully. “Indeed it does.”

The officers and Lieutenant Martin stood wordlessly for a few moments while Rondon’s dog Lobo and Kermit’s Trigueiro ran about sniffing the settlement. The other camaradas waited patiently, either standing near the officers or tending to the canoes.

Finally, Rondon said, “Mr. Martin, I hesitate sending any man on such a dangerous mission, yet knowing these native’s whereabouts would be reassuring to the entire expedition.”

Martin nodded. “I understand.”

“But I ask you to complete your assignment quickly. If the tribe cannot be tracked, you must surrender your search immediately. Under no circumstance will we wait here longer than two nights.”

Paishon, upon hearing the conversation, shoved a rifle and some ammunition into Martin’s hands.

Martin inspected his rifle. “There is no reason to wait for me, Colonel Rondon,” he said, motioning downriver. “The upcoming rapids are very severe and will force you to portage the canoes and supplies. This will occupy the expedition for several days, allowing us ample time to catch up.”

“Us...?” Rondon asked.

“Yes, I would respectfully request an armed companion, preferably a volunteer from amongst my fellow camaradas. I’m confident in my ability to track the whereabouts of these natives on my own, yet some strong-armed backup might come in handy in a pinch. This tribe could be working under new management.”

Rondon pondered for a moment before responding. “Yes, senhor Martin, I cannot in good conscience send you off alone without escort of some sort.”

Julio de Lima suddenly stepped forward. “I will volunteer, Commander Rondon. I will go with senhor Martin.” Julio removed his hat and dipped his head politely.

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He shook his head. Of all men to volunteer for such a dangerous assignment… Julio! Theodore Roosevelt couldn’t help but smirk.

“This will be acceptable,” Rondon replied, along with a seemingly disingenuous sigh.

Roosevelt believed he detected a brief twinkle in Rondon’s steely eyes. Did he just witness the crafty Brazilian colonel ridding himself of his laziest camarada while still fulfilling his promise to Lieutenant Martin?  The good Colonel must be beside himself with glee.

“Simplicio!” Rondon hollered. “Take Julio’s place on the Colonel’s dugout.” Rondon turned to Roosevelt. “Of course, with Colonel Roosevelt’s implicit permission...”

“Of course,” Roosevelt replied with a subtle nod.

The camaradas quickly prepared a few days ration for two men. Roosevelt wished the men “Godspeed” and then watched Martin and Julio stride away from the river and through the abandoned village. Moments later, they were swallowed by the living forest. Teddy could not help but ask himself what game these two men were playing. Maybe they will disappear for good, he thought. Perhaps they just hitched a short ride under the protection of an armed expedition. And yet their ultimate goal remains clouded in such mystery.

But one thing was certain, he reasoned: the game had suddenly changed, and perhaps it had become somewhat more treacherous. Without question Theodore Roosevelt figured it was about time to let everyone in on his little conspiracy theory. Whether anyone would believe him, or whether anyone would even care, was anybody’s guess.”

CHAPTER 8

After watching Lieutenant Martin and the camarada Julio part with the expedition and enter the wilderness to track the native villagers, the men hurriedly climbed back into their canoes and once again set out upon the dark waters of the River of Doubt. The rain ceased for a brief period in late afternoon, and the forest came to life with bird-calls and chirping insects. Roosevelt marveled at the variety and beauty of the forest palms—curved, stately and handsome—that flourished along the riverbank in countless configurations, their leaves crawling with brightly-colored butterflies fluttering gracefully amid the sun’s intermittent rays.

While Roosevelt’s canoe ran a stretch of placid river, George Cherrie suddenly urged for silence. He stared high into the tree branches and waved his hand, motioning the crew to the river’s edge. The camaradas paddled urgently over to the near shore. They quietly dropped their oars and grasped some overhanging brush and held tight against the current. Cherrie slowly rose to his feet, balancing carefully at the dugout’s center. He raised his rifle and fired. Roosevelt watched a huge, gray monkey tumble through the branches and thump the ground.

The camaradas cheered.

“Tonight, we eat well,” Cherrie said.

That evening they made camp close to the water yet high enough to remain relatively dry and secure from the river’s reptilian predators. Paishon skinned Cherrie’s monkey, and the meat sizzled atop the fire in short order. The sun abruptly fell beneath the tree line to the west, and the forest darkened.

Colonel Roosevelt was offered the first taste of the charred and steaming primate yet deferred, granting the honor to the eagle-eyed hunter Cherrie who accepted the invitation graciously. The naturalist gnawed the first bite and then offered the rest to the officers and hard-working crew. The men proceeded to tear off chunks of monkey-meat like ravenous dogs. Roosevelt soon became a fan of the succulent protein, owing perhaps to necessity but mainly to his own hunger. The former president judged the taste a tad gamey like deer, yet it pulled apart with the texture of roast pork. Lobo and Trigueiro, wagging their tails vigorously, received the bones and gristle.

Following Cherrie’s most welcome dinner treat, Roosevelt gathered Rondon, Cherrie, Kermit, and Lyra away from the fire and out of the camaradas earshot. “I have something to say,” Roosevelt began, “with the declaration that these are my opinions and my observations for which I possess very little, if any, hard factual evidence to support my case, although I deem it important that all officers of the expedition remain informed.”

“Go on, Colonel,” Rondon said.

“I have reason to suspect Lieutenant Martin and the camarada Julio de Lima have some sort of relationship that predated Martin’s petition to join the expedition at the Bonifácio telegraph station.”

“And what is your evidence, senhor Roosevelt?”

“Just after Colonel Rondon sent Martin off on his assignment at the Sete de Setembro camp, I observed Martin and Julio conversing briefly before Martin disappeared into the woods to negotiate with the Nhambiquara.”

Rondon shook his head. “With all due respect, Colonel, that can hardly be—”

“Although,” Kermit interrupted, “this does make some sense. I have said all along that Martin must have had some assistance from within the expedition. How else could he have known our ultimate goal was the Dúvida? And how did he know where and when to intercept us at Bonifácio?”

“But your father’s expedition was fairly common knowledge throughout Mato Grosso for months prior to our departure. Word spreads quickly when generous wages are offered for labor in lands where many, unfortunately, still live in poverty.”

“I am still convinced he must have had some help.”

Cherrie asked, “Where and when was Julio hired?”

“In Tapirapoan,” Lyra replied, “at the very beginning of the overland trip. I do recall he was very eager to join the expedition.”

“And he mentioned nothing about a white man living amongst the natives?”

“No, senhor Cherrie, I did not recall him saying anything of that sort.”

Kermit asked, “Or did he recommended anyone who could help the expedition?”

“No, not to my knowledge, but I will ask Paishon. He has a closer relationship with the rank-and-file.”

“I did think it odd,” George Cherrie said, “that it happened to be Julio who so eagerly volunteered to accompany Martin on today’s little side mission. Not only does Julio fear his own shadow, but he is unquestionably the laziest of the bunch. I can’t imagine him feeling secure in the wilderness accompanied by a single man, even with Martin’s skills.”

“That is precisely my point,” Theodore Roosevelt said. “Do you not find this behavior even a bit suspicious?”

“Sim, suspicious, yes,” Rondon said, “damming, I am not so convinced. Nonetheless, I must admit that I do not admire either man, although Martin has recently elevated his status in my eyes through earnest work.”

Kermit scratched his head. “Father, if what you have said is true, then why would they continue to keep this relationship secret? What can they gain by continuing this charade?”

“I simply don’t know, Kerm.”

“Could they be plotting some kind of coup?” Lyra asked.

Roosevelt noticed Colonel Rondon’s eyes widen as if Lyra struck some deeply buried nerve. Theodore Roosevelt knew this feeling all too well having led men on desperate missions several times in the past, and sometimes the balance between command and insurrection can fall on a razor’s edge. Rondon glanced at Roosevelt and shook his head in disgust.

“I think this unlikely,” Cherrie replied somewhat reassuringly. “I have witnessed and even participated in a handful of uprisings in Central and South America over the years, and this situation just doesn’t add up. What is there to gain? Colonel Rondon is not mistreating these men in any way. And just how is Martin going to convince others to join his cause?”

“And senhor Roosevelt still holds the purse strings,” Rondon added.

Cherrie continued, “To make matters worse for any potential overthrow, Julio is almost universally disliked. How is Martin going to sway the others with Julio at his side? Even at gunpoint, toughened men like our camaradas will not tolerate being led by someone they don’t trust or respect.”

Roosevelt said, “That could be the reason why Martin keeps Julio at arm’s length.”

The five men stood silently for a moment.

“Gold?” Lieutenant Lyra stated finally.

Rondon stroked his chin. “This, of course, is an intriguing possibility. Brazil is strewn with bones of fools seeking ancient myths like the lost city of El Dorado. Do not forget that Martin is a former member of a Percy Fawcett expedition, and Commander Fawcett made little effort to conceal his penchant for questionable and grandiose quests.”

“I have some doubts about this theory also,” Cherrie said. “Over these past days I have spoken to Martin on several occasions and he seems to possess a voracious intellectual curiosity, especially regarding the animal life of the Amazon. He has also shown a great interest in the Museum of Natural History and Osborn’s research and recent findings.”

Roosevelt scratched his head. “Paleontology…? But Martin is a trained Social Anthropologist, is he not?”

Cherrie shrugged. “A true scientist’s curiosity shows no boundaries, Colonel Roosevelt. And this is precisely my point—Mister Martin, in my estimation, does not exhibit the traits of a wild-eyed treasure hunter. He may have some ulterior motive but attaining material riches seems unlikely.”

“We must all remember,” Kermit said, “that we have good reason to believe this man lived and thrived in absolute austerity for many years.”

“Yes,” Cherrie replied. “Unfortunately, I have seen many men gripped by gold fever, and the look is both distinctive and ultimately pathetic. And yet, quite curiously, our friend Julio has all the earmarks of a treasure hunter. He is strong yet lazy, and he always appears to seek the easiest path while shirking hard honest work. If any relationship exists between these two men, it would indeed be quite odd.”

Colonel Rondon sighed deeply. “Well, we will know soon enough upon Martin’s and Julio’s return—if they do return. We will question these two together and get to the truth once and for all. I will not tolerate any deceit or hidden intentions amongst my men. We must all keep our minds focused on the tasks at hand such as mapping this treacherous waterway and getting through the Amazon alive and relatively unscathed.”

The morning sun arrived upon rare bright clear skies. As the camaradas began breaking down camp, the men were beset by swarms of stingless bees, and yet the expedition shared a few laughs when Dr. Cajazeira woke to find an undershirt devoured by ferocious Amazonian ants. After eating a meager breakfast, the expedition once again set off down the swirling Dúvida.

Through the morning and into the afternoon the river flowed peacefully across flat lands, twisting in many directions before ending up almost due north. Roosevelt noticed the swollen river running for several miles amid swamped trees and solemn uprooted stumps that reminded Roosevelt of the giant totems carved from red cedars by the American Indians of the Pacific Northwest. Several times during this most pleasant day Cherrie pointed out brilliantly colored birds and other camouflaged wildlife.

The pace of the water gradually quickened, and the ever-cautious Colonel Rondon peered ahead and ordered all dugouts to remain within eyeshot. A short time later, the water began to rush with even greater force. Roosevelt and his crew heard the distant sound of white water echo between the trees from directly downriver. Rondon ordered the canoes to shore.

The camaradas pitched camp while Roosevelt, Kermit, and the officers forged ahead on foot to scout the rapids.

Theodore Roosevelt soon discovered that the expedition’s watery path was strewn with obstacles. Following an hour long hike along the steepening ravine, the forest opened to massive rock formations that squeezed the placid Dúvida into an astoundingly narrow chasm. Roosevelt and Rondon stared down in awe at a stretch of foaming white water that roared down valley and twisted out of sight to the east. Within his eyeshot alone, Roosevelt counted several two-meter-high waterfalls, toppling effortlessly with both grace and terrific force.

“We must prepare for our first portage,” Rondon stated simply.

“Heaven help us,” Roosevelt replied.

Sometime later, Kermit and Lyra returned from a scouting trip that took them even farther downriver. Lyra reported that the rapids continued for about a mile before the river could be again navigated, but there was an overland route through the rugged terrain by which they could cut the distance considerably by portaging the dugouts and provisions.

“The portage will be rough, indeed,” Lyra said. “But I feel the men will be up to the challenge.”

While waiting for Kermit, Teddy Roosevelt had noticed a crude native bridge spanning the narrowest part of the rocky gorge. And beside the river, there were signs of native habitation, although none appeared very recent.

The third day of March 1914 began with angry skies and a drenching rain. Colonel Rondon gave the order to pack all of their provisions and then move them overland to a newly constructed campsite near the bottom of the rapids where they intended to re-launch their canoes. Moving the supplies was relatively easy compared to the brutal task of lugging the weighty dugouts through the woods and across the sandstone flats. The men completed their duties admirably while swatting stingless bees, gnats, and horseflies that Roosevelt figured were the size of water buffalos.

The arduous work continued though that day and into the next, with all of the men pitching in to help move the dugouts at one time or another, except for the cook who remained at the new campsite near the foot of the rapids.

At noontime upon the second full day at the rapids, Dr. Cajazeira hurriedly examined all of the camaradas and found at least one man downtrodden with fever. Roosevelt found this a troubling sign for the expedition, especially since it occurred only a few days into their river journey and that it would be many weeks until they reached some semblance of civilization and a well-equipped and supplied modern hospital. Although Kermit had suffered from malaria throughout the trip, Roosevelt was proud his son never complained. Kermit fulfilled his duties beyond his station alongside the steadfast Brazilian laborers. Roosevelt only lamented his own personal condition; his malaria remained in check as long as they camped, collected specimens, or simply floated down the river, and yet his symptoms worsened when he attempted any manual work, no matter how fleeting. This frustrated the tenacious former president to no end.

As the night fell on the fourth day of March, the task of moving the dugouts was finally complete. Two of the canoes were damaged during the overland portage and one promptly sank when placed back into the bloated Dúvida, never to be recovered.

That evening over a cracking campfire, the exhausted officers discussed and argued over the direction of the river ahead. Lyra believed the river would bend to the west and merge with the Gy-Paraná or Madeira rivers, whereas Colonel Rondon thought they would eventually turn east and enter the Tapajos river system or directly into the mighty Amazon itself. Roosevelt sat quietly listening to all the theories being thrown about. His mind drifted while the forest’s nighttime sounds roused to a crescendo upon the darkening night—he could not help but think that their fragile timeline was ticking away without pause while they speculated whether just a hundred, or eight hundred or even a thousand kilometers, lay ahead of them.

The following morning Roosevelt awoke suddenly upon hearing a loud human call from close within their campsite. Both Cherrie and Kermit sprung from their slumber and reflexively grabbed their guns. All three men hurriedly exited the tent, stepping into the pre-dawn twilight.

Roosevelt noticed Rondon, Lyra, and Paishon standing unarmed alongside several camaradas, all staring into the surrounding forest. George Cherrie motioned toward a few dozen native warriors crouching silently in the shadows holding cocked bows. Cherrie and Kermit slowly set their rifles on the ground. Roosevelt analyzed the situation instantly—even if they could snipe off a few of the warriors, the others would undoubtedly slaughter them all with little effort. Theodore Roosevelt suddenly became incensed realizing that the expedition had been caught so completely off-guard, yet he had to keep those feelings in check at the moment. He had far bigger problems requiring his immediate attention.

Roosevelt watched helplessly as Lieutenant Martin stepped slowly though the line of warriors followed by his smirking companion Julio. Seeing his fellow camaradas squirm must tickle Julio’s fancy to no end, Roosevelt thought, especially after they treated him with such willful distain for nearly two months; although the mistreatment was certainly well deserved and was brought on by nobody but himself. Roosevelt shook his head. This lays bare Julio’s darkest personality—these are diseased thoughts coming from a lazy and twisted mind.

CHAPTER 9

Lieutenant Martin and the camarada Julio stood on the camp’s periphery amid a group of stern-faced Amazonian warriors, basking in early morning light and palpable tension. An unarmed and stately native man sauntered up beside the Englishman. Martin leaned over and whispered a few words in the native’s ear. The man flicked his hand and the warriors slowly lowered their bows.

Roosevelt exhaled, feeling almost instantaneous relief.

Rondon placed his hands squarely upon his hips. “I hope you realize senhor Martin that your stealth could have resulted in great catastrophe.”

Martin stepped forward and lowered his gun. He shrugged. “I adhered to the proper protocol, Colonel Rondon, three yells in rapid succession.”

“Still, you had probably risked too much, having arrived at dawn while most of us slept, exhausted after a long portage.”

“There will be many more portages in the days ahead, Colonel.” Martin handed his rifle and ammunition to a jittery Paishon. “There will be many twists and turns in the river and as much white water as you can stomach. And there may be other unimaginable dangers along this route.” He chuckled. “And the greatest danger may not even come from the humans occupying the lands that you are about to traverse.”

Roosevelt asked, “What do you mean? I’m growing weary of your riddles.”

Martin raised his palm. “In time, Colonel Roosevelt, in time… But first, we don’t want to slight our gracious host. His followers refer to him as Chahknu. He is chieftain of this tribe and ruler of this domain.”

The stately native and one of his assistants stepped forward to the campfire’s rim. Roosevelt noticed that the other native warriors slowly merged back into the forest and out of sight but still well within earshot; although Roosevelt continued to feel their menacing presence. The Navaïté chieftain and his companion, along with Martin, sat on the ground, cross-legged.

Paishon tossed a few logs onto the fire. Rondon caught Paishon’s eye and nodded. The burly camarada rushed off and returned a moment later bearing what appeared to Roosevelt to be a broken pulley from a block and tackle set. Colonel Rondon smiled widely, holding the useless item aloft like a precious ruby-studded crown. He handed the pulley to the wide-eyed chieftain, who accepted the gift amid nods of less than sincere concurrence from his amenable underling.

Roosevelt and Rondon were joined at the fire by Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra.

Rondon waved toward Paishon. “Paishon, obrigado, stay and translate for us, sim.”

“Following our departure,” Martin began, “Julio and me instantly deciphered the direction of the native’s recent migration. Clearly they had moved downstream just before the onset of the rainy season. Chahknu informed me that the river’s water level dictates their movements during most years. They migrate to land less susceptible to flooding and where crops can be cultivated and fish can be trapped. Traditionally, the land just south and west of these rapids is one such area they frequent during these times.

“We slogged through the woods northward following the river for a day and a half, finally reaching the village at sundown, two days past. What I found there disturbed me greatly. Warriors danced and whooped around blazing fires with their faces painted red and colored in black soot in the unmistakable manner of impending warfare. Chahknu greeted me warmly and informed me that oddly-garbed strangers had trespassed upon their land by way of the river and were now struggling past the rapids due to their ill-advised choice of burdensome and bulky dugouts. The chieftain was infuriated that the visitors had not announced their arrival, nor did they present any offerings or show any sign of respect whatsoever. As a footnote to this story, Julio and I had stripped naked before entering the village to avoid suspicion.

“Chahknu told me that his warriors had been observing the expedition for an entire day with great stealth, fading in and out of the forest or behind huge boulders as they had been trained since childhood. When the warriors returned to the village and reported to Chahknu, he issued orders to eliminate the invaders under the cover of night when he deemed them most vulnerable. Chahknu told me the warriors openly mocked the intruders for their apparent lack of skill in protecting themselves against outside attack in such a hostile land.”

Teddy Roosevelt shuddered. He glanced first to Kermit and then to the expressionless Rondon.

“I pleaded my case to the chieftain, explaining my involvement and alliance with the invaders and even offered up a plausible explanation: the required gift was merely an oversight and would be immediately rectified upon visiting the invaders’ campsite and speaking to their leaders.”

Colonel Rondon looked at Chahknu and smiled graciously. He pointed at the broken pulley despite the obvious fact that the chieftain hadn’t understood a single word Martin had just spoken. Unsmiling, the pair of natives raised their noses and nodded.

Chahknu uttered a few sentences in his native tongue and Lieutenant Martin translated: “The chief Chahknu offers his gratitude and is satisfied with the offering. He has decided to let us live, under the simple stipulation that we pass through his lands promptly and without deviating from our course.”

Following a series of tepid and diplomatic nods from around the campfire, Roosevelt spoke, “Perhaps our host can offer some insight of what lies ahead?”

Martin relinquished his translation obligations to Paishon with a gentle nod. The camarada addressed the natives directly in the Nhambiquara tongue, although Roosevelt sensed he struggled with some subtle differences in dialect.

Chahknu pointed downstream and to the north. “The water flows in many directions, right and left,” he began, translated by Paishon. “But roars like thunder just a day’s journey distant.”

“Can our canoes run these rapids?” Rondon asked.

Chahknu shook his head. “No, not all… There are some that you may try, but most will shred your dugouts to firewood. Even our finest paddlers would not attempt these, fearing death.”

Roosevelt asked, “How many rapids are ahead, and how far until the river runs flat?”

“Many days of hardship,” Chahknu replied, spreading forth fingers on both hands. “Many…”

“And what can we expect beyond the rapids?”

Paishon chatted briefly with the native and then paused. He scratched his head and conversed again. Paishon shrugged his shoulders. “Death,” he said finally. “The chieftain said, ‘death with certainty’, or ‘certain death’.”

“Certain death?”

“Yes, Commander Roosevelt, that is what he said, quite clearly.”

“Can you ask him to clarify?”

Paishon stroked his chin and turned to Rondon. The Brazilian Colonel responded in Portuguese, “esclarecer.”

Paishon nodded. “Sim, sim.” He turned back to the Navaïté chieftain speaking in Nhambiquara.

Following Paishon’s latest inquiry, Chahknu nodded and continued, “The land beyond the rapids is the domain of the Wide Belts. They are sworn enemies and neither side dare tread on the other’s rightful domain. Encountering them, even by mistake, in the wilderness leads to almost instant death, and they consume the flesh of their enemies, a practice we avoid unless hunger overwhelms us.”

“Is there a way around this tribe?” Rondon asked.

“No,” Chahknu said, motioning with his hands and fingers. “The river flows straight through their territory and their tribes inhabit a wide section of forest to both sides. There is no way around.”

Roosevelt turned to Lieutenant Martin. “Have you ever engaged this Wide Belt tribe?”

“I’m afraid not,” Martin replied, “although I am quite familiar with the rapids ahead, though I have never progressed into the Wide Belt domain, fearing for my life while travelling alone.”

“Then do you still think we have any chance of passing through their territory without conflict?”

“I believe any tribe in the Amazon can be appeased by applying the proper skills.”

“You are a very confident man, Mister Martin,” Rondon stated coolly.

“Once again, Colonel” Martin replied somewhat impatiently. “You appear to have but two alternatives. You can either turn around and trek back to your telegraph wires and attempt to save face with the Brazilian people, or you can trust me and forge ahead—making history alongside President Theodore Roosevelt and be hailed as Brazil’s greatest explorer.” He shrugged mockingly. “The choice is yours, Colonel Rondon, which will it be?”

Roosevelt could feel the dripping distain Rondon felt for Martin as the two men stared each other down across the campfire, and yet he also admired Cândido Rondon for his leveled-headed restraint. This was not the time to pick a fight with the arrogant Englishman with hostile native warriors surrounding his camp. Roosevelt empathized deeply with the Brazilian Colonel, who was forced to stand down following this sudden challenge to his authority, and yet the mission had to continue despite such animosity—the lives of all of the expedition’s members were at stake.

Roosevelt waved his hand. “I think it is quite clear that we are all dedicated to continuing this journey.”

“Brilliant!” Martin said with a drip of sarcasm. “And yet something else lies ahead beyond the Wide Belts that is equally dangerous and yet may actually be more exciting to our esteemed naturalists, Mr. Cherrie and Mr. Roosevelt.” Martin turned once again to Chahknu, speaking a few sentences in the chieftain’s native language before turning back to the others. “I can very well explain everything that I know at this moment, but I thought the full effect of what I’m about to reveal would best be served coming from the mouth of a local inhabitant.”

The Navaïté chieftain started the exchange with Paishon slowly. “The Wide Belts are a very strong tribe, and their warriors are fearless,” he said. “They have many rites-of-passage when their men become of age, like drinking hoasca made from the sap of cipó vine that will force you to listen to the voices of dead ancestors for many days, or withstanding the beatings of the tribe’s females using a whip made of thin tree branches. But to become a true leader amongst the Wide Belt warriors, you must pass a test called the Kariati. You must travel downriver several days accompanied by other experienced warriors and enter the land inhabited by the ferocious Arawuua. Once there, you must stalk and slaughter one of its kind and consume its flesh. Many warriors—young and old, strong and weak—are lost in this pursuit… many.”

“What manner of beast is this Arawuua?” George Cherrie asked.

Chahknu motioned upward with his hand. “My ancestors told me they can grow three-warriors high and that they have large grinding teeth, but their bite must be avoided at all costs—even a small scratch from the Arawuua can result in a long drawn-out death where even the bravest afflicted will beg the elders to quickly end their suffering.”

“Is it a serpent?” Cherrie asked.

“Or perhaps some large species of caiman?” Roosevelt added.

Lieutenant Martin laughed. Theodore Roosevelt was somewhat taken aback by Martin’s rudeness, yet almost everything the Englishman did was a tad off-putting.

Paishon relayed the questions to Chahknu, and the chieftain shook his head. “No, the Arawuua is a creature like no other. My ancestors told me they were once plentiful but their numbers have slowly dwindled since ancient times, and now they live only within a small valley just beyond the Wide Belts and downriver. That is all I know.”

And with a few utterances and a nod from Martin, Roosevelt watched the Navaïté chieftain and his assistant rise to their feet and quietly exit the camp like the rustling of fallen autumn leaves on a gentle breeze. Roosevelt immediately sensed the eyes in the surrounding forest slip away with them. A moment later, Roosevelt felt alone in the wilderness once again, and he sighed deeply.

Martin said, “I assure you that a few of Chahknu’s warriors will shadow us until they are assured we are long gone.”

Cherrie rubbed his chin. “A new, large species… How exciting!”

“Yes, exciting is an understated word in this regard,” Martin replied matter-of-factly. “But ‘new’ is laughably inappropriate as you will soon find out.”

“It sounds like you know more about these creatures than you have led us to believe?”

“Indeed, Mr. Cherrie, indeed I do. But first I must explain a bit more about myself and my companion Julio before we continue onward.”

Theodore surmised from the stern look on Colonel Rondon’s face that the Englishman had to do more than a bit of explaining before he got even close to being back in Rondon’s good graces.

CHAPTER 10

“Several years ago,” Martin began, “I was assigned to Commander Fawcett’s expedition by Her Majesty the Queen to map the Rio Verde River which runs to the southwest of here along the Bolivian border. I was pleased with this assignment and proud to be a part of a mission led by a man of Fawcett’s stature, which appeared to be a good fit owing to my background as both a field anthropologist and a military officer. Julio de Lima, then just a lad of seventeen years, was a porter on this particular expedition.”

Roosevelt and Colonel Rondon exchanged quick glances.

“Our journey began without incident. The hunting and fishing was excellent and we made good progress moving upriver, but things began to unravel very shortly after we were forced to abandon the canoes because of rapids, and we continued along the riverbank and up the valley on foot.

“The slog through the forest soon became desperate. The jungle was choked with thick thorny bamboo and the game disappeared. Even more disturbing was the fact that no fish could be found in this section of the river. Our supplies soon run dry but we pressed onward for ten days until Fawcett finally found the stream’s source and he mapped it for record.

“Percy Fawcett immediately tried to calculate our quickest way of returning to civilization while still retaining the opportunity of securing food for the expedition’s members.

“Several of the local Indian porters pointed out the Ricardo Franco Hills which ranged high to our left and to the east. None of the locals had actually been through the high, flat-topped and forested ranges, but Fawcett made the decision to attempt their crossing, nonetheless. The Franco Hills were surrounded by deep gorges and canyons which functioned like a medieval castle’s moat. Needless to say, our attempt to traverse the mysterious plateau came to an abrupt halt just a day or two later.

“Before we left the area, Commander Fawcett sent me and Julio out into the forest to hunt for food. The high jungle was thick and tangled, but we came to an area that appeared to have been cleared some years before. This was the first sign of human habitation we had seen in weeks. The area was choked with palms, and hearty vegetation broke through the stone placements pushing the well-intentioned human development asunder through the passing of time. At its center lay a small stone dwelling several meters in length and a two meters in height that remained mostly intact. The doorway lay open where the wood had presumably disintegrated, and only its ornate and rusted hinges remained, most of which were scattered upon the stone floor.

“Before entering and inspecting the building, young Julio pointed out a modest gravesite covered with moss and bamboo and decorated with a Christian cross. The headstone read in Spanish: Alonso Hurtado de Rojas laid to rest before God and the Holy Mother in the year of our Lord 1576. The caption appeared to be hurriedly and crudely scribed.

“Inside the cramped building and amid the shadows, we found a smooth stone altar overrun with plants and small burrowing rodents. We also noticed the remains of what appeared to be benches facing the altar arranged in the style of a Christian church.

“Julio and I hurriedly searched the abandoned church as we were extremely hungry and eager to resume the hunt, but it was only by my prompting and my intellectual curiosity that I convinced Julio to continue assisting me with my task, and our efforts were finally rewarded when we found a strong-box, enclosed yet unlocked.

“I opened the box slowly under Julio’s curious eye, thereupon finding a battered tome covered in ornate Spanish script. I reached down and opened the book’s cover with the gentlest of touch, but to no avail, the leather binding fractured and splintered between my fingers and I simply brushed its remains away. The box was too heavy to move efficiently, and yet the light from the doorway was adequate to read the text, I supposed, so I began to read the Spanish text and commit its contents to memory.

“What I read was absolutely astonishing. From the very first time I digested the words I felt that it could possibly alter the course of human history and even our view of the ancient world before the proliferation of mankind.”

Rondon said, “Those are lofty statements, Mr. Martin, and all of this from a conquistador’s diary?”

“Let him finish,” Roosevelt urged diplomatically.

“Indeed,” Martin replied to Rondon. “My feelings on this are resolute, and I have sacrificed five years searching for any fragment of confirmation. In fact, this diary has changed my life forever.”

Roosevelt waved his hand. “Go on…”

“As I turned and read each page, the parchment fell to dust and scrap. I held no hope of recovering any part of the document.  Frankly, the young Julio was visibly disappointed that the box contained no gold or gems, and yet to me this vessel housed the greatest treasure imaginable.

“Before closing the box, I noticed a glint of copper beneath the shredded remains of the book. I reached in and retrieved the flattened metal slab. It fit snuggly in the palm of my hand and bore the etching of a fierce beast of a type I have never seen, but now I could view with some understanding and in some context after reading the dairy.

“Pressed for time, we returned to the expedition bearing only as evidence the copper artifact from the old church. Colonel Fawcett was now obsessed with returning his men safely to civilization, so I delayed discussing the incident for many days. Finally, after twenty days without food, Colonel Fawcett miraculously shot a deer and the expedition ate and became rejuvenated.

“It was at this time that I discussed with Fawcett the content of the Spanish book and I showed him the copper slab.

“But much to my shock and dismay, Percy Fawcett was not totally convinced with my discovery. He argued that the early Spanish explorers were brutal tyrants and often presented horrific tales to the natives for the explicit purpose of keeping them frightened and thusly subjected. The copper artifact was simply a figment of the artist’s fertile imagination, he contended.”

“Well...?” Roosevelt interrupted. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Out with it! Tell us what was in the book.”

“The diary detailed the travels of a Spanish conquistador named Alonso Rojas. Rojas was tasked with creating the mission overlooking the Franco Hills and also to explore the vast Amazonian Highlands down and into the deep jungles, searching for possible areas rich in gold ore for the Spanish crown.

“On one such mission into what is now called Mato Grosso near the source of the Juruena River, Rojas encountered and subjugated a native group whose chieftain warned the Spanish that they were about to tread upon the domain of what they referred to as The Dark Beast. The chief explained that meeting a pack of these ferocious creatures meant a quick death and that just a single animal could battle many men armed with spears or swords.

“Rojas ignored the native’s warnings and ventured into the forest with twenty of his best men. The ensuing attack he described was both brutal and decisive. He lost eighteen of his men to just five of the beasts in the flash of an eye, he wrote. Rojas and one of his companions escaped while the monsters ripped the rest of his men to shreds and consumed their bloodied corpses with powerful gnashing jaws. Rojas wrote of hearing horrible crunching sounds of human bone mixed with metallic armor that would haunt him to ‘the end of his days’ and well into the afterlife.

“The imposing conquistador was so shaken by the ordeal that he prayed to God nearly every hour upon returning to Bolivia, and never again did he step foot back into what we now call Brazil. He dedicated his remaining life to higher powers and completed this mission overlooking the border and repented his conquistador past. The people native to this region eventually moved onward and Rojas was left with his one remaining loyal soldier. He wrote of spending his days in prayer and staring out and over the high and desolate hills wondering what other deep mysteries God hath bequeathed mankind to test their mettle upon this earth.”

“And yet,” Roosevelt said. “We have just passed through the area of the Juruena River, and I don’t recall seeing any large beasts, nor did we hear of any tales of such living horrors from the natives.”

“I have my theories,” Martin replied confidently. “More than three hundred years have passed since Rojas’ encounter with the Dark Beasts and the encroachment of humankind has surely been constant and unrelenting.”

“That could be a possible explanation,” George Cherrie said. “The domain of large predators can often be restricted by pressuring their resources. Yet, more often than otherwise they are simply hunted to extinction.”

“I don’t contend that the Dark Beasts are extinct, Mr. Cherrie.”

“Exactly… You believe the Dark Beasts and the Arawuua described in Wide Belt lore are one in the same, do you not?”

“Precisely.”

“And do you still possess the copper etching of the creature?”

Lieutenant Martin smiled broadly and then hollered, “Julio!”

Julio sauntered up to the fire. Martin rattled off a few words in Portuguese and Julio replied, “Sim.” Julio reached into his pocket and removed a three-by-three inch copper slab and handed it to Cherrie.

Cherrie looked down at the etching for a brief second before erupting in laughter. He jabbed his finger toward Martin. “You, sir, are a complete and total madman.” Cherrie composed himself long enough to hand the copper slab to a puzzled Roosevelt.

Roosevelt looked the etching over. He recognized the creature almost immediately. “This is Osborn’s Tyrannosaur,” Teddy Roosevelt said bluntly. “I believe he referred to it as ‘lizard king’ or Tyrannosaurus Rex. This creature became extinct tens of millions of years ago.”

“With all due respect,” Martin said. “I feel the evidence points otherwise—”

“You,” Cherrie said, “have been the victim of a very elaborate practical joke.”

“—the accounts put forth by the Spanish conquistadors, the oral histories of the local natives in this area—?”

Cherrie shook his head. “Listen Mr. Martin, there are countless ways to discount your hypothesis, but foremost is the fact that creatures of this size must maintain a breeding population numbering in the hundreds—if not thousands. I simply don’t think that’s possible in present day Brazil.”

“Their numbers have dwindled dramatically over the past fifty years, perhaps to four or five dozens. And their domain has been reduced to under a thousand square kilometers.”

“Then why do we not find any remains of these creatures?” Roosevelt asked. “They should be rather easy to recover.”

“The Amazonian rainforest,” Martin replied earnestly, “consumes all carcasses quickly and efficiently. Even bones decay rapidly in the sweltering jungle. Fossilized remains, however, are an altogether different issue.”

Roosevelt nodded. He had to hand it to the Englishman on that last point. He did present a valid argument.

Colonel Rondon appeared to have his fill of the conversation, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, he abruptly rose and began directing his camaradas to dismantle camp. “Daylight is burning quickly,” he said loudly and with great emphasis. “We have little time for such foolishness.”

George Cherrie sat with his arms crossed and staring at the fire. “Granted there are unclassified living creatures on this earth, and there may be large and unknown predators such as those described by the local natives.” Cherrie shook his head. “But living dinosaurs…? The very concept is absurd.”

Lieutenant Martin turned to Roosevelt. “President Roosevelt, can you not recognize the greatest scientific discovery in the history of mankind? As a naturalist, is your legendary curiosity not fully aroused?”

“Yes, Mr. Martin, I am certainly interested in any new species. But the expedition’s stated goals are paramount at this juncture. Getting these men through and out of this jungle alive most assuredly takes precedence over collecting and logging specimens, no matter how intriguing they may be. Do you understand?”

Martin’s eyes widened. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing! The great, noble, and open-minded Theodore Roosevelt refuses to investigate the most interesting mystery ever presented to him? He would simply pass right through the final domain of an animal left over from our prehistoric past?”

Roosevelt raised his finger. “Do not be insulting. We have sat here and listened to your tale in earnest. The expedition will not detour from its mission and we shall not entertain any further arguments to the contrary. And secondly, you have been deceitful when you applied to join this expedition—holding back information such as your relationship with Julio de Lima. I find this behavior disrespectful and extremely disturbing.”

Martin seethed with anger. He leaped up from the ground and stomped away toward the river.

Teddy Roosevelt sighed deeply.

Kermit smirked. “Are you not game for some dinosaur wrangling, father?”

“The man is certifiably insane…”

“Although Martin is correct, is he not? The Amazon is vast and mostly unexplored.”

“I know, but—”

“And yet I know you, father. His story must have piqued your interest in some deep-seated way.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “I can see the Times headlines now: Roosevelt diverts his Amazon mission to hunt for Osborn’s dinosaur; has appointment for straightjacket tailor upon arrival back in New York. Taft dies of heart-attack from laughter.”

Roosevelt retreated immediately to his tent and placed the copper etching beside his diary. He hurriedly sorted through what remained of his books and magazines, setting aside ‘The Mediations of Marcus Aurelius’ and the plays of Sophocles. He halted, staring down at a single issue of Strand Magazine dated April, 1912 bearing the byline: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘Lost World’.

He flipped through the pages, arriving at the serial’s footnotes; it confirmed what he recalled reading several months before: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a close friend of explorer Percy Harrison Fawcett and drew inspiration for the tale directly from Fawcett’s 1908 expedition to Bolivia’s high and mysterious plateau.

Roosevelt rubbed his chin and stuffed the magazine back amongst the others. He felt a subtle chill.

CHAPTER 11

They were back on the river by early afternoon of that same day. Roosevelt checked his calendar; it was the fifth day of March, and they had spent nearly three whole days bypassing the first serious set of rapids they’d encountered on the River of Doubt. Roosevelt shook his head, conjuring up the dimmed hope that any rapids ahead could be run without the time and energy consuming task of portage yet all reports from his experienced Amazonian hosts indicated otherwise.

The fleas and mosquitoes plaguing their last camp became an itchy memory as they navigated toward the channel’s center which happened to be mostly free of the incessant pests; the men’s swollen hands and faces serving as a bitter reminder of their battles with the tiny beasts. Through this all, Roosevelt gained a greater appreciation of the valiant workers who toiled on the Panama Canal under his presidential decree and the daily agony they most certainly endured.

The current ran strong and deep beneath them, and the dark water boiled and swirled from an occasional submerged boulder or shoal. Roosevelt glanced upon a shore stacked with rows of mighty rubber trees that seemingly touched the sky.

As usual, the survey team’s canoes played leapfrog down the meandering river. Roosevelt escorted the two supply dugouts, following a reshuffling of his crew that now included Luiz and Simplicio, with whom he had great confidence. The man-boy Julio had been demoted to the supply vessel where he could be watched over by the disciplinarian Paishon. Teddy Roosevelt noticed that Lieutenant Martin had been relatively subdued following his confession and emotional flare-up back at their previous camp. Perhaps he had seen the error of his ways and was now going to settle into his assigned role and assist the expedition as he had originally promised, Roosevelt reasoned hopefully.

They had covered a respectable amount of distance before evening approached. Roosevelt and Cherrie scouted the lowlands for a suitable campsite. The search continued for an entire hour before they found a high and relatively dry area to beach their dugouts.

The camp was surrounded by dense forest. Roosevelt and Cherrie listened to the distant screeches of playful monkeys and wild bird-whistles. Giant ants, half the size of a man’s thumb, swarmed beneath their feet. Kermit fell victim to one of these colossal insects and agonized for hours before the pain subsided enough for him to finally bed down for the night.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and they broke camp early. Paishon reported by mid-morning that the men complained of hunger, and they pulled to shore to search for bee’s honey and a wondrous Amazonian tree that—the camaradas said—could produce a drinkable milk-like substance from any slash upon its flesh. The men relished the treat and offered a sample to Roosevelt who eagerly partook. But the former president shook his head vigorously owing to its bitter yet not unpleasant taste. And the camarada’s spirits were lifted upon sharing a hearty laugh.

Most of the remaining day slipped by without incident, and they advanced nineteen kilometers by Lyra’s estimation. Roosevelt ordered his dugout to the head of the flotilla in late afternoon, and Luiz and Simplicio dutifully obliged with deep graceful strokes. Roosevelt suddenly noticed the river narrowing and the current picking up pace, and then he heard rushing water in the distance. By the time he hollered a warning, the camaradas were already paddling for shore.

“Just as Martin and the native chieftain predicted,” Cherrie said.

“I’m afraid so,” Roosevelt replied.

Roosevelt and Cherrie grabbed their guns and immediately set out down a worn Amazonian pig trail. Simplicio tagged along, leaving Dr. Cajazeira and Luiz upstream to mind the dugout. Roosevelt received the answer he sought in less than fifteen minutes. Peering between the trees, they could clearly see the water rage past them and out of sight to the north.

They retraced their steps along the shoreline and arrived back at their beached dugouts just in time to greet Rondon and the rest of the expedition’s canoes as they landed ashore. Colonel Rondon, Lyra, and Kermit stretched their legs and then began another more prolonged reconnaissance mission an hour later.

Upon his return, Kermit wiped his brow. “The rapids continue onward for a half-mile. I counted at least three waterfalls in its midst. I’m afraid we must prepare for our second portage. There appears to be no alternative.”

“I could have saved you the time and wasted energy of scouting,” Martin mumbled flatly. The Englishman waved his hand dismissively before turning away.

The camaradas cleared the way for camp just above the rapids. The men finished their chores and settled around the fire where they were given only half-rations. Teddy Roosevelt sensed a bit more grumbling amongst the camaradas, although most accepted the situation with heads held high. These men of the wild Brazilian frontier are as tough as steel, he thought. I could conquer a continent with men of half their caliber.

However, Roosevelt’s lofty ideals were dampened just before retiring for the night when Simplicio reported offhandedly to both he and Rondon that he had noticed Julio and another camarada snooping suspiciously near the supply stockpile. “When I asked him what he was doing,” Simplicio said. “He turned an evil eye to me and simply walked away.”

Theodore Roosevelt nodded curtly before sending Simplicio away.

Roosevelt and Rondon exchanged concerned looks. Rondon said, “We had better turn our sights to hunting while these men attend to the portage. Hungry men are dangerous men.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Roosevelt replied.

The portage began in earnest upon the following day’s sunrise. Rondon directed the first step, which was to move the supplies and the camp just beyond the first set of rapids. Kermit embarked on a hunting expedition with a Pareci Indian camarada named Antonio. Kermit returned a little after midday with a turkey-like bird named a Jacu, but the real hero was Antonio who bagged a huge monkey destined to be featured at the evening meal.

Heartened with the knowledge they had secured much needed fresh meat for the workers, Roosevelt grabbed his shotgun and joined Cherrie on a collecting expedition into the surrounding woods.

Wordlessly, they meandered away from the river and into the silent forest of rubber trees towering amid clusters of brilliant white lilac and wild banana. The land was essentially barren of life except for an occasional ant-thrush or tanager upon which the naturalist Cherrie made note before motioning Roosevelt onward.

After hiking an hour through the dense brush and under the sweltering afternoon haze, Roosevelt finally beckoned the ever-energetic and fit Cherrie for a merciful break. Roosevelt inspected a fallen log for biting pests before sitting down gingerly. He removed his hat and glasses and wiped his brow. He grabbed his canteen and took a long drink.

Cherrie smirked. “I see that your stamina has improved.”

“Oh, oh yes.”

“Just three weeks ago, you could barely walk five minutes before requesting rest.”

“Asthma, my friend, asthma… This heat is intolerable.”

“And a few inches off your waist helps also, does it not?”

Roosevelt rubbed his belly. “I’ve probably lost twenty-five pounds since we departed the Nyoac. My belts require some new holes and my suspenders need tightened.”

“Truly impressive, Colonel, yet how do you manage your fever?”

Roosevelt sat silently for a moment. He raised his canteen and took another gulp.

Cherrie shook his head. “Colonel Roosevelt, very few secrets are kept on an expedition through the jungle, especially when it comes to malaria. You are surrounded by men of the Amazon; they can smell its symptoms like bloodhounds. Your own son may be the only remaining victim of your poorly hidden deceit.”

“I can manage myself, thank you. Kermit has his own health problems, and he has his own duties to perform—duties he is performing quite admirably, by the way.”

“Suit yourself, Colonel, but we are all here to help. Hunting and collecting specimens in the jungle is a difficult enough task—”

“I said, I will be all right, sir.” Roosevelt leaped to his feet and replaced his hat and glasses. He snatched his shotgun and set off past Cherrie and into the woods.

They continued for another half-mile before Roosevelt slowed and halted once again. Teddy bent over breathing heavily. “One moment… George… Please!”

Cherrie sought a wide tree for shade. He placed his gun down and sat. Theodore Roosevelt joined him a moment later. Both men gulped water from their canteens and peered out and over the deep woodlands.

Finally, Roosevelt said, “Rondon is concerned that excessive hunger may inspire the camaradas to dire acts, including rebellion.”

Cherrie chuckled. “Where would these men go?  Whether going backward or forward, they would still fare better under Rondon’s command. Scattering into the wilderness would be suicide. They all know the consequences of striking out on their own.”

“Still, the mind plays tricks, and hunger robs men of rational thought.”

“True, but enough of them will remain loyal to our intrepid Brazilian commander. He is a hero figure to most.”

“What Colonel Rondon fears most is the overt influence of Lieutenant Martin and Julio.”

“Martin is a lunatic and Julio is a pitiful excuse for a man, let alone any sort of leader. If the other camaradas follow these two clowns, they deserve whatever fate awaits them.”

“Perhaps… But they could still persuade many and cause trouble for us all.”

“If Rondon feels so strongly about Martin and Julio, then he should dismiss both immediately. He should just be rid of them—cast them into the jungle.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “Rondon would never think of doing so. Neither of these men has been accused of any crime, and even if they were caught up in some sort of criminal mischief, Colonel Rondon would likely place them in custody and return them to civilization for trial.”

“Rondon’s apparent softness could place us all in jeopardy.”

“I take full responsibility for Martin’s presence on this expedition, Mr. Cherrie. He has already proven himself quite useful in dealing with the Navaïté tribe. We most likely would not be speaking on this day without his timely intervention.”

“Quite true, Colonel, quite true.”

“And extra hands for portage will always prove handy. We simply cannot afford to lose men, regardless our suspicions.”

“Yes, yes, but they should be closely watched, don’t you think?”

Roosevelt nodded in agreement. “And just what do you think of Martin’s claims? You have shown an obvious distain for his little diatribe, and you have mocked him openly. New and vibrant species are discovered every year upon our land and swimming amid our vast oceans, often beneath our very nose.”

“Colonel Roosevelt, you are a man of great intellect. You don’t honestly believe…”

“No, no, no,” Roosevelt cautioned. “All I’m saying is that as naturalists we should always keep an open mind. The jungle gorilla was considered a myth during my father’s time. Any large and previously undiscovered species would be an incredible find.”

“If this creature does exist, the natives are likely referring to a large amphibian like a crocodile or caiman.”

“Yes, most likely.”

“But a leftover from the Jurassic…?” Cherrie shook his head.

“What about the copper etching?”

“Childs-play, Colonel. Any craftsman in Tapirapoan could have forged that trinket, and drawings of Osborn’s tyrannosaur have been published in newspapers throughout the world. Central Brazil is indeed remote, but scientific news does penetrate this continent now and again. And you must always remember that in this beautiful and hostile land, men’s hearts can be corrupted just like any other place on this earth.”

CHAPTER 12

On the following day, they began the laborious job of dragging the dugouts down to the foot of the falls where they had set up camp the previous night. Lieutenant Lyra and a group of camaradas painstakingly cleared a route through the brush and positioned freshly hewn logs to function as rollers. Kermit prepared functional block and tackle and with the help of Martin and Antonio began to hoist the canoes out of the water and up the riverbank.

Once reaching the newly created log road, all of the expedition’s members were enlisted to get the dugouts up and moving. Roosevelt did his best to lend a hand but was often respectfully jostled aside by a camarada or officer. Theodore Roosevelt finally took the hint and relegated himself to more mundane duties like group motivator and fresh-water-provider. Teddy, while watching his son struggle with this brutal physical task, became increasingly concerned with Kermit’s incessant cough. Kermit paused often, simply to wipe sweat from his brow or to swat a biting insect.

Nearing midday, Colonel Rondon and Antonio completed a survey of the area. Rondon finished up his notes and the two men set out into the woods for a prolonged hunt. They returned disappointed, having seen no game whatsoever.

Roosevelt became bored with the portage by mid-afternoon. He grabbed his gun and strolled into the dense underbrush beside the river and then down alongside the rapids. The going was slow and he backtracked several times to avoid impassable thicket or the immense boulders that bounded the narrow valley and its rushing river. Roosevelt relished the forest’s exotic plant-life with its stunning bright colors, and he stopped often to sniff their distinct aromas. And yet he saw no game to satisfy his hunt and provide for his men. Roosevelt promptly concluded that securing large game would be happenstance when passing through the deep Amazon jungle.

He wandered away from the river and up the valley, passing through groves of rubber trees and leafy palm. Roosevelt sensed a change in the forest and stopped in his tracks. The insect and bird sounds abruptly faded away and only the distant hissing of the rapids echoed through his ears. Roosevelt glanced around and slowly raised his gun.

His myopic eyes detected a blur of movement between the trees. He freed up a trembling hand and hurriedly shoved his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose. His heart raced. Another flash of movement caught his eye to his far left and fifty yards distant. He turned, only to see nothing. He inhaled deeply.

Thirty seconds passed like an eternity—nothing. He slowly lowered his gun and sighed, and he wiped his brow.

Again, he looked out between the trees and saw a native man staring directly toward him. Roosevelt froze like a statue. A few heartbeats later, the face melted back into the underbrush.

Roosevelt turned slowly and warily, and then he headed back to camp.

That evening around the campfire only Lieutenant Martin was unperturbed upon hearing Roosevelt’s tale. “They are warriors from the Navaïté tribe,” Martin said. “The very natives we had just encountered before the last series of rapids. They are not the Wide Belts as some here have speculated.”

“And why do you say that?” Cherrie asked.

“Because the famous Theodore Roosevelt would be dead,” Martin stated bluntly. “And we are still several days journey from Wide Belt territory.”

Roosevelt, Cherrie, and Rondon exchanged quick glances.

Martin poked a stick into the fire. “The Navaïté warriors have been following us since our meeting three days ago. Only an experienced tracker could have detected their presence. They must have decided to show their presence when Mr. Roosevelt strayed from the river. They were probably astonished that any member of our expedition would not realize that their warriors stalked the periphery.”

Roosevelt said, “What do you mean, ‘decided’ to show their presence?”

“Believe me, Colonel, if they wanted to retain their stealth, you would have never known they were there.”

“But why?”

“Most likely they wanted to ensure we move along promptly and didn’t stray from our promised path. Showing their faces, even briefly and from a safe distance, was merely a reminder.”

Rondon crossed his arms and spat. “And why did you not report these warriors in a timely manner? Colonel Roosevelt’s safety was straightforwardly compromised.”

Martin laughed.

Rondon waved his finger. “Do not be insolent!”

“And yet I did, Colonel Rondon. After we parted with the Navaïté chieftain, I warned you that the natives would likely stalk the expedition until we vacated their lands. Do you not recall?”

Rondon sat silently for a moment. Roosevelt could feel the Brazilian Colonel’s blood boiling. Rondon waved his hand dismissively and stormed away from the fire.

Martin shrugged. “I can only offer advice based on my own experience, Mr. Roosevelt. Whether or not that advice is heeded by leadership is not my place to say.”

Teddy Roosevelt took a deep breath and bit his tongue.

The ninth day of March, 1914 dawned bright and clear. Roosevelt arose early along with Cherrie and Kermit. While sipping his coffee, Roosevelt watched Colonel Rondon scold his camaradas for their sloppy performance during their morning rituals. Several of the men wandered in late which drove the demanding Colonel to near madness. Several choice Portuguese words filled the muggy air that even Cherrie refused to interpret due to modesty.

One general rule for which most all agreed was that no member would again wander from the camp alone for any reason. The mission’s co-commander Theodore Roosevelt remained the only holdout, arguing that hunting for sustenance outweighed any one man’s safety. “Without food, the camaradas will have little energy to perform their vital tasks,” he said. “And without their help, we will likely all perish in this jungle.”

The men dispersed to their task of conveying the last of the canoes, and Roosevelt once again grabbed his rifle and slipped into the forest, mindful of keeping within earshot of the others and thusly fulfilling a promise he had made to a concerned and ever-doting Kermit. He passed silently beside the river and approached a tiny landing where Kermit had spotted a pig-like Amazonian creature called a tapir just the day before. Kermit reportedly scrambled for his rifle but could not get a clear shot at the animal as it passed swiftly through the rapids and onto the opposite riverbank.

Roosevelt pushed through the dense vegetation wiping sweat from his forehead and brushing away some pesky flies. He stopped to catch his breath. Roosevelt removed his spectacles and wiped the moisture on his shirt’s sleeve. He replaced his glasses, whereupon they promptly fogged again. “Blast,” he said aloud. Frustrated, he shoved his spectacles into his shirt pocket.

Suddenly Roosevelt looked up and saw a chest-high brown creature in the clearing ahead. He raised his rifle and promptly fired.

“Senhor Roosevelt! Senhor Roosevelt!”

Roosevelt scrambled into his shirt and replaced his glasses. His heart thumped.

“Senhor Roosevelt,” the voice before him implored. Roosevelt saw the figure of his bowman Luiz trotting toward him waving a hand. The other hand held up his unbuckled pants.

Roosevelt lowered his gun, his heart raced. “Obrigado, Luiz, obrigado… My sincerest apologies…”

Luiz stood before Roosevelt with widened eyes and panting loudly. He finished buttoning his pants.

“I don’t know what to say,” Roosevelt mumbled. “I…”

Just then, Kermit and Colonel Rondon pushed their way through the forest. George Cherrie and a few other camaradas arrived a moment later.

“I took my glasses of for the briefest moment and I…”

Kermit Roosevelt shook his head. The others stood about without uttering a word.

Colonel Rondon finally broke the awkward silence. “Luiz,” he said, motioning. “Return to work.”

“Sim, Colonel Rondon, sim,” Luiz replied eagerly. The camarada hastily brushed past Rondon and back toward the dugouts.

Wordlessly, Rondon turned and followed Luiz.

Theodore Roosevelt felt suddenly nauseated.

Roosevelt sat back in his chair with his shirt unbuttoned. He rolled a tiny thermometer under his tongue and stared straight up and between the trees into the bright Brazilian sky.

Dr. Cajazeira snatched the thermometer and held it forth, reading aloud its tiny markings. “One hundred and two… Not so much an improvement but certainly not worse, senhor.”

“Good, good”

Cajazeira eyed Roosevelt sternly. “There is nothing good about suffering from malaria in the midst of a jungle, senhor.”

Roosevelt became distracted by an approaching Kermit. The younger Roosevelt sat down upon the ground before him. Teddy Roosevelt squirmed uneasily.

Dr. Cajazeira fiddled in his bag and shook his head.

“Is there anything you’d like?” Roosevelt asked Kermit.

“I’m just checking on you, father.”

“I can handle things just fine, thank you. I have fought with doctors before. You can say it’s another hobby of mine.”

Dr. Cajazeira grabbed a small scope and peered into Roosevelt’s right eye. “You needn’t bother with the left,” Roosevelt said dolefully. “It has been quite useless for several years, growing dim after a boxing shot that, incidentally, I never saw coming.”

“I know, senhor” the doctor replied. “A first year medical student would have noticed the damage from across a smoke-filled room.”

“Oh, right.”

Cajazeira backed away, shaking his head once again. “I see some traces of jaundice. This is likely due to some damage to your blood and liver cells that—”

“Doctor!” Roosevelt implored. “Please…”

“Father, it’s okay,” Kermit said reassuringly. “I’ve known of your malaria for quite some time. Did you not think I could recognize the symptoms of a disease for which I myself am infected?”

Roosevelt sighed. “Kermit, I do apologize from my little transgression. I simply did not want you concerned with such trifles. You have your own problems and your own work to do.”

“I will always be concerned with your wellbeing, father. And malaria is far from trivial.”

“Well,” Dr. Cajazeira interrupted. “Your remaining eye deteriorates further with the jaundice. I’m afraid there is little I can do for you here in the wilderness. My best advice to you, senhor President, is to leave the hunting to more able-bodied members of the expedition before someone is injured or killed.”

Roosevelt seethed. “No,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “No one is going to take my rifle away, nobody! Did you hear me? I am not to be treated like a scolded child.”

Dr. Cajazeira nonchalantly packed his black bag.

“No, father,” Kermit said calmly. “That unfortunate incident could have happened to any one of us. And no man in this jungle should be deprived of his firearm.”

Roosevelt furrowed his brow and crossed his arms.

Kermit raised his palm. “All we ask of you is a little discretion.”

Following his visit with Dr. Cajazeira, Roosevelt steamed with anger for the better part of an hour. Pacing back and forth like a caged lion, he took a deep breath, and then he collected a few of his books and headed down to the river for some peace and quiet. He donned his head-netting and sat down within sight of the roaring rapids. The sound had a soothing effect and gently calmed his frayed nerves. He slowly gathered in the sights and smells of the lovely white lilac orchids that sprang from the fertile Brazilian soil in bountiful clusters. Soon, he was lost in the world of Victor Hugo, Duchamp, Ronsard, and du Bellay. He closed his eyes comforted by those wonderfully written words.

Roosevelt was suddenly roused by raised voices. He dropped his book and shuffled hurriedly toward the ruckus.

He arrived amid a full-out fist fight between two camaradas. Simplicio and Antonio appeared to be holding a third man away from the fray. Julio shoved Simplicio aside and muscled his way forward while the two men squared off. Lieutenant Lyra stepped in just in time to intervene. Colonel Rondon and Kermit rushed inward forming a wedge between the original combatants while Cherrie held the other camaradas at bay.

Moments later, all of the men stood around breathing heavily.

“Enough!” Colonel Rondon cried. “Get back to work! You mustn’t waste energy on such foolishness.”

Julio laughed like an imbecile and then strolled calmly away. Roosevelt noticed Lieutenant Martin standing expressionless and well clear of the fracas. Martin simply lowered his head and resumed his labor.

Theodore Roosevelt exhaled.

CHAPTER 13

The men’s spirits lifted somewhat upon the onset of the following day when they once again shoved the dugouts out and onto the turbulent waters of the Dúvida River. They didn’t get far, however; just a half-mile later the river narrowed once again and the waters quickened. Roosevelt delighted in pointing out a small caiman crocodile zigzagging toward the shore. It scurried upon a sandy stretch and then directly into the jungle before anyone could get a fair shot. The camaradas groaned with disappointment at yet another lost opportunity to harvest fresh meat to mollify their intensifying hunger.

Rondon assigned Lieutenant Martin the lead canoe alongside Lieutenant Lyra. Rondon supposed that Martin, having the only experience on this particular stretch of river, could provide the flotilla fair warning of any impending hazards upon the waterway ahead. They pushed their canoes as far as they dared before Martin and Lyra signaled back to the others, directing the dugouts to shore.

Lieutenant Martin and the officers gathered on a tiny patch of sandy beach to discuss the task before them. Prompted for his advice, Martin pointed downstream. “I recall these series of rapids being less severe than those we encountered previously. Our dugouts could survive these stretches with two paddlers, if the provisions are moved overland and the officers proceeded on foot.” He pointed. “The double-wide canoes could be lowered with ropes through the roughest water.”

“That appears to be our best alternative,” Roosevelt said. “Asking these men to execute another brutal portage under these circumstances would be devastating to morale.”

Martin stood expressionless.

Rondon sighed. “Well, let us get started.” He waved his hand. “Lieutenant Lyra, get those canoes emptied. Daylight is wasting.”

One by one, the camaradas emptied the canoes and painstakingly bore the provisions on their brawny shoulders down and through the heavy thicket to the base of the white water run. Three teams of the best paddlers were tasked with steering the smallest and lightest of the dugouts through the rapids. Simplicio and Antonio would lead the way. When they completed a pass, they planned to offer experienced advice to Julio and his partner, who would then pass information regarding the river’s sharp turns and deadly boulders to another set of camaradas guiding the third canoe.

Kermit and Lyra supervised the lowering of the heaviest canoes by rope and hand. This turned out to be the cruelest task of all, struggling against the full force of onrushing water. Swarms of biting ants clung to plants crowding the rugged shoreline, and the men were bitten repeatedly until they swelled with blisters the size of silver dollars. Several times—and despite their best efforts—the burdensome canoes became swamped in the whooshing quagmire, yet luckily the rickety boats were rescued by the beleaguered and exhausted workers.

They had bypassed the first set of rapids by early afternoon and embarked once again. And just as Martin predicted, they came to a stop just an hour later. Amid the men’s grumbling, they began the tedious process of unloading the vessels once more. Like the previous stretch of swift water, Kermit and Lyra used ropes to lower the heavy canoes, and Simplicio and Antonio prepared to run the first light dugout down the six-hundred-yard long passage. Roosevelt, Cherrie, and the expedition’s cook forged ahead to scout an area suitable for camp near the base of the rapids.

A half-hour passed. Roosevelt watched Simplicio and Antonio guide the canoe skillfully through the treacherous waters. At about a hundred yards distant, Roosevelt heard loud yells over the water’s rush as the men were forced to paddle frantically and bring the craft sharply to Roosevelt’s left, before straightening the canoe again and finally pulling to shore.

A visibly-shaken Simplicio reported directly to Roosevelt. “Most of the run is not so difficult, senhor Colonel. And yet, as you have seen, there is a stretch of water that is quite dangerous.” He pointed. “There is a huge rock outcropping at the stream’s center which cannot be bypassed. A sharp turn to the right must be executed with skillful timing, otherwise…” He made a hard chopping motion with his hands.

Roosevelt nodded.

Julio arrived at the base camp carrying a few of the officer’s items. He awaited instructions from Simplicio before he was to return upriver and guide the remaining two canoes. Julio listened carefully while Simplicio spoke in Portuguese. Roosevelt and Cherrie watched Simplicio point toward the hazardous turn. Julio listened to his fellow camarada’s apparent warning and nodded smugly. “Sim, sim,” he repeated.

Theodore Roosevelt took note of Julio’s vapid smirk.

Roosevelt glanced at his pocket watch accounting for the passage of another half-hour. Wordlessly, Antonio and Simplicio stared upstream waiting for the next set of dugouts to emerge on the river above. Antonio hollered suddenly and pointed wildly, catching sight of Julio riding the canoe through the churning water. Roosevelt watched Julio easily maneuver the boat ninety degrees when they approached the problem area. Julio straightened the canoe with broad sweeping strokes and paddled the crude dugout into shore near Simplicio.

At that very moment, the third canoe barreled straight down the rapids. Simplicio and Antonio yelled and waved, but it was far too late. The canoe knocked the rock and the steersman catapulted headfirst into the water. The vessel’s bowman managed to hold firm and then hurriedly seized control. He immediately began to search for his lost companion. The canoe ran upon more tranquil water a few seconds later.

Simplicio ran down the shoreline and dove into the water. Antonio yelled and pointed at a set of flailing arms being carried across the swift current. Simplicio intercepted the man just as he was about to be lost downriver. Struggling mightily, he pulled the man toward shore. Antonio waded into the water and helped both rescuer and victim onto dry land.

Breathing heavily, the injured camarada staggered to a fallen tree trunk and plopped down. He held his forehead while blood oozed between his roughened fingers. Roosevelt tore a strip from his shirt and tied it firmly around the man’s skull. Colonel Roosevelt noted this same man partook in the previous day’s altercation.

Suddenly the injured man stood and yelled wildly in Portuguese. He lurched toward Julio while Julio backed away, shaking his head. The man gestured toward the rapids, and Julio waved his hand dismissively. Simplicio stepped into the fray, directing some calmer words toward Julio. Julio once again waved his hand meekly and stood his ground. Clearly frustrated, Simplicio shook his head.

George Cherrie overheard the ruckus and attempted to translate, but the words were flying at breakneck speed and he could only decipher some choice Brazilian profanity.

Finally, Roosevelt intervened. “What is going on here?”

The three men quieted.

Simplicio spoke directly to the injured man in English. “Is there some kind of problem here?”

The man hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. “No, senhors, there is no problem.”

Simplicio shook his head. He turned to Roosevelt and shrugged, saying warily, “I guess there is no problem, senhor Colonel.”

The men had just completed a pitiless full day’s work swollen with insect bites and on half-rations with no fresh meat to replenish their energy, when the skies opened up with a drenching rain, making their evening clustered around the smoldering campfire even more miserable.

The officers and camaradas sat separately, huddling in their raincoats and whispering in small groups while the rain poured down upon their heads and drenched their backs. Some of the more sensible camaradas remained busy cutting immense ten-foot-long wild banana leaves that they used to construct shelters over their customary hammocks, while others, Roosevelt noted, simply didn’t seem to care.

Roosevelt discretely pulled the expedition’s officers aside. Lieutenant Lyra spoke first. “Paishon has informed me that the camaradas appear to have broken into two factions. Julio has managed to convince a few others to his cause, opposed by Simplicio and Antonio and many of the remaining men, who remain loyal to Colonel Rondon and the expedition’s goals. Nobody appears to know exactly what Julio wants out of all this maneuvering, but he clearly wishes to undermine Colonel Rondon’s and senhor Roosevelt’s authority.”

“Power,” Kermit said, “the opium of malcontents.”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “This is all extremely disconcerting. All of these men have access to guns and ammunition.”

“Let me just say, if I may,” George Cherrie said. “I would strongly suggest we do not limit the rank-and-file’s access to firearms. Restricting them in this fashion can have disastrous effects on an expedition, often resulting in opposite the desired outcome. I have seen this scenario play out many times on previous jungle missions.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Rondon said. “Any effort we officers make in this regard will be met with scorn and paranoia. It could very well tip the balance in favor of those with ill intent.”

“Then, we must keep some sort of equilibrium?” Roosevelt asked.

“Yes, senhor, the seeds of discontent must be contained and not snuffed out completely. We must always remember that these men’s objectives are similar to our own in many respects. They wish to return to their homes and families quickly and safely, and they care little of who may be in charge. Whilst in the wilderness these men must be thought of as co-workers—not as servant and master, or military commander and foot-soldier.”

Roosevelt felt Rondon’s last statement a bit odd coming from such a strict disciplinarian, and yet it did make sense in this situation, appealing to Roosevelt’s more pragmatic disposition. “But these minor insurrections can be dangerous,” Roosevelt said. “It could even turn deadly if left unchecked. One needn’t look further than the incident at the rapids this afternoon.”

“Sim, yes, it can be very dangerous.”

“A good man might have been killed.”

“Yes, yes, although none have come forward to complain of any criminal actions. These men are like all others when cast together in the harshest of situations—they will be more fiercely loyal to one another than they will ever be to any of us.”

Roosevelt nodded in agreement. “That is a brutally honest truth, Colonel Rondon. And our Mr. Julio de Lima certainly knows this fact; consequentially, he may feel free to operate unimpeded.”

“That is true to some extent, Colonel Roosevelt. Julio knows well that he will fail if he pushes too hard. And if he fails, he will lose any respect he may have accumulated, whether earned or otherwise.”

“And what do we make of Lieutenant Martin? Has he any stake in this?”

Lieutenant Lyra shook his head. “Paishon has found no evidence of Martin’s involvement, but he does suspect Martin of some ‘unseen hand’ in many of these disagreements—‘stirring the pot’ as some would say.”

“Yes, Martin has been unusually quiet and circumspect,” Cherrie said, “ever since he presented his story and his outlandish theories.”

“Perhaps he feels humiliated,” Roosevelt added.  “Although I have to say he has performed his duties honorably and has certainly upheld his end of our contract.”

“Sim, senhors,” Lyra said. “He is a tireless worker and is a crack shot with the rifle, and yet his relationship with Julio both concerns and puzzles me.”

Colonel Rondon sighed deeply. “There is an overriding truth that the likelihood of insurrection grows with each day of hunger these men are compelled to endure. We must make certain to provide fresh meat to satisfy the expenditure of their energy.” Rondon glanced at each officer in turn. “We officers must understand our extreme vulnerability in the deep wilderness. We depend on these rugged men more than they depend on us.”

Theodore Roosevelt shivered. He could find no objections to anything just said.

Roosevelt woke the next morning to the sounds of the Brazilian forest and not the usual drone of rain pelting his tent’s roof. He crawled from his tent and into the soaking-wet clearing. Roosevelt overheard some clamor near the riverbank and set off to investigate.

A large contingent of camaradas stood overlooking the river which appeared swollen from overnight rains. Colonel Rondon and Lyra stood amongst the chattering men. Roosevelt noticed the largest cargo canoe and another old dugout missing from the bank. Luckily, he surmised, the supplies were all unloaded the night before any anticipated floods.

Paishon approached Colonel Rondon presenting him a two foot shard of shattered canoe. Paishon pointed downstream. Rondon shook his head.

Theodore Roosevelt suddenly felt the urge to search for the faces of Julio and Lieutenant Martin amongst the gathered. He found both men standing together and atop the bank, away from the others.

For the first time since starting this seemingly ill-fated journey, the eternally optimistic Roosevelt had serious doubts that he or Kermit would ever survive this expedition. His thoughts turned abruptly to Edith and his remaining children. God help me, he thought. How fitting after a lifetime dreaming of exploring its many wonders, the Amazon jungle would be my grave.

Theodore Roosevelt retreated to his tent and retrieved his pen, ink, and paper. “March 11, 1914.  After nearly two weeks on the Dúvida, our supplies are dwindling and our situation appears desperate. Adding to our woes is almost certain insurrection amongst…”

Roosevelt halted suddenly and rubbed his chin. He dipped his pen to ink and struck-out the last two sentences. Instead, he wrote, “At this camp we had come down the river about 102 kilometers, according to the surveying records, and in height had descended nearly 100 meters, as shown by the aneroid—although the figure in this case is only an approximation, as an aneroid cannot be depended on for absolute accuracy of results.”

CHAPTER 14

Following a dispirited and somewhat paltry breakfast, Colonel Rondon conferred briefly with Roosevelt before gathering all of the camaradas against the backdrop of the overflowing Dúvida River. The wiry Brazilian Colonel paced back and forth with his hands behind his back, his steely eyes set upon the row of downtrodden men as if awaiting the slightest flinch or sign of slackening. Finally, he began in Portuguese, “Beginning this morning we will set ourselves to building a new dugout even larger than the craft we have just lost.”  Cherrie translated for Roosevelt who overheard a few grumbles of discontent amongst the men. Rondon continued, “Enough! Such grievances will not be tolerated, and furthermore all insubordination will be dealt with in a corporal manner. I needn’t have to explain the gravity of our circumstances. You all know the dangers we face. If we refuse to move forward together, we will all die alongside this river and be devoured by ants.”

Rondon paused for a moment, seemingly to ensure he had all of the camarada’s undivided attention. “The officers and Mr. Kermit and Cherrie will be tasked to hunt the forest for game. Some of you, when not laboring on the canoe, will be allowed to collect palmito and honey. We will camp in this spot for as long as it takes to complete the dugout. Have I made myself clear?”

“Sim, commander Rondon,” was the general, if not somewhat subdued, response.

“Good, good, we will begin by locating the most suitable tree for the canoe within walking distance of the river. I know you men have all constructed dugouts. Go, Go!” He brushed his hands. “The man finding the widest and most fitting tree will today be offered the lightest duties. Now, off with you!”

The men scattered into the forest just as the rains began anew, a subtle and gentle reminder of their cursed circumstances, Roosevelt figured. Cherrie and Roosevelt both noticed Julio lagging far behind the others. “How lazy can a man become?” Roosevelt said to the wide-eyed naturalist. “George, just how lazy must you be, to not wish to participate in a simple contest that may ultimately allow you to avoid the heaviest tasks?”

The camaradas located three trees to offer as candidates for the canoe. A robust specimen—five feet wide—was selected by Colonel Rondon. Amid the rainfall the men began chopping its massive truck with renewed vigor and purpose. Even Colonel Rondon stripped off his shirt and took his turn with the axe. The middle-aged yet hale commander swung briskly until he could lift his arms no more.

The mighty tree crashed to the ground a few hours later. The men cheered and patted each other on the back.

Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra set off together and away from the river to hunt for game. Following an unsuccessful hour in the woods, they decided that the situation was desperate enough to split apart, despite the new orders to work only in tandem. The results were more than encouraging—Kermit shot and killed two monkeys and Lyra shot a plump Jacu-bird.

The rain tapered off by late afternoon, and by evening, the moon shone brightly in the southern sky. Exhausted following a hard day’s work, the camaradas sat around the campfire waiting impatiently for the monkey-meat that sizzled over the flames a mere yard before them. The cook finally issued his approval and the men dug into the meat like hungry wolves. Roosevelt seethed watching Julio attempt to grab more than his fair share of the meat, but Teddy’s faith in humanity was restored when he noticed Simplicio and a few other camaradas taking Julio to task for his unseemly transgression. It took quick and stern action by Paishon to break up the tense confrontation and to keep the men from a senseless fistfight.

Roosevelt noticed that Lieutenant Martin mostly stayed clear of any disagreements amongst the men. He simply waited until tempers receded and then calmly sauntered up to the fire and tore off a small chunk of meat. The man is a living skeleton, Roosevelt thought. He probably never fully recovered from his years amongst the natives.

The twelfth day of March marked two full weeks on the River of Doubt for the Roosevelt-Rondon Scientific Expedition, although Roosevelt lamented the fact that most of their time was spent bypassing rapids and constructing or repairing the ragged canoes. The weather cleared following a long day of rain, and the camaradas continued the arduous task of shaping and hollowing-out the massive tree trunk chosen for the new dugout. Roosevelt and Rondon kept a close eye on the laborers while Kermit and Lyra once again set off on a hunt through the lush, green rainforest.

True to his word, Colonel Rondon granted leave to two of his hardest working camaradas, allowing them to comb the forest for the bland-tasting but filling palmito. The men returned late in the morning bearing several stalks of the nutritious plant and a comb of fresh honey. Rondon declared a break from the construction and the men devoured the treat until none remained. Roosevelt noticed a few smiles amongst the men; the first he had noticed in several days.

Kermit and Lyra returned at noon carrying the carcass of a fat curassow-bird. Roosevelt figured the meat a pittance when shared amongst them all, although any protein would be welcome when attempting to supplement their meager rations.

Eager to contribute to the expedition the best he could, Roosevelt asked Kermit to accompany him on a short afternoon hunt. Kermit remained reluctant owing to Teddy’s “little incident” the day before yet finally succumbed to his father’s persistent harassment. With little fanfare, they grabbed their rifles and canteens and set off into the wilderness.

Father and son pushed silently through the dense scrub and up the curved river basin surrounded by trees that towered mightily against the cloudy sky. Roosevelt marveled at the varieties and shapes of vines dangling from the branches high above, some falling like spider webs while others wrapped the great trunks like fanged cobras ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The air was hot and humid beneath the forest’s canopy, while the wind scarcely stirred a solitary leaf or a dangling branch, causing a palpable and uncomfortable stillness that could rattle one’s nerves.

The forest appeared barren of flowers and birds, but the insects—sometimes mosquitoes or biting flies or the ever-present stingless bees—stalked them at every turn and upon every step. Both Teddy and Kermit Roosevelt grew weary of swatting the persistent beasts as much as they did the expedition’s eternal grind.

Teddy stumbled over a nest of buzzing hornets while navigating through a thicket. He grasped a branch for balance and escape, whereupon he shook loose an army of fire-ants that fell upon his neck and arm. Feeling a bit foolish, he swatted and brushed until most of the angry ants fell to the ground, except for one exuberant specimen that proceeded to strike savagely at Roosevelt’s outstretched arm.

Teddy Roosevelt took a moment to resist the bite’s searing pain. Grimacing, he sat down upon a flattened boulder and set his gun aside. Kermit raised his own canteen to drink.

“I pity the camaradas,” Roosevelt said, contorting in pain. “Many continue to toil in this jungle in bare feet or in those blasted worthless sandals.”

“I’d wager most of them never owned proper boots.”

Roosevelt bared his teeth. “And yet I’ve seen their feet and ankles—some so swollen they can barely walk. The very least I could have done was to provide basic outfitting. Blast my own shortcomings and negligence!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, father. You were more than generous preparing for this expedition.”

Roosevelt grasped his wound and closed his eyes, fighting the pain that ebbed and flowed like the pull of the Atlantic tides. Teddy inhaled deeply and then slowly released his lungs. “Kermit, it appears my famous luck has finally run dry on this fateful excursion. How ironic it should end in the very country for which I’ve longed to visit since I was a young boy.”

“All is not lost. You can rest assured we will find a way out of this… this predicament.”

“No, son, I have personally failed. I have raised bravado to levels that sustain absurd thoughts and foster irrational decisions. I should have surveyed our situation at Bonifácio and convinced Rondon to head straight back home. I have placed too many good men’s lives in overt jeopardy, and for what purpose?”

“It was not all one man’s decision, though.”

“Balderdash! It was me the men followed—the semi-myth of the infallible Theodore Roosevelt.” He shook his head. “A myth is what will lead them like the pied piper ingloriously and unsuspectingly to their graves. My swollen head is what caused this mess but I feel so utterly incompetent to extract us from our doomed fate.”

“Father, it’s the pain from the sting. Sit here and let—”

Roosevelt grimaced once again. “No, Kermit, my head is amazingly clear now; clearer than it has been in years. My eyes are now fully open, whereupon before, they were not.”

“Father, I—”

“Give me the picture.” Roosevelt motioned inward. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Give me the picture you have hidden in your front pocket. I know you have it. I know you carry it everywhere. Give it to me.”

Kermit reached reluctantly into his pocket and removed a tattered photo of his fiancée Belle. He handed it to his father.

Theodore Roosevelt looked the photo over and sighed deeply. Then he grinned from ear to ear. “Simply beautiful.” He handed the picture back to Kermit. “I hope to see many gorgeous grandchildren.”

Kermit glanced at the photo before stuffing it back into his pocket.

Roosevelt looked Kermit in the eye. “Now, do you understand the utter disgust I feel for myself at this very moment? I have torn you from your first love and placed your life and happiness in peril, all because of my foolish pride and a raft of bad decisions.”

“Father, you have wrecked nothing. I would have been honored to serve on any expedition upon Colonel Rondon’s asking.”

“You came on this excursion because of Edith’s concerns. Do not tell me different.”

Kermit hesitated. “I admit mother did influence my decision, but you have not been in top physical condition of late.”

“No, Kerm, I’m afraid I am not, nor will I ever be again. I have tried my entire life to be as honest as possible within the framework of modern politics, and yet, somewhat ironically, I have failed to be honest with myself in this regard. My life has been a whirlwind since I left Harvard and scaled the almighty mountain in glorious splendor to reach its peak and stand as the most influential man in the Western Hemisphere. But having stood at the top and looking out over clear blue skies and breathing in the cool thin air, and then having been asked to step back from the throne, I was engulfed in a void that I could not quench with diversions such as African safaris and trifling ceremonies. But alas, I was unsatisfied and greedy, and I foolishly attempted to climb the mountain once again but failed miserably in the last election, and my pride could not bear the pain of this harsh reality. The Amazon was my last hope—my last chance for the headlines I craved so desperately. And now I fear those headlines may become my sad obituary.”

“Father, please—”

“And taking with me my own son and a group of some of the finest men I have ever had the pleasure to know.”

Father and son sat silently for a moment listening to the soft sounds of the Amazonian forest. Finally, Kermit spoke: “Father, do you the recall those family ‘scrambles’ you orchestrated when we were small?”

“Yes, of course—”

“You lined up my brothers, sisters, and cousins on a straight-line course. The object of the game was simple: you must reach the stated destination by going over, though, or under any object impeding your goal, but you must never go around. If it were a lake, you’d swim across. You would crawl beneath any pile of brush in your path. If it were a fence, you would climb over or between its planks.”

“I do remember.”

“The game was quite challenging and arduous for a little boy like me. As a youngster I could only guess that its purpose was to prepare us for wilderness adventure. Only in my teens did I realize your rationale for such a diversion was to toughen us against the obstacles presented by the outside world.”

“Once again it was my own silly pride being forced upon those I love dearest.”

“No, no, you must understand that we all thought the game delightful fun. They continue to be some of our most cherished childhood memories.”

“Well, that is good to hear, son.”

“My point is much broader. I urge you wholeheartedly to view our predicament as your own personal ‘scramble’. Only this game is of utmost importance.”

“The Amazon is not Oyster Bay. We will not receive a hearty bowl of soup at day’s end to mollify our hunger.”

“But you do understand my point, do you not?”

Roosevelt released his grip from his wound. “Yes, your old and decrepit father still retains some measure of wit. But always remember that I am still the most expendable member of this expedition.”

“You will never be expendable to those that love and adore you, like mother and all of your grateful children.”

Roosevelt sighed. “Granted, I have been a tad morose here. I merely felt compelled to get a few nagging thoughts out of my silly head. Rest assured I will persevere as always. I guess this proclivity will always course through my veins until the day I see my maker.”

“Good, good.”

“But it troubles me to see many of my most destructive traits in you, Kerm. And I feel mostly to blame.”

Kermit took another sip from his canteen. “In what way?”

“In preparing you to overcome all obstacles, I fear that I may have gone too far. Like me, your fearlessness will most likely lead to recklessness, and recklessness will almost certainly lead to disaster.”

“Father—”

“A great general must be fearless, but he must also know his own army’s limitations. A man can overcome most obstacles, but he mustn’t be greedy with the all-leveling forces of fate. Sadly it has taken me five decades, but I think this truth has finally managed to penetrate my thick skull.”

“Father, I am not as fearless as you may believe…”

“I want you to promise me, Kermit. I want you to promise me that you will not fall victim to this most alluring and destructive trap—this false concept that everything can be overcome by force of will alone.” Roosevelt shook his head and sighed, feeling that he had just unburdened countless years of private, self-imposed angst. “And with your declaration I can die a content and happy man.”

Kermit Roosevelt wiped his mouth on his shirt’s sleeve. Turning to his father, he said, “I will.”

Teddy Roosevelt deeply believed he should have experienced relief upon hearing his son’s simple words, but instead he felt continuing doubt. Kermit’s self-destructive disposition was already deeply ingrained and now impossible to undo. If only I could accept Kermit’s statement upon its face...

CHAPTER 15

Upon the dawning of a new day, even fair weather could not lift the men’s gloomy mood. Colonel Rondon lined the men up for their morning orders and then immediately put them to work on the new dugout, and the camaradas all grumbled at not receiving their usual breakfast allowance.

“Your daily rations will be distributed in time,” the Colonel shouted, “but only after we have made significant progress on the dugout.”

Theodore Roosevelt shook his head subtly upon observing Rondon’s latest strategy to motivate his beleaguered laborers, and for the first time since the expedition began, he disagreed wholeheartedly with the Brazilian Colonel’s unorthodox methodology. Yet he remained silent as he had pledged to himself at the expedition’s onset. “The camaradas must receive orders from one man only,” Roosevelt whispered to Cherrie. “They mustn’t think for a moment Rondon’s commands can be circumvented simply by offering their complaints to me. If father says ‘no’, the answer should be a resounding ‘no’; they must not think for a moment they can just ask mother.”

Colonel Roosevelt was not surprised that Julio de Lima was the most visibly upset of the laborers. The lazy and violent camarada stomped around like a child, hissing and whispering his poisoned opinions to anyone or everyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Some of his fellow laborers, including Simplicio, would simply wave their hands in disgust upon Julio’s frequent and vociferous ravings; although most just moved away and worked the opposite end of the dugout where they could find some measure of peace.

Kermit and Lyra set off on a hunt at mid-morning, leaving Roosevelt, Rondon, and Cherrie to oversee the laborer’s backbreaking work and to motivate any man who slackened his pace.

With hat in hand, Simplicio approached Colonel Rondon. “We are starving, senhor Colonel,” he said humbly. “Many ask if we can search for palmito or milk-root. We only wish a short break to regain our energy. All of us realize the importance of finishing the dugout.”

“No,” Rondon replied emphatically. “Not until we have made significant progress.”

Theodore Roosevelt stroked his stubbly chin. Why would Rondon blatantly alienate one of his most loyal workers? This did not seem to be a productive strategy while morale remained unmanageably low. Relaying his concerns to George Cherrie, the naturalist readily agreed. Even Colonel Rondon’s trusted Paishon shook his head without comment, swinging his axe into the dugout with newly incensed energy.

Colonel Roosevelt sensed the situation coming to a boil a short time later. George Cherrie, who had been mingling amongst the workers, pulled close to Roosevelt’s ear. “I’ve overheard some discussion amongst the men. Something is about to happen but there is some discord in their ranks. Not all are convinced of their way forward.”

“I’ve noticed the open talk has diminished rapidly,” Roosevelt said. “A sure sign something is afoot. I see Julio’s eyes darting back and forth like a cat.”

“Be prepared for anything. Keep your rifle handy.”

Roosevelt smirked. “You needn’t remind me, Mr. Cherrie.”

George Cherrie nodded subtly.

The camaradas labored for a half-hour in near silence. Julio suddenly halted, and with great flourish, the camarada dropped his axe upon the ground drawing everyone’s attention. Roosevelt watched with amusement as Julio crossed his arms and stared directly at Colonel Rondon. One by one, the other camaradas reluctantly followed Julio’s lead. Simplicio and Paishon complied lastly, standing in firm solidarity with their brethren. As usual, Lieutenant Martin stood to the side showing little outward expression, whereas Julio de Lima grinned from ear to ear.

Colonel Rondon strode forward gesturing wildly. He barked his orders in Portuguese. “Get back to work!”

Julio uttered something unintelligible and Rondon’s nostrils flared like an angry dragon. In four quick steps Rondon confronted the burly camarada face to face. Theodore Roosevelt would have deemed the scene quite comical if the situation were not so deadly serious—the diminutive Colonel stood almost a foot shorter than the fiery camarada. Rondon gestured upward like an angry school teacher scolding an over-sized teenager. The two men exchanged angry words in rapid-fire fashion, and even George Cherrie could not quite make sense of their conversation.

Roosevelt and Cherrie cocked their rifles and moved forward.

Rondon turned. “No, no,” he said, motioning downward with his palms. “No firearms. We will work this out like rational men. I will never condone turning arms on one of my own. If you do so, turn your guns also on me!”

Roosevelt and Cherrie slowly lowered their guns.

Paishon stepped tepidly between Julio and Colonel Rondon. Paishon spoke to Rondon in a mere whisper. Roosevelt moved closer but could not discern anything they discussed. Paishon pointed to the forest and then rubbed his own stomach. With a broad sweep of his hand, he waved toward the group of stationary camaradas.

Rondon spoke a few brief sentences, and the two men nodded civilly.

Julio raised his nose like a newly-crowned king. With an abrupt wave of his hand, Julio motioned the other sixteen camaradas toward the forest, and they began to move slowly away from the canoe. Several of the men nodded curtly and apologetically toward Colonel Rondon as they passed.

“And don’t forget to take some rifles and ammunition,” Rondon said firmly.

Theodore Roosevelt and George Cherrie exchanged glances. Roosevelt shook his head while Rondon strode slowly back to Roosevelt and Cherrie.

Roosevelt believed he detected a subtle smirk upon the Brazilian Colonel’s face. The former president seethed. “Do you think it wise to offer these men firearms after this… this blatant insubordination?”

Rondon shrugged. “Every one of them knows where the rifles are stored, senhor Roosevelt, and the men do have the right to defend themselves. You know as well as I they can raid the stockpile any time they desire. We must be crafty in the way this situation is handled. All will be lost if we rely on overwhelming force that we do not, and never will, possess.”

“Then you have some sort of plan?” Cherrie asked.

“Sometimes an open wound must be allowed to boil and fester before its poison can be removed.”

Roosevelt’s thought for a moment and his eyes narrowed. “I hope your little gamble pays off, Commander Rondon. With only God to witness our actions, the stakes are high.”

The camaradas remained away from camp until well past noon. They began trickling back to the campsite each carrying stalks of palmito or other edible Amazonian plants. Colonel Rondon, Roosevelt, and Cherrie spent the time taking turns at the hollowed-out tree, swinging the axe until sweat poured off their glistening foreheads. Colonel Roosevelt took only two or three good whacks in succession before he had to retreat and catch his breath.

Roosevelt took a long gulp from his canteen and watched Julio and two of his closest allies wander in lastly. Julio laughed openly when he noticed the officers performing such excruciating labor. Colonel Rondon simply ignored the loathsome camarada and continued his work in earnest.

Eventually, after eating a good portion of their newly collected bounty, Paishon, Simplicio, Antonio, and Martin relieved the officers at the dugout. Julio and the rest of the most strident laborers lounged around amid the shade of the great rubber trees, laughing and joking.

Roosevelt’s blood boiled. Nothing incensed the former president more than men who did not pull their own weight or refused to share in the sacrifices of others. He strode forward determined to put a stop to this outrageous charade, but Rondon calmly stepped into the former president’s path. “Colonel Roosevelt,” Rondon said with a tempered hand. “Please senhor let us see where this situation leads. Please…”

“We cannot let this continue, Colonel Rondon. I will not stand for this!”

“Please…” Rondon pleaded calmly.

Roosevelt took a few deep breaths. “I will not watch this expedition disintegrate before my very eyes. I simply refuse!”

“You must have patience, senhor.”

Roosevelt turned in a huff and retreated to his chair beside the campfire. He snatched a book and began to read.

Kermit and Lyra returned from their hunt just before the sun reached its afternoon apex. Kermit presented a meager Jacu-bird to Colonel Rondon, the result of over seven grueling hours in the unforgiving jungle. Lyra noticed the scanty progress on the dugout and turned to Colonel Roosevelt for an explanation.

Roosevelt waved his hand dismissively. “Ask Colonel Rondon about the men. Apparently the patients are now running the asylum. I have washed my hands of the whole affair.”

A heated argument erupted amongst a handful of camaradas congregating near the dugout. Roosevelt assumed it was a battle between those working diligently on the canoe and those not pulling their weight. Colonel Rondon appeared to ignore the spat.

“See!” Roosevelt said, motioning dramatically to Kermit and Lyra. “Now even less will be accomplished!”

Suddenly a gunshot rang out from just beyond camp. Roosevelt sprang from his seat and grabbed his rifle. Lieutenant Lyra peered around frantically, trying to determine the shot’s direction. Lyra gestured toward the woods near the provision stockpile, and the officers scrambled forward. Roosevelt hurried along, followed by the remaining camaradas.

Roosevelt arrived at the stockpile panting heavily. Simplicio stood over the provisions pointing his rifle at Julio de Lima’s head. Julio held his hands locked behind his own neck. Roosevelt noticed several emptied tins beneath Julio’s feet. Julio cocked his head and spat toward Simplicio, whereas Simplicio stepped aside, keeping his gun steady. The camaradas jabbered amongst themselves, all pointing at the empty cans.

Two camaradas lurched forward toward Julio. Paishon jumped between them, trying his best to hold the vigilantes back. The men argued vociferously, but Roosevelt sensed without doubt that not a single man took Julio’s side. Roosevelt grinned wryly, knowing the men were only arguing over the severity of Julio’s impending castigation.

Roosevelt turned to Rondon, stating calmly. “A case can be made for summary execution, Colonel. Stealing food under such circumstances can be considered a capital offense.”

“Absolutely not,” Rondon replied. “That may be true in America’s Wild West or on the battlefields of Europe, but the laws of Brazil state otherwise. The man must be brought to justice in a civilized courtroom.”

“Then you expect to hold him in cuffs for the duration of the expedition?”

“No, senhor Roosevelt, but I will allow his comrades to decide his immediate punishment.”

Theodore Roosevelt smirked. “Yes, of course, my dear Colonel. I can now see where before my anger struck me temporarily blind to your overt wisdom.” He nodded.

The camaradas stripped Julio of his shirt and bound his wrists. Antonio cut a wispy tree-branch and removed its bark. He tested the contrivance’s effectiveness by thrashing the trunk of a rubber tree. Julio’s open defiance of only hours before transformed presently into uncontrollable shaking and cowardly pleas for mercy. Roosevelt turned his head in disgust.

Lieutenant Martin secured a rope to Julio’s cuffed hands and tossed its opposite end over a high tree branch. The Englishman tightened the rope drawing Julio’s arms sharply upward and exposing his bare back. The camaradas agreed to each take a single turn with the whip.

The laborers lined up without uttering a word. Antonio stepped forward, first in line. Antonio reared back and cracked Julio’s back. Julio began crying like a child. Simplicio stepped up next. He thrashed the whip hard enough to draw a narrow column of blood beneath Julio’s slumping shoulders. Julio’s harrowing wail echoed through the thick forest. Roosevelt cringed with each successive snap. Dr. Cajazeria could not bear to watch.

The last man in line, Lieutenant Martin, stood silently before the blubbering Julio. Despite Julio’s begging, Martin stepped forward and landed the final blow. Martin tossed the whip aside.

The men all stood silently for a few moments; it seemed like an eternity to Roosevelt.

Finally, Rondon said, his voice cracking, “Cut him down and get him cleaned up.” He motioned to Dr. Cajazeria. “We all have more than enough work to do before nightfall.”

The men resumed working on the dugout with a renewed vigor and cooperation that Roosevelt had not seen for several days. When nightfall arrived, they refused to stop working, citing their great progress and desire to finish the project and to get on their way. Some of the men held candles in the darkness while others stripped down to bare skin and plied their axes whilst shaping the new canoe.

The camaradas, nearing total exhaustion and physical collapse, were finally ordered to rest by Colonel Rondon. Roosevelt glanced at his watch under the candle’s flickering light; it was just before midnight.

The men awoke the following morning to a driving rain. Colonel Rondon offered the men their rations but they refused, stating their desire to finish the new dugout before midday. By mid-morning, they completed the canoe, and with straining arms and backs, dragged its massive hull down the bank and to the shore of the swollen river. And with great sighs of relief and hearty congratulations, they sat around the sputtering campfire and proudly devoured the provisions that Brazilian Colonel Cândido Mariano da Silva Rondon had long promised.

At noon the expedition was packed up and ready to once again launch upon the River of Doubt. Kermit christened the camp Broken Canoe Rapids and the men were all quite content to leave its muddy shores, mostly barren forests, and unpleasant memories, far behind. Julio de Lima stood quietly in the driving rain beside his assigned dugout, an isolated and dejected man. Roosevelt noticed him wince occasionally when attempting to adjust Dr. Cajazeria’s freshly applied bandages. Roosevelt figured Julio’s belly most likely content with the camarada’s fair share of ration, although it was against his and many of the other’s wishes—whereas Colonel Rondon came surprisingly to the scoundrel’s defense, declaring him a comrade like all others. “Together we will make it through this jungle,” Rondon said. “Divided, we will all certainly die.”

Teddy Roosevelt had little trouble finding fault in Rondon’s fine and noble words, and those simple utterances came at no more fitting a time, he concluded. The Brazilian Colonel and I may have our differences, but I must defer to his mastery in leading these leathery and hardened men of the Amazon.

Cherrie and Roosevelt settled into their wet seats at their canoe’s center, and Colonel Rondon issued the order to embark with a simple wave of his hand. And following several mighty shoves, the boat’s steersmen leaped upon the dugouts and paddled their creaky crafts northward and into the unknown.

CHAPTER 16

The Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition’s primitive canoes meandered down the river for several rain-soaked hours. Theodore Roosevelt sat unmoving, cloaked from head to foot in his trusted raingear while the forest surrounding him grew dark and menacing, ripe with the indescribable smells of nature opening its pores to receive its life-effusing waters. Beneath him, the dark water’s swirls and eddies danced a hypnotic waltz, drawing lasting images in his ever-pondering and contemplative mind.

The men spoke little as the dugouts negotiated a handful of minor rapids, and on the more treacherous stretches of river, the shallow-draught canoes became victims of the sloshing water, forcing the crews to the river’s edge for some urgent bailing. Before embarking on this day’s journey, both Rondon and Roosevelt agreed wholeheartedly to run as many rapids as possible, unless the water presented such dangers beyond reasonable estimation. Making time on the river was now crucial, Roosevelt thought. And well worth taking a few additional risks, although caution should not be thrown to the wind.

They made decent progress by late afternoon, veering slightly east of due north and directly toward the deeps of the Amazon jungle that lay like a sleeping green lioness just a few dozen miles distant. After the expedition pulled to shore to make camp for the night, Lyra reported they had advanced nearly sixteen kilometers since noon, and the men’s spirits lifted for the first time in several tumultuous days. Antonio pointed out a grove of fresh young palm near their prospective campsite and the camaradas quickly swarmed the area cutting swathes of the belly-filling plant.

The rains ceased by nightfall and the camaradas completed setting up camp. Rondon ordered the heavy dugouts dragged upon the muddy shore, not wishing to repeat the disastrous outcomes of the last handful of days, when the river flooded overnight and some of the vessels were damaged beyond repair. The men huddled around the roaring campfire speaking with renewed optimism, and Theodore Roosevelt beamed with hope upon this most welcome turnabout in the expedition’s mindset.

Julio, however, remained as isolated and brooding as ever. Now, even his closest allies simply allowed him his space.

The men, wet and exhausted, all retired early. Roosevelt inhaled deeply the cool, fresh air and then retreated to his tent.

Upon the dawn of a new day, Theodore Roosevelt marked the fifteenth day of March off his watermarked calendar. The men were eager to be on their way under clear skies, even at the expense of a bit of breakfast or a second cup of coffee. The camaradas completed packing up camp a short time later and milled around the riverbank waiting for the officers.

Lieutenant Martin came to Roosevelt and Rondon before they shoved off. The lanky Englishman waved his hand toward the north. “The river and the lands before us are unknown to me,” he said. “I have never progressed farther than the series of rapids we have just recently traversed.”

Rondon caught Roosevelt’s eye. “Thank you, senhor Martin. You have performed your guiding duties well.”

“Yes, bravo, Mr. Martin,” Roosevelt added. “You have been of great assistance and a hard worker.”

Martin continued, “By my estimation we are about to exit the land of the Navaïté and enter the domain of the Wide Belt tribe. The path ahead will be extremely dangerous. I recommend we proceed with great caution.”

“Yes,” Rondon said. “And I suggest you occupy the lead canoe. I realize the task will subject you to great risk, but you do appear most capable when encountering new and potentially hostile tribes.”

“As you wish, Commander Rondon.”

“Choose a partner to your liking. I will ask Mr. Kermit, João, and Simplicio to guide the second lead vessel.”

Much to Colonel Roosevelt’s surprise, Lieutenant Martin chose the brooding Julio to be his crewmate on the lead canoe. Speaking few words—even to each other—the duo shoved off onto the unfamiliar waters and quickly disappeared from sight. Kermit and his crewmates departed moments later.

Theodore Roosevelt waited on shore preparing to depart with George Cherrie. Roosevelt pulled close just as the naturalist was about to set foot on the dugout. “Martin has certainly chosen a curious companion in Julio, don’t you think?”

Cherrie shrugged. “Julio is perhaps the strongest paddler of the bunch when he sets his mind to the task, and they do have some history together.”

“There are times when that truth gives me great pause, Mr. Cherrie.”

The morning sun rose silently behind the entangled and impenetrable Amazonian forest as the expedition drifted swiftly down the murky waterway. Theodore Roosevelt gazed upon the towering Brazil-nut trees, awestruck by their grand elegance, and yet the mighty rubber held his fascination more directly, their broad trunks set in patchy groves and their wide leaves spreading out in all directions like the fans held by high society southern women to thwart the summertime heat.

Upon rounding a sharp corner in the river, Roosevelt noticed the land rising on both sides of the waterway, which stirred within him a sudden and elevated concern—experience had shown that higher land generally indicated the presence of rapids upon the river ahead. The signpost was not lost on Colonel Rondon, however; only moments later the Brazilian Colonel hollered loudly, urging all crew members to exercise extreme caution.

Roosevelt’s and Rondon’s suspicions were confirmed only twenty minutes later when they heard the familiar and disturbing sounds of rushing water at a distance ahead. Roosevelt noticed the river dividing into two channels with a rocky island at its center. A mild rapid spanned the left channel parallel to the island. Roosevelt could not see past the island and down the entire length of the right-side channel. Beyond the first rapid on the left side, the river dropped precipitously. Roosevelt turned to Cherrie. “The first rapid looks passable but the second set appears problematic.”

George Cherrie nodded in agreement.

Roosevelt noticed the outline of Martin and Julio’s canoe move past the first rapids. A moment later, Martin’s canoe crept toward shore above the second stretch of white water. Meanwhile, Kermit’s canoe was heading across the channel to the island splitting the river.

Colonel Rondon motioned the other dugouts to shore.

Once Roosevelt and Rondon stepped securely upon dry land, the Brazilian Colonel looked out across the channel and upon Kermit and Simplicio, who were now climbing over the tiny island at mid-stream. Rondon shook his head. “Kermit’s little maneuver is ill-advised,” he mumbled. “Just how does he think he can get back across the channel against the current and avoid the first rapids?”

“I can only guess he’s investigating the right-hand channel of the river. It could be a better route, perhaps.”

“Indeed, a noble thought, Colonel Roosevelt, but he still risks too much.” Rondon pointed downstream. “The second set of rapids can be traversed if the dugouts are emptied. We must find a route to portage the supplies.”

Colonel Roosevelt nodded with some reluctance.

Stating his concern for Kermit and his camarada’s safety, Rondon sent Dr. Cajazeria, Lyra, and the camaradas downriver on foot in the event something went horribly wrong. If all went well with the canoes, they would get a head start scouting a route to portage around the second rapids that rushed two-hundred yards farther downriver.

Ten minutes passed and the officers watched Kermit, João, and Simplicio return to their canoe on the small island. Kermit’s dog Trigueiro was the last to hop aboard before they shoved off into the hurrying current. With long frantic strokes they headed the canoe upstream for a hundred yards before turning toward the nearest shore where Rondon and Roosevelt waited anxiously.

Halfway across the channel, the canoe drifted dangerously close to the rapids despite the paddler’s best efforts. The rickety dugout shifted dead parallel to shore within a heartbeat and rolled over, spilling man and beast into the churning river.

Roosevelt gasped.

“Everyone, downriver,” Rondon hollered.

Roosevelt hustled through the woods and downriver as quickly as his fifty-four year-old body could carry him. His heart raced while his mind conjured up the unimaginable: how would he explain Kermit’s death to his fiancée Belle, and even more sadly, what would he say to Kermit’s mother Edith? Teddy Roosevelt shuddered at the thought.

Roosevelt spotted the first hopeful sign while heading back to the riverbank—Trigueiro stood near shore, shaking off water and barking wildly. Farther downstream, Roosevelt saw Colonel Rondon and George Cherrie assisting a soaked and exhausted Kermit from the water. Roosevelt breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Just then, they all noticed João staggering up the shoreline. “Simplicio,” João cried, breathing heavily and dripping water. “I saw him…” He waved downriver. “I saw him go over the next rapids.”

“Go help Simplicio,” Kermit muttered. “I’m quite alright… please, you must find Simplicio!”

They abandoned Kermit and filed down the rugged shore and through the woods running parallel to the second set of rapids. The ground tilted abruptly downward and Teddy Roosevelt slipped and bruised his right knee. Undeterred, he continued onward, arriving below the rapids trailing the other men.

Roosevelt bent to his knees catching his breath. Colonel Rondon stood before the men spouting orders. “Spread out! We have much ground to cover. Spread out!”

Roosevelt noticed a shattered chunk of paddle dancing within a small eddy near the shore.

The men, all crying out Simplicio’s name, advanced slowly down the shoreline. Two hundred yards downriver from the last rapids, Roosevelt heard someone holler loudly from out of the scrub near the bank. Colonel Rondon motioned everyone forward.

Roosevelt arrived to find Rondon and the camaradas standing over a battered and bloodied body. Lieutenant Martin and Julio stood to the side, expressionless.

Dr. Cajazeria bent down and grasped Simplicio’s limp wrist. He shook his head slowly.

“We found him amongst the rocks,” Martin said. “Poor fellow… He must have hit his head whilst tumbling in the rapids.”

Colonel Rondon sighed deeply and crossed his chest, asking for God’s blessing. The camaradas immediately followed suit. “We will dig his grave here,” Rondon said tersely. “But not until tomorrow morning. We are wasting precious daylight. We must complete the portage before nightfall.”

Leaving Colonel Roosevelt to stand watch over Simplicio’s body, the men hurriedly mapped and carved a portage route around the rapids. With the dugouts emptied and carrying two skilled paddlers, the camaradas ran the vessels easily over both patches of white water. When the sun settled beyond the towering rubber trees and with long shadows overtaking the deep jungle, the men set up camp at the base of the rapids near the spot where Simplicio’s body lay.

As nighttime fell, the camaradas all took turns digging Simplicio’s grave—all save for Julio, Roosevelt noted. Julio sat beside the fire staring into its searing flames. Theodore Roosevelt spat on the ground.

That evening after the camaradas had all retreated to their hammocks, Dr. Cajazeria asked to speak to both Roosevelt and Colonel Rondon in private. The doctor began meekly. “If I may beg the Colonel’s pardon, I…”

“Well, out with it, good doctor!” Roosevelt said impatiently. “Is there something on your mind?”

“I would like to declare firstly that I am not skilled in autopsies, and I am certainly not trained in criminal pathology.”

“Yes…” Rondon added. “Go on.”

“But I think Simplicio’s injury unusual in some respects.”

“Unusual?”

“Yes, senhor Roosevelt, unusual…”

Roosevelt caught Rondon’s eye. “Well, let us have it with both barrels, Dr. Cajazeria. Colonel Rondon and I can certainly judge between mere speculation and truth beyond reasonable doubt.”

“My analysis will be hypothetical for certain, yet there is within my speculation a tiny shard of evidence.” Cajazeria reached into his pocket and removed a two inch sliver of wood. “I would not have found this significant if it were not discovered lodged within Simplicio’s skull. The unfortunate camarada received many scrapes and bruises, yet his head clearly absorbed the fatal blow.”

Roosevelt asked, “A wooden paddle?”

“Or the side of the dugout when it toppled over,” Rondon countered.

“Yes and yes,” Cajazeria said. “It could have been either, or it may have been both; hence my hesitation to bring it to anyone’s attention.”

Rondon shook his head. “No, doctor, you have done well to keep us informed.”

Roosevelt turned to Rondon. “Needless to say, Martin and Julio were the first to locate Simplicio’s body?”

“Yes, senhor Colonel, and yet I questioned both of these men separately after the incident and neither stated anything contradicting the other. And both assured me the other was never out of sight.”

“Although, we can say Julio most certainly had motive, can we not?”

“Yes, but Lieutenant Martin, despite his outlandish stories and his occasional impertinence, has proved to be a trustworthy guide and a tireless worker. I can’t see a man of Martin’s military and intellectual background as an accessory to murder.”

“We can never peer into the true heart of men.”

“You are correct once again, Colonel Roosevelt. But we cannot accuse men of homicide unless we have ample evidence or a solid eyewitness. Here we have some evidence and a motive, but both principal suspects have perfect alibis.”

“I feel strongly we should be very cautious with these two going forward.”

“Yes,” Rondon replied. “I could not agree with you more.”

They awoke the following morning to a steady rain. The camaradas packed up camp quickly and then all gathered around the small mound marking Simplicio’s shallow grave. Colonel Rondon uttered a few words in remembrance and then offered up a brief prayer.

At that very moment, the skies erupted into a torrential downpour. Theodore Roosevelt removed his spectacles and raised his head to the uninviting skies. He closed his eyes as the water splattered mercilessly upon his weather-beaten face and dribbled across his cracked lips.

Brushing clear his eyes and peering down once again, Roosevelt saw Colonel Rondon driving a small placard into the soft earth. On its surface, written in Portuguese, it read simply: “In these rapids died poor Simplicio.”

CHAPTER 17

Soaked by a torrential downpour and laden with heavy hearts, the expedition once again continued down the mysterious river for which Roosevelt reasoned cynically, had no foreseeable end to mitigate our misery. And yet once again, they only progressed a few kilometers before encountering rapids they could not navigate safely with the dugouts fully burdened.

Colonel Rondon and Lieutenant Lyra pushed ahead and scouted the right side of the river. Pulling back even with Roosevelt’s canoe, Rondon said, “The eastern side will provide the easiest route for the heavy dugouts. The vessels can be lowered using ropes secured from shore. We can portage the provisions along the western shore.”

The camaradas unloaded the dugouts and began cutting a temporary road through the dense vegetation under Paishon’s watchful eye. Antonio and Luiz paddled over to the right shoreline and began uncoiling rope and setting up block-and-tackle to lower the boats. Roosevelt stated openly his concerns about hostile natives and stood guard with his loaded rifle near the head of the rapids; although truthfully, his malarial fever had worsened owing to the sopping rain, and he was simply feeling miserable.

With his workers and officers fully occupied, Colonel Rondon decided to scout the terrain downriver. He whistled, drawing his favorite companion Lobo to his side.

Rondon return alone an hour later. Clearly shaken, he stood before the collected and transfixed expedition team bearing a harrowing tale. “Just a small way downriver, I thought I heard a spider monkey calling from the trees. Hoping to secure a decent meal, I sent Lobo ahead and followed him shortly thereafter. Yet then, I heard a loud yelp followed by another, and I halted. It was then I noticed the spider monkey sounds advancing toward me, and I ducked for cover.”

“No doubt a mimic,” Lieutenant Martin said. “A ruse used by the natives to lure their real prey forward to be harvested. Interesting…”

“Yes, there is little doubt we are in the midst of indigenous peoples,” Rondon replied.

“And what fate befell Lobo?” Kermit asked tepidly.

Roosevelt noticed Rondon’s eyes misting. “I’m afraid he may be the latest victim of this ill-omened journey.”

Kermit, Lyra, and Martin grabbed their rifles, and Rondon led them to the area where the encounter occurred. They returned an hour later, all bearing long faces. Kermit reported that the natives had fled before Rondon returned. Rondon shook his head and recounted how he found Lobo’s dead carcass riddled with two oddly-constructed arrows.

Martin’s bearded face exhibited the deepest concern. “The arrows were constructed of bamboo,” he said. “And tipped unlike any Nhambiquara weapons I have ever encountered. I can only assume these natives are members of the Wide Belt peoples. We left some beads and a few trinkets. Both I and Colonel Rondon believe this a practical way to promote calm dialog and to show peaceful intentions. We must remember that these people have never seen a gun, and even the dugouts would most likely be foreign to their lifestyles. Living on such an impassable stretch of river would render such transportation quite useless.”

“I have more bothersome news to report,” Roosevelt said. “While you were gone, the largest and newest dugout was destroyed when the rope bearing its weight snapped suddenly. The vessel and poor Luiz were thrust upon the river’s shoals. Luckily, Luiz was saved by our brave camaradas, but the dugout was shattered beyond repair.”

“Along with the block and tackle,” George Cherrie added. “A vital piece of equipment lost to the river’s bottom.”

Roosevelt shook his head bitterly. “We spent three full days working on that canoe. Three days of wasted time and expended energy.”

“I bear full responsibility for the dugout,” Rondon said. “The Aripuanã tree upon which it was constructed was selected for girth not buoyancy. We will seek araputanga mahogany for our next canoes. It is much easier to carve and as light as balsa. The new craft will be modestly sized and easier to handle whilst slogging through the portages.”

“Now only four dugouts remain,” Roosevelt said. “Some of the men must proceed on foot until more craft are manufactured. It would be unthinkable to compel our men to walk a thousand kilometers through this jungle.”

“I must remind the commanders,” Lieutenant Martin interrupted, “that we are currently surrounded by potentially dangerous natives. I respectfully ask that you order us through this land with some measure of urgency. The Wide Belts will likely study us from a distance until they are certain of our capabilities. With a bit of luck and maintaining the status quo, we may possibly slip through their domain unmolested.”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “That does present quite a dilemma, does it not? Either we spend several days under the native’s gaze carving new canoes, or we proceed slowly on foot and risk ambush in the forest, where the natives hold the stronger hand.”

Rondon glanced about the surrounding forest. “I don’t see any araputanga trees amongst these rubber and palm. Constructing canoes upon this spot is not an option. We must move on, at least for now.”

The expedition endured a sleepless night. When morning finally arrived, the camaradas lashed the four remaining canoes into two separate and presumably more stable craft. Colonel Rondon ordered every member of the expedition to purge most of their personal belongings and a great deal of their scientific equipment. Roosevelt quipped to Cherrie that, “Rondon wanted everyone to toss away everything they brought with them, except perhaps a few cameras, the rifles, and the clothes on their back.”

Theodore Roosevelt and Dr. Cajazeria settled in to ride one of the two canoes, along with their best paddlers and a few camaradas whose feet were so battered by cuts and infection that the officers thought they would be more hindrance then help. The remaining men would proceed through the jungle on foot.

The route through the dense jungle was painfully slow, but the men persevered, slicing their way through the foliage with axes and machetes. The dugouts were forced to shore repeatedly to allow the footmen time to catch up.

When the sun finally began its journey downward, Kermit and Rondon came upon a small river that merged with the Dúvida from the west. Colonel Rondon immediately named the river Rio Kermit and the men began setting up camp at the river’s merge. Lieutenant Lyra did some fishing at the river’s mouth and caught two huge Pacu, and the men dined that evening in fine style on the fish’s tender and flaky flesh. The men’s spirits were lifted further when Antonio, a native Pareci Indian, stated: “This is a good sign. Large fish do not advance upriver past waterfalls they cannot leap over.” He motioned with his hands. “We may be beyond the worse of the rapids.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “If only that were true, my friend—I pray this is true.”

At dawn of the next day, the eighteenth day of March 1914, Colonel Rondon lined up all of the expedition’s members and christened the Dúvida River the Rio Roosevelt. This came as little surprise to Colonel Roosevelt—he had known about the Brazilian government’s plans for several months. Roosevelt guessed the addition of the Rio Kermit to the river’s volume now ensured the Dúvida a waterway of some significance and thusly prompted Rondon to act at this most inopportune moment. Roosevelt bit his tongue, resisting the temptation to remind the proud Brazilian commander that they were currently standing openly in hostile native territory.

And yet Theodore Roosevelt accepted the honor gracefully and basked amid several hardy cheers. Thanking the men one final time, Roosevelt urged Rondon to order the men forward and downriver: “Before we are all christened with arrows.”

In modest spirits, the expedition meandered north along the shoreline of the Rio Roosevelt as the dugouts floated ahead upon the placid current. The men trudging along shore soon reported finding a human-made trail, a discovery that appeared to concern Lieutenant Martin greatly. “We are very near to their main village,” the Englishman said tersely. “I cannot stress the importance of remaining vigilant at all times.”

“Please take the lead, Lieutenant Martin,” Rondon said.

Martin nodded dutifully and moved quietly ahead. Antonio and Kermit followed closely behind.

The men soon heard human voices coming from the jungle. With their hearts racing and their eyes peeled to the path, they stumbled upon a small native village shortly thereafter. The paddlers silently pushed Roosevelt’s raft to shore, whereupon Theodore Roosevelt noticed deserted huts surrounded by smoldering fires. “They must have fled in panic upon our arrival,” he told Rondon.

“Do not be mistaken,” Martin cautioned. “They are watching our every move from the forest. They will probe for weakness.”

Colonel Rondon left an axe, knife, and a few trinkets behind as a gesture of goodwill, and then he ordered the men onward with great haste. Roosevelt felt the eyes of the forest upon him.

A few hours later, they came to another small river entering the Rio Roosevelt from the east. After stopping to admire a small waterfall at the tributary’s mouth, they continued onward encountering some mild rapids only a few miles later. They ran the rapids with only a trifling portage and then set up a campsite at the rapid’s foot.

Colonel Rondon declared with great satisfaction that he had discovered a grove of araputanga mahogany trees growing upon the riverbank close to camp. The co-commander’s conferred and then announced plans to build two new canoes before advancing any further. “Risking the construction within the native’s domain is dangerous,” Roosevelt told the others. “But slowly slogging through the jungle on foot would be riskier still.”

Following the next sunrise, the camaradas were hard at work on the new dugouts. They located and felled two great araputanga trees in short order and by mid-morning began the arduous task of shaping the canoes.

Roosevelt, Cherrie, and Kermit took turns bathing in the dark river despite taking some deadly piranha from the very same spot only a day before. Each of the officers also took shifts guarding the camp against hostile intruders.

At noontime, a ruckus broke out amongst the camaradas. Paishon hurriedly reported back to Rondon. The burly camarada pointed excitedly toward the forest. “I saw three natives move through the forest. They were well hidden and crouched down very low. They each wore wide belts of mahogany around their stomachs.”

Roosevelt raised his rifle. “Where are they?”

“They are gone, senhor Roosevelt. We grabbed a rifle and moved forward, but they were gone in the blink of an eye.”

Rondon rubbed his chin. “They appear to be growing bolder each day.”

Lieutenant Martin stepped forward. “May I confer with the commanders for a moment?”

“Of course,” Rondon said.

“Might I suggest granting me leave to study and negotiate with these people?”

“This is a very risky move, Lieutenant,” Roosevelt said. “Some might even say, suicidal.”

Rondon shook his head. “We simply cannot afford to lose your strength and dedicated labor, senhor Martin.”

“I am well aware of the risks, commanders, and I am willing to die for my cause. I have approached previously un-contacted tribes in the past and have achieved satisfactory results. I fear that we are all sitting ducks whilst standing out here in openly hostile country.”

“Very well,” Rondon replied, sighing deeply.

Martin shaved his beard and cut his wavy hair within a touch of his skull. He removed his clothes and wrapped a strip of mahogany bark several times around his narrow waist. Bidding his fellow camaradas farewell, he stepped away and into the dense jungle.

Theodore Roosevelt shook his head and stared off into the wilderness. Whatever suspicions he had regarding the Englishman’s intentions and actions, paled when compared to his own admiration of the man’s unwavering bravery. I cannot speak of his morals, he thought. But of his manhood, I have little doubt.

CHAPTER 18

The camaradas labored on the new canoes during every daylight hour for two nerve-racking days. Swinging their axes with great tenacity, the men kept their eyes peeled on the outlying forest and any movement whether perceived or imagined. Even the expedition’s officers were not immune to the palpable sense of entrapment and claustrophobia felt by the rank-and-file. Kermit and Lyra prowled the camp’s periphery armed with rifles while Theodore Roosevelt scanned the forest holding fast to the slim hope for Lieutenant Martin’s successful return.

The canoes were taking shape nicely following the second full day of construction. Paishon reported to Rondon his optimistic estimate that only one more day of labor should suffice to finish the project. The men sat around the crackling fire that evening dining on fresh piranha caught amid the river’s swirling eddies.

Suddenly, they all heard a loud holler come from the dark forest, and the men around the campfire silenced. Kermit and Cherrie grabbed their rifles. Paishon rose slowly to his feet and released a high-pitched howl. Another yell emanated from the woods, this time a bit closer.

The solitary figure of Lieutenant Martin slowly emerged within the campfire’s flickering light.

“I trust you are alone?” Roosevelt asked nervously.

“I come with no others,” Martin replied.

Following some friendly greetings from his fellow camaradas and offers of a meager portion of fish, Martin urgently pulled the officers aside.

Even amid the dimmed light Roosevelt noticed Martin’s face showing deep concern. Missing was the over-confident and somewhat conceited anthropologist he’d observed upon first meeting the wayward Englishman just a month before at the Bonifácio station. Roosevelt now stood before a man somewhat out-of-sorts, a man whose arrogance had transformed to angst.

Lieutenant Martin began slowly. “Yes, I was granted an audience with the Wide Belt peoples. Their main village is located a few kilometers from this spot along the small tributary we had passed just a short way back upriver.

“The initial greeting was unpleasant and I was even taken hostage at first. They understood I was an outsider, but they did not place me as a member of this expedition until I explained I was so.”

“Then you understood their language?” Rondon asked.

“The Wide Belts speak a dialect of Old Tupi. It is similar to the Nhambiquara tongue but closer to Pareci. Our Antonio, a Pareci himself, would make a competent interpreter.”

“Then you were very fortunate,” Roosevelt said. “It must have been of some consolation to understand their concerns and retain the capability to articulate your own, was it not?”

“Yes, Colonel Roosevelt, I was fortunate indeed. Their chief is a man named Tataire; although chief is a relatively misleading term when describing the Wide Belt leadership structure. It appears each major household has its own chief in any practical sense, but Tataire seems to hold a great deal of sway amongst this particular community.”

Rondon stroked his chin. “Do you suppose we could use this loose power structure to our advantage?”

“Yes,” Martin replied, “although it will only get us so far.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Wide Belt chief told me that all of his tribe fled when they first heard us thundering through the woods, scaring away their game. Many saw our long beards and our strange garb and our senseless hollowed trees that floated upon the river, not realizing we were human like them!”

“Is that not good?” Roosevelt asked. “If they fear us, then they may let us pass without incident. A stalemate, some might say.”

Martin shook his head subtly. “Let me pose a simple question to Mr. Cherrie. What do indigenous peoples do to creatures they determine are not human?”

George Cherrie smirked. “Why, you know the answer to that question, Mr. Martin—they have them for dinner.”

“Precisely.”

Theodore Roosevelt shook his head, glancing at Kermit and then to Rondon.

Martin continued, “And yet that may not be our most pressing concern. Tataire told me in no uncertain terms that we are prohibited from advancing downriver under penalty of death. The lands to their north and west are considered sacred to the Wide Belt people and forbidden to outsiders.”

Cherrie asked, “You’re not imparting ridiculous stories about prehistoric monsters again, are you?”

Martin waved his hand. “I am only relaying the message given to me by their chief, Mr. Cherrie. Take of it what you will. However, Tataire told me they may allow us to retreat upriver, but only if satisfactory remuneration can be agreed upon.”

“What kind of remuneration?” Rondon asked.

“I simply do not know—but neither, I surmise, does Tataire. Therefore I can deduce we may have a measurable chance to escape our doom, if the payment is right.”

Roosevelt crossed his arms. “I don’t like being held for ransom under any circumstance, especially when we possess rifles and ample ammunition. I say, let us die with dignity and with our heads held high. A good man has already sacrificed his life for this expedition. I have not come this far simply to turn tail and run.”

“The tribal elders have asked for a contingent of our leaders to meet at the village.”

“Please, senhor Roosevelt,” Rondon said. “Think this through rationally. We will run out of bullets before the natives run short of men, bows, and poison arrows. What you propose is a death sentence for us all.”

Roosevelt waved his hand dismissively. “Very well, commander Rondon, but I am not strolling into this village without my rifle.”

“Indeed,” Lieutenant Martin added. “I think it wise to arm our contingent the best we can. The Wide Belts will care little about the ‘sticks’ we carry—they will not know our rifle’s deadly capabilities. It may be our strongest edge, and one we can keep secreted.”

Rondon shook his head. “I cannot in good conscience advocate the killing of indigenous peoples no matter—”

“Good night,” Roosevelt interrupted, rising to his feet. Colonel Theodore Roosevelt had heard quite enough of Rondon’s blathering about native’s rights at present. “I will meet you at sunrise with my gun loaded and readied. And I can assure all of you that my pockets will be full of ammunition. Good day, gentlemen.”

They awoke the next morning to menacing skies. Rondon chose Antonio to accompany Roosevelt, Cherrie, Martin, and himself as ambassadors to the Wide Belt village. Kermit and Lyra were tasked to stand guard at the campsite while the remaining camaradas hurriedly completed the two canoes.

Kermit, to nobody’s surprise, refused to leave his father’s side despite Roosevelt’s and Rondon’s pleas to the contrary.

The party armed themselves the best they could, except for Colonel Rondon who steadfastly refused to carry his rifle into the native’s settlement. Rondon gathered as many trinkets and other items that he could spare and then tied them securely in a cloth sack. Theodore Roosevelt shook his head with disapproval. Now is the time to show strength, not compromise, he reasoned.

Before setting out, Roosevelt glanced around stealthily and then ducked into his tent. He sped through his belongings until he found the copper slab with the etching of the Dark Beast that Lieutenant Martin had given to him. He shoved it into his pocket.

The six men slipped out of camp and into the forest, retracing the winding Rio Roosevelt up and to the southeast. The slog through the heavy brush was brutal on the undernourished men. Roosevelt in particular had the toughest time traversing the gradual uphill route—stopping to rest on several occasions flush with malarial fever and crippled with bouts of his ever-problematic asthma.

They reached the small tributary described by Martin by late morning. With their rifles readied, they began to trek eastward along a well-worn native trail. Lieutenant Martin treaded lightly whilst leading the way forward. Teddy Roosevelt watched with great interest as the bark-clad and clean-shaven Englishman stepped forward and hollered a warning every two or three hundred steps.

Several solemn and fierce faces soon emerged from the folds of the great Amazonian trees; although the moment they saw Roosevelt and his men, they fled back into the jungle.

“They will go to the village and warn the elders of our impending arrival,” Martin said. “We must be on our guard from this point forward.”

After a few more brief encounters, the wary ambassadors strode through an opening in the woods and directly into a village of twenty-five or thirty crudely thatched huts. Roosevelt noticed a smoldering fire-pit amid a cluster of palm-laced structures. Cherrie caught Roosevelt’s attention and motioned toward the huts. Dozens of native women and small children peered forth from low-cut doorways. Roosevelt caught their faces briefly before the natives retreated back inside. Beside one of the huts, a miserable-looking wild tapir stood tied to a post. Waiting to be dinner, Roosevelt thought. These people could certainly use the protein, as long as their intended meal is not us!

Martin led Rondon, Roosevelt, and Antonio to the central fireplace and sat promptly on the ground. George Cherrie and Kermit, with their rifles readied, flanked their comrades to either side.

Roosevelt saw several native men slip cautiously from their huts and out into the open courtyard. Moving like stalking cats, they surrounded the ambassadors on all sides. The native’s faces were long and gaunt and many bore brightly colored paint and odd tattoos. Wordlessly, two proud men moved forward toward Lieutenant Martin. The second man, perhaps twenty years older than the first, remained a few steps behind. Roosevelt noticed a family resemblance and guessed the second man was the other’s father.

“The chief Tataire,” Martin whispered.

Tataire and his companion sat on the ground directly in front of the oddly-dressed strangers.

Firstly, Lieutenant Martin spoke a few lines in Old Tupi, and Antonio interpreted for Roosevelt and Rondon. “Greetings, chief Tataire. As you can see I have brought a group of my contingent before you to pay homage to the Wide Belt people.” Martin bowed slightly.

“Yes, I can see,” Tataire replied, waving his hand. “And I see they carry no bows and arrows, so this is quite satisfactory.” Roosevelt noticed Tataire’s eyes wander around the clearing as if the chief were noting his adversary’s strength and number.

“We have brought with us several generous gifts. We will present these to your village so that we can pass peacefully through your tribal lands.”

Colonel Rondon leaned forward and handed the cloth bag to Tataire. The chief opened the bag and carefully removed a tin cup and small hand-axe. Tataire grabbed the axe’s handle and made several chopping motions in mid-air.

“This is very wise,” Tataire said. “Our warriors are many, and we can slaughter you any time we desire.”

“So, you will allow us to proceed downriver?” Roosevelt asked somewhat impatiently.

Before Antonio could interpret, Martin raised his palm in protest. “Please, Colonel Roosevelt…”

“Ask him, Antonio! I’m giving you a direct order.”

Antonio posed the question to Tataire and the native chief’s eyes flashed with anger. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You will not be allowed to pass the rapids where you are now making sleep-times.”

“Why?”

“The lands are forbidden to peoples who are not of our tribe.” Tataire pointed southward and backwards. “If the gifts are satisfactory to the elders, you will be allowed to return upriver. But only if they agree.”

“Can you tell us why it’s forbidden?” Cherrie asked.

Tataire turned to the older man sitting behind him. The older man responded with a quick shake of his head.

“No,” Tataire said emphatically.

Theodore Roosevelt promptly removed the copper etching from his pocket and handed it directly to the native chief. Roosevelt noticed a slight smirk cross Lieutenant Martin’s leathery face.

Tataire looked the slab over and then offered—what Roosevelt could only describe was—a native’s version of a disinterested shrug. Martin’s eyes widened and his mouth lay agape. Without even looking, Roosevelt could almost sense Colonel Rondon’s mocking glare. Cherrie shook his head and snorted with annoyed amusement.

Tataire turned and offered the copper slab to the older native man. The elder stared down for a moment and then rubbed his weathered hand across the medallion’s metallic face. Suddenly, the man looked up excitedly and rose on spindly legs. “Arawuua,” he cried with widened eyes. “Arawuua!”

CHAPTER 19

Theodore Roosevelt sat at the center of the Wide Belt village watching chief Tataire confer with a cluster of painted Amazonian warriors and village elders. Roosevelt guessed from their animated gestures and the tone of their chatter that the native’s debated with great passion, and yet some division remained within their festered ranks. Finally, the Wide Belt chieftain appeared to have heard quite enough of the bickering and raised his hand for order. Tataire held his nose high and turned back to Roosevelt and Colonel Rondon.

“The elders believe witchcraft has empowered the strangers to draw images of the sacred Arawuua through their sleep-dreams or through other herbs or medicines, known or unknown. The mighty beast allows itself to be seen only to the bravest of spirit and the strongest of body. And yet it requires an even greater warrior to slay the Arawuua and return to our tribal lands triumphant and proclaim one’s self a chieftain of the highest order.”

Tataire glanced at the elder man sitting behind him. “My father was the last warrior to see the Arawuua with waking eyes, so we grant him high status in our tribe until the day he sleeps forever and is consumed by the forest. He tells me the strange flat stone you have offered shows a likeness of the Arawuua and that great witchcraft is likely at work. We also believe that the witch’s spell can only be broken if we speak to you and answer your questions without deceit.”

Roosevelt glanced at both Rondon and George Cherrie.

“Does the Arawuua still live?” Cherrie asked. “Or does the Arawuua only exist in men’s dreams?”

Tataire shook his head. “Warriors journey to the land of the Arawuua each dry season during a ritual we call the Kariati. The land of the Arawuua is many days travel along the great river in the same direction as the water flows. The journey is long and harsh, and only the fit among us dare attempt its passage. The Arawuua live just beyond a stretch of river that runs between high rock cliffs that block the skies. The way is marked by rock etchings made by our ancient ancestors to warn all not worthy to witness the beasts.

“I have made this journey each season since I first came of age, but it brings me great sadness that the Gods have not yet granted me the privilege of fulfilling my destiny like my forefathers.”

“Please do not take offence, great chief Tataire,” Roosevelt said. “But do you think the Arawuua beast lives no more?”

“Several seasons ago, I and my warriors heard the great cries of the Arawuua far in the distance but could not find the elusive beast after days of hunting. We have also seen its tracks, but the great footprints were not fresh and led us nowhere. Despite our offerings, the Gods have not allowed us our highest honor and tradition.”

“Offerings…? Colonel Rondon asked.

“Our ancestors built a large stone hut within the Arawuua’s domain. The hut has a high wall and protects the warriors as they sleep and wait to hunt the beast. To prevent witchcraft, it has been our tradition to offer the Arawuua gifts, like arrows, beads, and sacred rocks that we sift from the ground. All of the items are left at the hut to honor the beast’s sacrifices.”

A notion suddenly struck Roosevelt, but he couldn’t quite align his thoughts. Rocks from the ground...? Somehow this had to be a missing piece from the grand puzzle of Lieutenant Martin and Julio’s odd relationship.

Rondon said, “If you allow us to pass, Chief Tataire, you will have my word that we will not disrespect your sacred lands. We will remain in our hollowed-out logs and pass swiftly through the Arawuua’s abode on the river’s current.”

Following Antonio’s translation, the elders behind Tataire buzzed with hushed chatter.

Tataire raised his hand. “The land of the Arawuua is sacred. We will never allow non-humans to pass within its realm.”

Roosevelt glanced at each of his men.

Colonel Rondon rubbed his chin. “Then you will allow us to pass back from the direction we have just journeyed and away from your sacred lands?”

Antonio translated Rondon’s words carefully, but the chieftain simply sat quietly. Roosevelt noticed Tataire’s eyes shifting ever so slightly. Several painted warriors slipped forward in an ever tightening circle around the expedition’s men. Roosevelt watched one warrior pull close to Kermit. The native reached out to touch his son’s rifle. Kermit pulled away forcefully.

Antonio’s hands shook. He said in English, “Colonel Roosevelt, I do not think—”

“Kermit!” Roosevelt shouted.

Kermit raised his rifle.

“No, senhor Kermit!” Rondon sprang to his feet, waving his hands.

Kermit pointed his gun directly at the emaciated tapir and pulled the trigger. The beast shrieked and collapsed, its chest oozing blood. Kermit cocked his rifle and fired again. The beast’s skull splattered red. The warriors scattered, yelling madly. Roosevelt, Cherrie, and Martin jumped to their feet and raised their rifles.

Amid the pandemonium, chief Tataire trotted to the tapir’s bloodied corpse. He bent to inspect its remains. With widened eyes, he ran into the nearest hut.

“Go!” Roosevelt cried to his men.

The six men flew down the twisting path and away from the Wide Belt village as fast as their legs could carry them. Lieutenant Martin trailed behind purposely, checking every so often to see if they were being pursued. Following a good half-hour trot, they halted to catch their breath.

Martin caught up to the group and reported to Roosevelt and Rondon. “I see no sign of pursuit.”

Roosevelt gasped for breath. “That does not mean… we should not make good time. Our guns may have frightened them in the short term… but they may work up the nerve to follow… nonetheless.”

“I agree,” Rondon said. “We should vacate these lands with great haste.”

Martin nodded curtly. “Herein the Wide Belt’s power structure based on consensus may be to our advantage, though.”

“Indeed, a valid point,” Roosevelt said. “It may take days for them to organize a posse. Or… they may be on the chase… right now.”

“Yes, we can never be certain.”  Rondon motioned. “Onward!”

They moved swiftly through the forest and down along the Rio Roosevelt to the north, consuming the afternoon’s remaining hours. Nearing evening and totally exhausted, they finally arrived back at their campsite below the rapids. Roosevelt, near collapse, was relieved to see the two new canoes on the riverbank ready for launch.

“Attention, everyone,” Rondon hollered, strolling into camp. “We must leave now and quickly. There is no time for explanation.”

The camaradas sensed Rondon’s urgency and sprang into action. The officers jumped in to lend a hand, and the men broke down camp in record time. By sunset, the six dugouts were loaded, manned, and ready to launch.

“We will have the light of the half-moon until well past midnight,” Rondon said. “I realized the way forward on this river is suicidal by night, but trust me when I say that what pursues us may be more dangerous still.”

The camaradas needed no further explanation, Roosevelt assumed.

Under the dim moonlight they meandered down the creeping river. Theodore never felt so insecure upon every turn and swirl, and upon every strange and odd sound emanating from out of the Amazonian forest’s shrouded darkness. Roosevelt pulled his coat tight as the camaradas dipped their paddles and uttered orders amongst their ranks trying valiantly to keep their precious canoes and cargoes from disaster.

Finally, several hours after midnight and after hearing the hiss of a potential run of rapids ahead in the darkness, Colonel Rondon ordered the dugouts to shore. Roosevelt calculated they had run a respectable twenty kilometers along the shadowy river, but he was somewhat relieved when Rondon decided to call a temporary end to their dangerous escape. Remaining on their respective canoes, the men curled up and attempted to get some sleep, although Roosevelt got little or no rest until the stars disappeared and the skies brightened with the dawn of a new day.

The camaradas labored hard throughout the following morning to bypass the rapids that had stopped them in the wee hours of the previous night. They climbed back into their dugouts with great hope but were once again halted by more white water just an hour later. While the workers struggled to bypass the new rapids, the officers and Lieutenant Martin scouted ahead and found an abandoned native village.

“Thankfully,” Martin said “The natives appear to occupy this settlement only during the dry season. We should be safe to pass without fear.”

The camaradas completed the portage by early evening and settled around the campfire to receive their meager rations.

George Cherrie and Theodore Roosevelt strolled to the river’s edge as the forest darkened and the insects began their nocturnal chatter.

“Well, George,” Roosevelt began. “It seems like we made a narrow escape. We were very fortunate.”

“Yes, Colonel, but I will not feel secure until we are well beyond these lands.”

Roosevelt smiled wryly. “George, I’m curious. Do you suppose the sacred rocks mentioned by the chieftain as offerings to their beasts could be gold?”

Cherrie shook his head. “Colonel, did you not notice the shaman standing behind the chieftain’s father?”

“No, I cannot say… I was a bit occupied.”

“When the shaman moved closer, I could clearly see a braided vine necklace hanging from his neck.”

“And...?”

“At the proper angle I could see plainly, the necklace was interlaced with rough-cut diamonds.”

CHAPTER 20

The expedition embarked at the crack of dawn eager to put some distance between themselves and any pursuers. Just minutes after leaving shore, Antonio cried out and pointed toward a wild tapir crossing the waterway in front of the lead canoes. Kermit and Cherrie both scrambled for their rifles, but they were once again too late. The beast crossed to shore and sped off into the brush.

The expedition didn’t progress very far. Only a kilometer and a half farther downriver and after several severe twists and turns, they encountered another set of impassable rapids, and the paddlers directed their canoes toward shore.

The camaradas immediately began to unload the provisions and prepare for portage. Colonel Rondon sent Lieutenant Martin back to watch for any sign of the Wide Belt natives, while Rondon and Lyra, along with Kermit and Antonio scouted both sides of the river ahead. Paishon—with Roosevelt’s concurrence—sent two men out to collect palmito to placate the laborer’s pervasive hunger.

Rondon reported another river merging from the west even larger than the Rio Kermit, the tributary they had just discovered a few days before. The new river flowed into the Rio Roosevelt at approximately the mid-point of the rapids. “Judging by the size of this newest tributary,” Rondon said to Roosevelt. “I feel it impossible that the Rio Roosevelt flows directly into either the Gy-Paraná or the Tapajos Rivers; although it could go into an affluent of the Madeira, which runs alongside the Tapajos.”

“What about the Aripuanã,” Roosevelt asked.

Rondon grinned. “Once again, Colonel Roosevelt, you impress me with your knowledge of Brazilian topography.”

“Sadly the English map I carry is woefully incomplete, failing to label the tributary by name.”

“Yes, senhor, nothing but the mouth of the Aripuanã has ever been charted by any modern geographer. And yet I have spoken to some rubber-gatherers who have ascended sections of the river, but they reportedly only progressed so far before turning back to the river’s mouth once again.”

Lieutenant Martin returned from his scouting assignment by late afternoon. He reported finding no sign of any natives stalking the expedition, and a collective sigh of relief was felt across all levels of the expedition’s team. The camaradas made camp just below the rapids, tucked away in a tiny bay with a pleasant white sand beach. The campsite was carved from a section of river where the water flowed wide and strong, and where they could easily embark once the portage was complete.

The men slept soundly that night for the first time in a week. Colonel Rondon left nothing to chance, posting armed guards around the camp’s periphery until sunrise.

The morning of the twenty-fifth of March brought clear skies and a vivid sunrise. Colonel Roosevelt noted in his journal that they now had been navigating the newly christened Roosevelt River for nearly an entire month. After receiving Rondon’s daily orders, the camaradas bore the last of the canoes past the rapids and down to their campsite. Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra supervised the tiring chore, but both men pitched in to help with the heavy lifting at every opportunity.

Theodore Roosevelt reveled in the pleasant morning. He bundled his spare clothes and strolled down to the white sand beach below camp. George Cherrie stood knee-deep in the tea-colored water, sloshing his own extra trousers through the sluggish current.

“A fine day,” Roosevelt said. “And a most lovely spot, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Colonel, a welcome respite…” Cherrie pointed upward into the trees. “Did you notice?”

“Yes, of course, parakeets of many hues and large toucans, colorful and pleasing to the eye. Magnificent!”

“Behold the Amazon jungle displayed in full splendor for your explicit enjoyment, Mr. President.”

“And yet I must apologize, George, for I bear a bit of disagreeable news. Kermit and Lyra have sent me on a mission to ask you to assist with slogging the largest canoe.”

Cherrie nodded and waded toward shore. “Of course, Colonel, allow me a moment to stow my laundry.”

“Give them to me.”

“You?”

“Yes, George, I’ve waited nearly a month but I feel it about time I demonstrate some of my accumulated and previously hidden skills. Let me have your worst. Hand them over.”

Cherrie smiled. “As you wish, Colonel, perhaps someday I will tell my grandchildren how I once had my skivvies laundered by the President of the United States!”

Roosevelt laughed.

Roosevelt applied a tad of lye and soaked the garments in the murky river. He wrung the clothes tightly and laid them out upon the rocks where the sun’s rays managed to penetrate the forest’s canopy. Standing alone amid his thoughts, Roosevelt relished the sights and sounds of the forest; his eyes danced upon the gently swirling water as it slid past him and out of sight to the north.

His brief, peaceful interlude was interrupted upon noticing Lieutenant Martin’s approach. Martin settled his bony frame upon a large flat rock and set his rifle aside.

“Mr. Martin, what brings you here? Have you seen any sign of the Wide Belts?”

“I can report with great relief to myself and all others that I have seen no indication of pursuit of any kind. And yet, as I have stated repeatedly, I would caution against letting down our guard.”

“That is wise council, Lieutenant, and one for which you can rest assured we will continue to abide.”

“Brilliant, Colonel, simply brilliant.”

Roosevelt wiped his brow. “Is there anything else, Mr. Martin?”

“Why yes, Colonel Roosevelt. I am sincerely interested in hearing your opinion regarding our little chat with the Wide Belt chief.”

“Yes?”

“And the chief’s father, who appears to be one of the last men to see—”

“—witness a large and yet to be identified creature?”

Martin hesitated briefly. “Yes, you may say so if you wish.”

“That is what I believe, Mr. Martin.”

“And yet you do suppose there is some kind of unknown beast lurking in the jungle ahead, do you not? The narrative comes from three different sources, and now we have met an actual eyewitness?”

“Many years have passed since the chief’s father last encountered this animal, and these indigenous peoples do partake in many hallucinogenic festivities. His memories could very well be dreams manifesting as reality, conjured in the feeble mind of a woefully malnourished man.”

“Colonel Roosevelt, just imagine the impact on the scientific community if the existence of this creature can be substantiated with solid evidence. The Museum of Natural History will bask in glorious praise from all quarters.”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Well, I do have little doubt Osborn himself would be tickled beyond comprehension upon such a find.”

“Then you will support sending out an exploratory expedition when we reach the Wide Belt’s sacred land?”

“I cannot promise such…”

“But you do hold great sway with Rondon, correct?”

“Not as much as you may imagine, Lieutenant. And you must always remember that I have a greater responsibility to get our men through this mission and back home safely.”

“Yes, of course…”

“And now I have a question specifically for you, Lieutenant.”

“Yes.”

“What motivates you to risk your life on the slim chance of being successful in this quest?”

Martin laughed. “That is a fair question, and one I have not articulated to anyone’s satisfaction, it appears.”

“Yes, you can say we officers are boundlessly curious. Perhaps you seek riches, gold…?”

“I am a scientist, Mr. Roosevelt.”

“Diamonds?”

Roosevelt noticed a tiny flicker in Martin’s eyes. “My own curiosity rules my existence, Colonel. I need no other creature comforts; although I admit the desire to share the spotlight with my colleagues like most other ambitious intellectuals.” Martin smiled devilishly. “And we both know the lure of the people’s accolades, do we not?”

Roosevelt smirked. “I will see what I can do.”

The camaradas retired early, leaving Roosevelt, Rondon, and George Cherrie to mind the campfire. Roosevelt inhaled the sweet odor of smoldering brazil-nut and palm. Roosevelt pulled himself close, speaking in little more than a whisper. “Lieutenant Martin came to me yesterday and once again pleaded his case to investigate the Wide Belt’s legend.”

Rondon shook his head. “The Arawuua beast?”

Roosevelt nodded. “I gave him my word that I would present his request to be considered in earnest.”

“The creature is unquestionably a product of countless generations of native lore,” Cherrie said. “I doubt it has walked the earth for several centuries—most likely hunted to extinction by the chief’s ancestors.”

“Yet there could be a slim chance it may still exist in isolated pockets. And no temperate area on earth can claim to be more isolated than the deep Amazon.”

“Still, Colonel, the chances of finding a new, giant species of crocodile or caiman is practically non-existent, especially in the short time we will have to search.”

“I am the least physically-able of us all,” Roosevelt said. “And I personally stand willing to take this leap of faith for purposes of scientific discovery.”

“But will the rank-and-file concur, senhor Roosevelt?” Rondon said. “We have already asked the men for heroic courage and strength on this mission. Delaying their journey home even by a few days could be the difference between life and death.”

Roosevelt thought for a moment before replying somberly. “Yes, I have once again allowed myself to wander from the expedition’s stated goals, and I humbly apologize to you both.”

Theodore Roosevelt stared in the fire’s glowing coals amid Rondon’s and Cherrie’s telltale silence. He could not determine whether he was relieved, saddened, or deeply disappointed.

The following morning, Lieutenant Lyra instructed their best three paddlers to guide the unburdened canoes to the base of the rapids where they presently camped. Paishon found the surrounding forest well-stocked with brazil-nuts, palmito, and even huge nests filled with honey-comb. A group of camaradas caught a half-dozen piranha and the men feasted within the shade of the towering rubber trees under a blazing noontime sun.

George Cherrie returned to camp following a short excursion to collect some new feathered specimens. He displayed a puzzled look and conveyed a curious tale. Along the rapids, the lanky naturalist had discovered a rock outcropping scarred by strange markings. Cherrie led Roosevelt, Rondon, and Lieutenant Martin to the spot.

Theodore Roosevelt gazed up in helpless wonder. He noticed two sets of distinct markings etched in stone: one set faced the land, the other faced the river. The markings tilting toward land consisted of four evenly-spaced dotted circles and four figures of squiggly lines.

“Curious…” Cherrie said.

“No doubt, very ancient,” Rondon added.

Lieutenant Martin moved closer. “These are distinct tribal symbols. I have only seen such markings used by people native to the Bolivian highlands. These are extremely rare amongst the remote peoples of the deep Amazon.”

“What do they mean?” Roosevelt asked.

“The symbols facing the land signify that certain death lies ahead by way of the forest, and the symbols facing the water mean—”

“I think we can all hazard a guess, Lieutenant,” Roosevelt interrupted, his words dripping with measured sarcasm. “And thank you for your earnest assessment.”

CHAPTER 21

The men dined that evening on fresh fish and delicious wild pineapple. Many of the camaradas admitted feeling nearly rejuvenated, although several of the men remained weakened with fever and crippled with swollen feet from ferocious insect bites or festering cuts made while trekking across the razor-sharp jungle floor. Lieutenant Lyra assigned a single sentry in four-hour shifts and the remaining men slept soundly, listening to the usual chatter of nocturnal Amazonian creatures going about their business beneath the starry southern sky.

Roosevelt awakened early on the following day eager to complete his notes before the camaradas broke camp and the expedition moved onward and into the unknown. He wrote in his diary for March twenty-seventh of their encounter with the Wide Belts and of their harrowing escape from the hostile natives, and he noted Cherrie’s discovery of the strange rock carvings beside the river.

Roosevelt carefully tucked away his papers and ink, and then he watched the camaradas hurriedly extinguish the campfire and pack up camp. Lieutenant Martin returned from an early morning scouting assignment, whereupon Roosevelt motioned him over.

“I don’t quite know how to break this to you gently, Lieutenant, so I’ll just come right out and say it directly: the officers have decided not to investigate the Wide Belt’s legend. They believe we should continue through these lands and complete our mission with utmost haste.”

Martin took a moment to presumably collect his thoughts. “It stands without saying that I feel this is a colossal blunder on the expedition’s part.”

“And it very well may be, but we appear to have little choice at this point. The men are in such desperate shape with sickness and so near starvation. Any delay could be catastrophic to—”

“The loss within the scientific realm could be staggering, Colonel.”

Roosevelt lowered his eyes sympathetically. “Yes, perhaps, but I will promise to throw my weight behind another mission when this expedition is completed. I will pledge to return to these lands and perform a thorough autopsy of this legend.”

“But that could take years, Colonel, perhaps decades to organize. The beast may very well be extinct if we delay any further. Clearly, the time to act is now! We have the manpower, and we have the guns and ammunition in our possession. The world’s greatest scientific discovery is within our grasp. I beg of you, Mr. Roosevelt, don’t throw it all away.”

“I’m afraid searching for the beast is presently out of the question, Mr. Martin. And our answer in this regard is resolute.”

Martin’s eyes flashed anger. “Such foolishness I have not seen—”

“Careful, Lieutenant!” Roosevelt raised his finger.

Martin sighed. “Is that all, Colonel?”

Roosevelt replied with a stern glare.

The flotilla was extraordinarily brief on this morning, following a late breakfast made up of only a small fraction of their provisions in addition to some honey and milk-root leftover from the previous day. Roosevelt noticed the land rising to steep hills covered in lofty trees and dense green vegetation. The river they were presently descending appeared to split the hills, rushing off and downward to the north and west. Upon observing the moderately-sized mountains, Roosevelt turned to Cherrie and gestured wordlessly.

“Rapids,” Cherrie responded glumly.

“A logical conclusion,” Roosevelt replied.

Theodore Roosevelt calculated they had advanced a mere three kilometers from their last camp when they were once again forced to shore by turbulent water. Colonel Rondon and Lieutenant Lyra surveyed the situation quickly and determined that the canoes could run the rapids if the vessels were emptied and sent down piloted by two skilled paddlers.

Paishon chose his best camaradas, and the dugouts were navigated down a long series of rapids between the tropical hills. The final two dugouts, lashed together for stability, were the last to be conveyed. Paishon chose himself to captain the creaky vessel along with Antonio, Luiz, and Julio.

The camaradas, in good spirits following the successful and timely completion of moving the previous canoes, pushed the double-wide craft onto the hurrying water. Roosevelt and Rondon watched closely from shore while the camaradas paddled deftly down the channel and into the misty air below.

Suddenly the canoe skidded right, and before the men could correct their course, the two canoes careened sideways and into a cluster of overhanging branches near shore. The men jostled and ducked upon the light impact, but the boats stood fast, braced between the onrushing water and the steadfast limbs.

Lieutenant Martin arrived at the scene a few minutes later. He waded into the water and assisted each of the crew from the jammed dugouts. Free of the men’s weight, the two canoes thrashed against each other and rapidly filled with water. Martin requested Luiz’s knife, and he and Paishon hurriedly severed the dugout’s lashings, relieving some of the outward pressure. Free from each other’s weight, the boats stabilized. Good, Roosevelt thought, observing from upstream. At least for the moment both canoes are apparently not in danger of thrashing each other to pieces.

Colonel Rondon instructed Kermit and Lyra to retrieve two coils of rope from their provisions. Teddy Roosevelt, Kermit, and Lyra arrived at the shoreline near the distressed vessels a short time later. Kermit looked the situation over and stroked his bearded chin.

“There!” Lieutenant Martin shouted, pointing to a small rock island ten meters upstream. “We can free the canoes from there.”

Kermit and Lyra waded to the island and let out their ropes into the current. Martin and Paishon tied the lines to the first vessel’s bow and stern. Kermit, Lyra, and four other camaradas anchored themselves on the rock island and pulled with all their might, but the boat barely budged.

“I need more men,” Martin cried. “Rondon, Colonel Roosevelt… everyone!”

Colonel Rondon and Theodore Roosevelt removed their shoes and trousers and stepped carefully into the waist-deep water. The remaining camaradas positioned themselves around the beleaguered canoe, grasping the vessel firmly alongside the two commanders.

“Pull!”

Kermit, Lyra, and their crew pulled with all their might while Martin and the others shoved the canoe out of the thicket’s grasp until it floated freely, pointing upstream. Following several mighty heaves, they pushed and pulled the dugout up and onto the tiny island. Kermit and Lyra freed the ropes and tossed it back to Martin. Martin skillfully positioned the men again, and they freed the second canoe, dragging it safely upon land.

The men, all breathing heavily, cheered Martin for his keen engineering and decisive deeds. Even Kermit and Lyra both offered sincere praise for the English Lieutenant’s bold actions.

“A fine job, Mr. Martin,” Roosevelt said, pulling on his worn trousers. “I’m sure the men are all pleased we can advance before sundown.”

“Yes,” Martin replied dryly. “I’m certain all are eager to forge ahead.”

Roosevelt detected an odd twinge in Martin’s normally sarcastic tone. Realizing this as an unusual departure from the Englishman’s usual distant approach when interacting with his fellow camaradas, Roosevelt took particular note.

The camaradas completed moving the supplies and equipment overland by mid-afternoon, and they were once again ready to proceed downriver. Abruptly, the skies darkened with ominous thunderheads, and Roosevelt and George Cherrie took cover beneath a broad tree. The ensuing rains were the worst Roosevelt had encountered since arriving in Brazil. The sky opened like a waterfall, pounding the green earth in massive waves, such that he and Cherrie could barely discern the opposite riverbank.

It was late afternoon before they could even think of launching on the Rio Roosevelt once again. They made barely a mile in the rain before pulling ashore and setting up camp in the sopping jungle. Soaked to the bone, the men huddled beside the smoldering campfire. They tried unsuccessfully to dry some of their saturated clothing during the ceaseless downpours, finally abandoning all hope of a restful night’s sleep amidst the shrouded and sodden night.

Roosevelt woke late on the twenty-eight day of March. Crawling out of his tent and into the dripping rainforest, he noticed George Cherrie already by the fire sipping coffee. The camp appeared abandoned.

“And a good morning to you, Colonel, I’m glad to see you wake before noon.”

“I’m afraid I forfeited any restful sleep with those dreaded rains.”

“As did all of us, more or less… I can only report the downpours relenting sometime near dawn.”

Roosevelt sniffed. “Pour me a cup, George. It could very well save my dreary life.”

Teddy Roosevelt sipped the bitter brew. He closed his eyes savoring each moment while the caffeine began to surge through his half-century-old veins. “And, might I ask, where are the others?”

“Rondon and Lyra escorted Kermit and Antonio downriver on a little scouting trip.”

“And the camaradas…?”

“Scavenging for food.”

“Good, good.”

“Martin has suddenly decided to step forward and coach the men on finding edible plants. He claims to know some varieties they have overlooked in the past, putting his Nhambiquara experience to practical use.”

“Martin? I wonder what precipitated this abrupt interest in the camarada’s wellbeing.”

“Perhaps he has finally linked his own chance of survival with that of his fellow workers? Come to think about it, Colonel, I reason Martin the only man amongst us who could survive this jungle alone, don’t you agree?”

“But why did he wait over a month to do so?” Roosevelt shook his head. “George, there are things this man does that simply defy common sense.”

Cherrie raised his brow and took another sip of coffee. “Colonel, there was quite a stir amongst the camaradas after Rondon departed.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently Antonio spread word of the Wide Belt’s legend and the men are clearly on edge. I noticed most carried guns and extra ammunition into the jungle this morning.”

“The dissemination of this knowledge was inevitable, George.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, Colonel. And I’m glad the camaradas are off on their little mission. One can never underestimate the benefit of keeping the rank-and-file occupied in circumstances like these.”

“Indeed, however, I must note that one must always be vigilant of what they are occupied with, Mr. Cherrie.”

Lieutenant Martin returned with the camaradas shortly after noon. The men bore many species of plants and slabs of honey, and all of the laborers appeared content and in high spirits. Roosevelt commended the Englishman on his valuable contribution to the expedition, to which Martin responded with a polite nod between subtle glances toward Julio de Lima.

Colonel Rondon and his contingent returned to camp two hours later. Rondon immediately pulled Roosevelt and Cherrie aside. “I’m afraid I bear very discouraging news. Several kilometers ahead, the river falls through a steep gorge that appears to run for several miles. The rapids are home to a handful of high waterfall and will be impossible to run in our canoes. More disheartening is the fact that the dugouts cannot be portaged along the steep vertical cliffs of the gorge. If Mr. Kermit cannot determine a way to lower the boats through the most treacherous passages, our only hope will be to clear a route to convey our supplies over the mountain itself and then rebuild our canoes on the opposite side.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “A long and impassible gorge…? Is that not what the Wide Belt’s chief forewarned?”

“Yes, Colonel Roosevelt, the area appears to exist in fact, not merely legend.”

Cherrie said, “Then we may also be forced to contend with other matters, will we not?”

“Sim, Mr. Cherrie,” Rondon said. “Although the odds remain slim, there is a chance the land ahead may be stalked by a dangerous creature.”

Theodore Roosevelt thought this a stunning admission from both men.

The sun set over the western forest and the officers settled in around the campfire as the cook distributed their rations. The camaradas huddled away from the fire, whispering in small groups. Roosevelt could sense an unease permeate the entire camp.

Abruptly, Paishon approached the officers followed by many of the camaradas with the exception of Lieutenant Martin and Julio de Lima. Paishon removed his hat and bowed his head. Peering up, he said, “Senhors Rondon and Roosevelt, the men have voted. Many of us firmly believe we should not enter the Wide Belt’s sacred lands.”

CHAPTER 22

Theodore Roosevelt stood silently, watching the disheveled camaradas gather before the officers with their hats in hand and their eyes downcast. Roosevelt had prepared himself for some time to tackle the real possibility of insurrection amongst the laborers, but he never imagined in might occur in such an orderly and polite manner. Colonel Rondon and Cherrie appeared equally bewildered.

“And just what do the men fear?” Roosevelt asked finally.

Paishon scratched his head. “The men have learned that the Wide Belts consider the lands beyond the gorge to be holy, and also that a terrible beast lurks in the jungle more ferocious than any previously known.”

“These are just myths, Paishon,” George Cherrie said. “Stories handed down through generations of native oral tradition, most likely meant to frighten rivals from good hunting grounds.”

Cherrie’s words appeared to cause some stir amongst the men. Several crossed their chest asking God’s blessing. Luiz and another camarada whispered nervously into Paishon’s ear.

“Senhor Cherrie,” Paishon continued. “Most of us were raised good Catholics, but native blood also flows through our veins—some of us more than others. To say our father’s and forefather’s traditions do not matter to us is…”

“No, Paishon, I did not mean to imply—”

“Wait, George,” Roosevelt interrupted with a raised palm. “I believe we should all be respectful of these men’s beliefs. But I also think we officers have done a poor job keeping the rank-and-file informed on such matters. And for this, I offer humble apologies to all.”

“Sim, senhor, but now the story of the Wide Belts has been shared, and I’m afraid all are not convinced the best way is forward.”

Roosevelt sensed a stalemate forming between the two groups, and upon looking at Rondon and Cherrie’s blank stare, it appeared they too had quickly run dry of any solid ideas to break the logjam.

Abruptly, Lieutenant Martin stepped forward. “Colonels, if I may interject some of my own thoughts on this issue?”

Roosevelt glanced toward Rondon, who replied with a subtle shrug. Roosevelt nodded curtly to Martin. “Any ideas will be welcome, Lieutenant.”

Martin turned and addressed the camaradas. “It is true the Wide Belts covet the land beyond this gorge as sacred and forbidden to any outsider, and it is also true they believe the surrounding jungle is home to a terrible beast of which there is little equal in the Amazon or elsewhere on this continent or on earth, for that matter.”

The camaradas stirred once again.

Martin waved his hand reassuringly. “But the Wide Belts have not encountered this beast in a generation, even though they have ventured to this land each year to fulfill ritualistic traditions. Antonio can bear out these statements, owing to his presence at the Wide Belt’s village and his direct interpretation of the chieftain’s words.”

Paishon looked to Antonio, who acknowledged with a quick nod. “Then, senhor Martin,” Paishon said. “Are you saying that the beast no longer exists and that our worries are unfounded?”

Theodore Roosevelt glanced toward Cherrie.

Martin hesitated. “That I cannot say, although the Wide Belts did describe the beast as a forest dweller and not a creature of the water.”

“Then, the river may be safe?”

“Yes, if we don’t venture far from its bank.”

The camaradas huddled amongst themselves. Finally, Paishon said, “The men are still reluctant to tread on any sacred tribal land. They believe doing so will bring great misfortune to us all.”

“Of course,” Martin replied diplomatically. “And I sympathize with your plight. But all of you must make a very hard decision and you must decide quickly.” Martin pointed toward the dense forest. “There is deep jungle to either side of us. If you decide to take that route, you could walk a hundred kilometers and not reach another river tributary; whereas proceeding back upriver will take you back into the midst of the hostile Wide Belts. Personally, I feel the choice is clear. Together we can work our way forward or we can all die slowly on this very spot. What is your choice?”

The camaradas conferred amongst themselves once again, but Roosevelt noticed much heated debate this time around. After several tense minutes, Paishon turned back to Martin. “We have decided to move forward, but we do so with great reservation.”

Roosevelt did not see a solitary happy face amongst the gathered men.

“Good, good,” Colonel Rondon replied dolefully.

The camaradas settled around the fire still jabbering quietly. Martin sat alone and away from the rest.

“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Roosevelt said to Rondon. “Another unfortunate roadblock thrust into our midst, confounding this already heartrending journey. What more could go wrong?”

“Sim, yes, and it was Martin who ended up seizing the initiative where we officers apparently failed to do so. He should be commended for resolving a rather tricky situation, don’t you think?”

Roosevelt inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “Yet do you not worry that Martin may seize the upper hand with the workers? He could be quite an adversary if he gains clout politically?”

“These men are in an all-out fight for survival, Colonel Roosevelt, and nature itself is their primary enemy. Senhor Martin certainly knows this fact.” Rondon sighed. “And yet, if he does have ill intentions, there may be little we can do about it at this point.”

Colonel Rondon did very little to sooth Roosevelt’s pressing concerns. Rondon nodded politely and then retired for the night.

Roosevelt could not resist watching Lieutenant Martin’s eyes sparkle amid the fire’s light, and he sensed George Cherrie doing exactly the same. He pulled close to the naturalist, saying softly, “Interesting…”

“Indeed,” Cherrie replied.

“I would certainly like to know what’s going on in that Englishman’s head.”

“As would I, Colonel, as would I.”  Cherrie smirked mischievously. “Well, I think I may have a ruse that just might work.”

“Oh?”

“But it may involve some actions that—let us just say—employ less than honorable methods.”

Roosevelt grinned. “Mr. Cherrie, you oftentimes surprise me, but I’m all ears. Go on.”

“With your permission of course, honorable President Roosevelt, I would not wish to do anything that could blemish your good name.”

Roosevelt chucked. “George, you do realize I have been involved in politics for many years, right? I think Robespierre once said, ‘Sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet’. Now, out with it! What is your plan? I can’t tell you how much I enjoy a good caper.”

“Let me just say for now it involves a good portion of Kermit’s remaining scotch whiskey and a certain Mr. Julio de Lima.”

CHAPTER 23

The twenty-ninth day of March dawned with much angst and anticipation amongst both officers and laborers of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition. Following another rationed breakfast, Colonel Rondon and a contingent of camaradas set out to carve a path over the closest mountain to portage their remaining supplies. In the meantime, Kermit, Lyra, Martin, and three of their best paddlers were tasked with lowering the canoes down the rapids that sliced through the mile-long gorge. Theodore Roosevelt fretted over all of the monumental tasks standing before them.

Following a day of intense labor, Rondon and his men finally hacked their way to the mountain’s peak. From a high vantage atop the trail, Roosevelt stood on an open rock face and gazed over a grand vista comprised of thick forested green hills and a distant mountain range that reminded him of the low-ridged Alleghenies of central Pennsylvania. Beneath him, he could discern a ribbon of rapids upon the river, ending at their planned campsite amid the forest below.

Three full days passed, and the entire expedition settled into their newly organized campsite at the base of the gorge. Under the heading: April 1, 1914 Roosevelt wrote of the favorable weather they enjoyed over the past several days and of his deep desire to experience the end of the seemingly ceaseless Brazilian rainy season.

Kermit and Lyra reported to Rondon that all of the canoes had been successfully moved down to the last set of rapids above the campsite and that they could be on their way by noon of the following day. This was welcome news to the camaradas who kept vigil each night whilst passing through the gorge, their eyes and ears trained on any odd or unusual disturbance emanating from the bleak Amazonian forest, beyond.

Colonel Rondon shot and killed a large monkey, and the men welcomed the fresh meat despite their meager allotments. The entrails of the beast were boiled down and given to the emaciated and ravenous Trigueiro.

Roosevelt and George Cherrie sat beside their tent amid the pleasant moonlit night. Cherrie poured Roosevelt a shot of scotch and both men shared a silent toast to seal their imminent conspiracy.

Roosevelt noticed Julio de Lima’s face emerge from out of the darkness. He removed his hat and nodded respectfully. “Paishon has sent me at your request, senhor Colonel.”

“Oh, yes, good fellow. Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra have kept me informed of your hard work in getting those dugouts through the gorge. I just wanted to commend you personally. Bravo!”

“Sim, obrigado, senhor Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt reached out and offered Julio a small bag of tobacco. “And here, take this and enjoy. This is simply a small token of our appreciation for a job well done.”

“Sim, thank you!”

George Cherrie maneuvered the scotch bottle in plain view, its glass sparkling in dim moonlight. Roosevelt noticed Julio’s eyes widen like saucers. The camarada’s parched lips slid back and forth against his discolored teeth.

“Ah, my good man,” Cherrie said. “Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like to partake in a small drink amongst comrades and friends?” He motioned. “Sit down, please.”

Cherrie poured a healthy portion of the scotch into a tin cup. Julio sat on the ground and raised his hands like a street panhandler. He accepted the cup with shaking hands and then chugged its contents in a single swift motion. He released a deep gasp of satisfaction.

Roosevelt caught Cherrie’s eye.

“More?” Cherrie held the bottle forward and refilled Julio’s cup.

“I was just telling Mr. Cherrie,” Roosevelt said, “of how I greatly admire the hardy and good-natured men of the Brazilian highlands.”

Julio nodded curtly before taking another sip of scotch.

“You realize, Julio, I shall be organizing and financing other missions to Brazil in the years to come, and I always have an eye out for good leaders. I can pay quite well, much more than you can earn on the docks in Tapirapoan.”

Julio snorted in what Roosevelt could only interpret was a rebuff of his gracious yet disingenuous offer.

“Then a solid, high-paying job is not to your liking? Have you other plans?”

“With all due respect, Colonel, a wealthy man like you cannot appreciate the struggles of the working poor in my country.”

Theodore Roosevelt smirked. “Yes Julio, of course I cannot. And I sincerely apologize for my lack of understanding of your countrymen’s plight. But a smart man like you cannot be satisfied with slogging sacks of wheat for a pittance, will you?”

Julio smiled through crooked teeth. He took another sip of scotch. “What else do you have in mind?”

“A stake in a Brazilian gold mine, for instance?”

Julio’s eyes danced. “That is certainly an interesting offer, Colonel. Please, go on.”

Roosevelt leaned closer. “I could always use a good foreman, someone who could crack some heads if the native laborers, let us just say, become unruly or troublesome.”

Julio waved his hand contemptuously. “I am not interested.”

“What about Lieutenant Martin?” Cherrie asked suddenly.

“What of him?”

“Do you suppose he’d be interested in running a gold mine and getting rich?”

“Why not ask him yourself?”

“I thought you two were close, good friends. Colonel Roosevelt and I even discussed the possibility that you two were partners of some sort.”

“Mr. Cherrie, you were… what are the correct English words… wildly misinformed.”

“You did spend many months on Fawcett’s expedition in Martin’s company?” Roosevelt asked. “And you did recommend him for this expedition, is that not also correct?”

“Yes, but we owe each other no allegiance.”

Roosevelt noticed Julio had begun to slur his words. “Well George, it appears we must ask Lieutenant Martin to be a partner in our little future venture. Mr. Julio is not interested by his own words.”

“It seems so,” Cherrie replied despondently. “And yet Lieutenant Martin is the better choice if one thinks this through thoroughly. Martin is a first-rate, honest man and a solid worker.”

Julio sneered.

“And you disagree?” Roosevelt asked.

“Let me just say, I could tell you…” Julio cut himself short.

“Is there anything you wish to add, Julio?”

“Just that every man is not all he appears to be.” Again, Julio eyed Cherrie’s bottle.

“Go on.” Roosevelt nodded to Cherrie, who promptly refilled Julio’s tin.

Julio took a sip, peered around, and inched closer. “Our Englishmen has a questionable past—a past he has conveniently hidden from you and Colonel Rondon.”

“This is very interesting, Julio, yet I still find him a fine choice and worthy of partnership, is that not right, George?”

Cherrie nodded like a faithful dog.

Julio grinned. “Then, senhors, you have no problem hiring an escaped criminal?”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Hmmm, that would give me pause, if it could be proved true and not merely innuendo.”

Julio hesitated for a moment before continuing: “Commander Fawcett hired Martin knowing of his shady past, mostly because he was impressed with Martin’s high-brow English education and his ability to study and understand the more primitive natives of Bolivia. Martin had been sent to South Africa as a British officer in 1901 but soon turned against his own people and sided with the British settlers, the Boers or Bitterenders as he referred to them. The British charged him with heinous crimes and he was shipped off to an island named Bermuda with other Boer prisoners of war.”

“Let me just add, George,” Roosevelt said. “During the Boer war a decade ago, the British interned about five thousand Afrikaans on a few tiny islands near Bermuda. I was informed in presidential briefings of several successful mutinies and escapes. A few of the men, I was told, escaped to other Caribbean islands and some even vanished into the jungles of Venezuela.”

“Yes,” Julio said. “And Lieutenant Martin was one of these men. Fawcett knew Martin had escaped from a British prison, but he never knew what crimes the British had charged him with. Only in private and with me did he reveal the whole story, and even I cannot tell what is true and what is not.”

“Go on.”

Julio’s eyes glazed over, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Martin told me the British accused him of murdering twenty-seven of these South African settlers: men, women, and little children. He said the British wanted him to confess to the crime, telling the public that he did so, so that the British would be wrongly accused of the massacre and the Boers would reap benefit from the public outcry in an effort to remove the British occupiers from their land.”

“Do you think Martin capable of such an act,” Cherrie asked.

Julio shrugged. “I do not know, but…”

“But, what?”

Julio shook his head and then rose on wobbly feet. “Good night, senhors. And thank you for your fine drink.” He staggered away into the darkness.

Theodore Roosevelt turned to George Cherrie with a raised brow.

The following day dawned bright and clear. Kermit and Lyra got an early start moving the canoes down to their present campsite. After eating a trifle of breakfast, Lieutenant Martin led Rondon, Roosevelt, and Cherrie on a scouting mission downriver.

The group sliced their way through the dense jungle and along the riverbank for an hour and a half, keeping their rifles ready and their eyes and ears trained on the forbidding forest. The land was both peaceful and beautiful, Roosevelt thought. Such a lovely haven the Wide Belts have chosen to procure for their sacred tribal lands.

At the point of turning roundabout and heading back to camp, Colonel Rondon ordered a brief rest upon a long stretch of sandy shoreline. Roosevelt sat on the spongy ground and enjoyed the lush green scenery while Cherrie stirred restless after taking only a few minutes respite. The naturalist wandered away toting his rifle and camera. Roosevelt closed his eyes taking in the sounds of small chirping birds and distant monkey calls.

“Men,” George Cherrie hollered suddenly from fifty yards downstream. “Come here!”

Martin, Rondon, and Roosevelt gathered near Cherrie. The naturalist pointed downward. Roosevelt noticed a two and a half foot long, three-toed track carved deeply in the sand.

Martin’s eyes widened. The boney Englishman bent to the ground. “The tracks are sharp and appear to have been made no longer than a day or two ago. If older, the rains would have certainly eroded their contours.” Martin ran his willowy fingers along the footprint’s base.

Cherrie methodically snapped a few photos before pointing out a series of massive prints leading away from the water and into the rainforest. Roosevelt caught the naturalist’s blank stare. While the others stood silent, Roosevelt noticed Cherrie’s face turning a ghostly white.

CHAPTER 24

The men retraced their path upriver, slipping hurriedly through the forbidding jungle with rifles readied and their eyes and ears trained upon the dense green barrier hindering their advance. Roosevelt saw the Amazon in a different light these past few hours, discarding any romantic notions of a lush paradise full of colorful birds and slithering reptiles, replaced with the suffocating feeling of a tightening noose looped around his neck and pulled snug, starving him of life effusing breath and crushing his world-famous resolve. Roosevelt could only guess Rondon and Cherrie felt the same as they pushed through the tangled foliage, halting upon any odd noise from places distant and unseen; although Martin appeared the least concerned about the prospect of a chance encounter with a ferocious and monstrous stalking beast. Teddy Roosevelt watched the emaciated Englishman with cautious fascination—whereupon their frequent stops to catch their breath, Martin’s eyes twinkled with glee and his face glowed in nearly raptured joy. The man is obviously insane, Roosevelt mused. It appeared Cherrie may have been right all along; although Martin seemed competent in his many assigned tasks, there remained hidden beneath his gnarled exterior a mind lacking solidity and purposeful consistency. The man was certainly an enigma.

They found the dugouts loaded and ready for launch upon arriving back at camp. The crew stood anxious and eager to be on their way, looking to Colonel Rondon to issue the much anticipated order. Roosevelt observed that Rondon said nothing of finding the immense tracks, even to his trusted Lieutenant Lyra while they prepared to board the boats. Taking his cue from Rondon, Roosevelt deflected a few questions from an inquisitive Kermit before getting underway. George Cherrie simply donned his hat and settled into his usual seat with his head held low. Roosevelt had never seen the normally stalwart naturalist so subdued and contemplative. He looked like he had just seen his grandmother’s ghost!

Colonel Rondon issued a single terse command and the men hurriedly launched the canoes. Moments later, the last of the dugouts drifted freely down the Rio Roosevelt, and Theodore Roosevelt could almost taste the undeniable sense of relief amongst the entire crew as they took to the relative safety of the river, away from the tangled shore and the darkness therein.

They floated along the meandering waterway for over an hour as the midday sun bore directly through the forest’s canopy beneath the deep blue Brazilian sky. The air was still and the heat unbearable to the asthmatic Roosevelt, who fanned his perspiring face continuously while the dugout skidded over the somber waters. And still, although the camaradas labored under excruciating heat, none to a man suggested they pull to shore for a brief respite beneath a grove of shady palms or within the shadow of a giant rubber. Teddy Roosevelt calculated they had progressed several kilometers beyond the sandy beach where they had found the creature’s tracks.

Moving steadily along a peaceful stretch of river, Roosevelt was overwhelmed by a strange calm as his thoughts synchronized with the paddler’s rhythmic strokes. Breaking his spell, he gently wiped his spectacles and glanced over at the lead canoe carrying Lieutenant Martin, who pushed his vessel forward with great and purposeful ease, no doubt cognizant of any stirring or strange sounds emanating from the mysterious jungle. What must Martin be thinking, passing so very near to his personal obsession? What must occupy his thoughts, being so near the beast for which he had sacrificed so many long years in the wilderness, and yet not granted permission to carry his individual crusade to its rightful conclusion? Roosevelt suddenly bore great empathy for the erratic Englishman, who had so far served the expedition with the utmost skill and diligence. Roosevelt felt both saddened and guilty to rob a man of his mortal goal after living such a privileged and adventurous life himself, even if the man was quite possibly a certifiable lunatic. If Martin were to get up and leave upon their next encampment to pursue his dream, I would not in the least think any worse of him. He had certainly earned the opportunity in my eyes.

Theodore Roosevelt once again felt the water picking up pace as the dugouts rounded a sharp corner in the river. He noticed another series of impassable rapids several hundred yards ahead. Even above the din of rushing water, Teddy could hear open grumbling amongst the camaradas.

The western shoreline appeared the most accessible to Roosevelt—flat stones formed a gradual shoreline ending at the water’s edge. The land was somewhat elevated, split by a pass that funneled into the wilderness beyond. Roosevelt could clearly see a man-height pile of stones guarding the pass’s gateway.

Colonel Rondon pointed to the west. “To the shore!” he cried.

The camaradas hesitated upon Rondon’s command—in a near mutinous mood, Roosevelt deduced. Many of the dispirited camaradas shook their heads and jabbered to their crewmates while paddling upstream, holding their battered craft steady against the river’s flow.

“You cannot paddle upriver forever,” Rondon hollered. “The rapids ahead will shred your canoes if you dare attempt its decent. We all stand a much better chance by taking to shore.”

Slowly, and with great reluctance, the camaradas beached their canoes upon the stony bank. Lieutenant Martin was the first man to step ashore followed by Rondon, Roosevelt, and then Cherrie. All of the officer’s attention was drawn to the odd stone tower standing just a few yards above the floodplain.

Teddy Roosevelt approached the artifact and rubbed his chin. Before him, the monument towered ten feet from base to apex.

“Obviously a marker of some sort,” Rondon noted, “constructed by men.”

“Yes,” Martin said excitedly, “and with a well-defined purpose, do you not agree?” He pointed. “Clearly it serves as a beacon to the lands beyond and testament to the sacred traditions of the Wide Belt people.”

“Quite possibly,” Colonel Rondon muttered. “But we have little time for such distractions. We must bypass these rapids quickly and be on our way before nightfall.” Rondon waved his hand. “Get those dugouts unloaded!”

Roosevelt took note of Martin’s surprisingly indifferent response to Colonel Rondon’s abrupt dismissal of the Englishman’s adept observation. Roosevelt caught George Cherrie’s skeptical eye and shook his head.

The camaradas emptied the dugouts in less than fifteen minutes, stacking the modest provisions on the rocky shore. Colonel Rondon set out immediately with Dr. Cajazeira and four camaradas to hack a path through the brush and bypass the rapids. Like countless times before, Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra collected ropes to lower the empty boats down the most serious of the white-water chutes.

Teddy Roosevelt and George Cherrie grabbed their rifles and stalked the group’s periphery while Paishon and the remaining camaradas began to stage the supplies a short way into the jungle near the area where Rondon had started his supply pathway. Roosevelt noticed several camaradas securing rifles, no doubt leery of the Wide Belt’s legend or hopeful of taking a monkey or two for dinner. Last in line, Julio de Lima grabbed a rifle and full box of ammunition.

“Good,” Roosevelt said, leaning close to George Cherrie. “It’s about time Julio pitched in to harvest some fresh meat for his comrades. Could this be an optimistic sign that he has finally decided to lend a hand?”

“Indeed,” Cherrie said, pointing his nose toward Martin. “But what of him?”

Roosevelt watched the wiry Englishman strap the heaviest of the provisions upon his back and meander away from the river. “He is undoubtedly our most tireless worker. How can a man sporting such a rail-thin physique be as strong as an ox?”

“And yet, Colonel, have you not noticed that he has not taken a shred of food in several days?”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Curious…”

“I do wonder where he gets the strength—”

A sharp bang echoed from the nearby jungle. Roosevelt and Cherrie flinched and ducked defensively. Moments later, Roosevelt heard a ruckus behind a grove of palms, followed by several men’s screams.

Suddenly, Antonio and two unarmed camaradas leaped from the brush waving their arms in sheer panic. “Julio mato Paishon!” Antonio cried. “Julio mato Paishon!”

Roosevelt turned quickly to Cherrie for translation.

“Julio has killed Paishon,” the naturalist hissed. “By God, what more could go wrong on this bedeviled mission? Julio has just murdered Paishon.”

CHAPTER 25

The men froze in place with their heads held low for several tense minutes, unsure whether Julio lurked just inside the jungle’s folds and would emerge shooting indiscriminately. Kermit and Lyra joined Roosevelt and Cherrie, training their eyes and rifles on the deceivingly tranquil forest.

Antonio grabbed his hat’s brim and scampered over to the officers. “He just pointed his rifle straight at Paishon’s chest and pulled the trigger, senhors,” the camarada said breathlessly. “I could not believe my eyes! He just pulled the trigger and murdered Paishon in cold blood.”

Roosevelt seethed. “Mark my words, Antonio, Julio will pay for his crime, and he will pay dearly.” Roosevelt scanned the jungle’s periphery. “And yet, we must be very patient and cautious until he shows his hand.”

“Yes,” Kermit added. “He may seek revenge on us all, picking us off one by one using the jungle as cover. An unstable mind is capable of anything!”

“Sim, senhor.”

Roosevelt noticed Lieutenant Martin grabbing a rifle and a box of ammunition. Seemingly undeterred by the danger, the lanky Englishman advanced slowly toward the jungle.

“No,” Roosevelt hissed. “It’s not safe, Lieutenant. Get back!”

Martin ignored Roosevelt’s order and continued onward.

“Blasted!” Roosevelt shook his head. He grasped is rifle and started after Martin. Moments later, Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra followed Roosevelt.

They came upon Paishon’s lifeless body a short way into the forest. Colonel Rondon, still breathing heavily, stood over the bury camarada, who lay face down in a pool of spreading blood. Roosevelt glanced down. He noticed several shattered supply boxes.

Dr. Cajazeira bent to his knee, examining Paishon’s wounds. “Straight through the heart,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “He dropped dead instantly where he stood, never having a chance to defend himself.”

Rondon caught Roosevelt’s eye. “Who did this?” The Brazilian Colonel pulled his revolver from his holster.

“Julio.” Roosevelt spat the name like a poisonous viper.

Rondon acknowledged with a firm nod. “Lieutenant Lyra, stay here and guard the doctor. We must secure the nearby forest and assign guards if necessary. Julio must not be allowed to strike again.”

“And look,” Cherrie added, pointing toward a few cans spread upon the forest’s floor. “Julio must have murdered Paishon simply to steal food.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Kermit said. “Where does he intend to go?”

“A madman defies common logic,” Rondon replied.

Dr. Cajazeira rose to his feet and unbuckled his revolver. “Go, senhor Lyra. I can defend myself.” He brushed his hand. “Go!”

Theodore Roosevelt’s blood boiled. “And we shoot upon sight, correct?”

Colonel Rondon shook his head, pulling nose to nose with the former president. “Absolutely not, Colonel Roosevelt, doing so will be impossible in Brazil. We bring suspected criminals to court for trial in this country. We don’t allow our citizens to be murdered by a vengeful mob.”

Roosevelt thrust his fingers downward. “He who kills must die! That is how we do things in America—an eye for an eye. Paishon was too good a man to have died without being avenged.”

“You are not in the United States, Colonel. You are in my republic, and here, you will obey our laws.”

Roosevelt waved his hand. “Time is being wasted talking nonsense. Let us fan out in these woods. If Julio is taken alive, I suppose we must drag him back to camp in time for tea and crumpets.”

The entire expedition team searched the surrounding forest for a good half-hour before Lieutenant Martin reported finding human footprints a few hundred yards beyond the crude stone monument. “He was heading away from the river and deep into the jungle to the west,” the Englishman said with an odd gleam in his eye. “There is little doubt he is hell-bent on stealing the Wide Belt’s sacrificial treasures.”

“Diamonds?” Cherrie said, nearly apologetically. The naturalist eyed Martin directly.

Martin nodded playfully. “Any fool entering the Wide Belt realm would have noticed the land’s potential for mining precious gems. The village was literally over-flowing with sparkling trinkets.”

Roosevelt, in no mood for evasive answers, sighed deeply. “Is this why you brought us all to this juncture, Mr. Martin, simply to plunder these native’s gemstones?”

“I can assure you my own intentions are purely scientific, Colonel. Only today did I see the true breadth of Julio’s treachery.”

“You should be aware,” Cherrie said, “that Julio has divulged some interesting stories about your own past, Lieutenant.”

Martin’s inane grin evaporated. “Julio is a born liar and a greedy fool. And, if you hadn’t yet noticed, he has proven his willingness to commit cold-hearted murder. What additional proof do you need?”

“I did not mean to imply—”

“I, on the other hand, have performed every task assigned to me. And now, you inform me that you find it more suitable to believe him than me?”

Cherrie caught Roosevelt’s eye. Roosevelt shook his head subtly.

“Well, it appears Julio is gone now,” Rondon said. “He will die alone in the jungle and cradling his treasure; that is, if he is lucky enough to escape the jaws of some predator yet encountered.”

Roosevelt breathed fire. “Are you telling me that we are not sending a posse to find and arrest this… this murderer?”

“We simply do not have the time or—”

“This is completely unacceptable.”

Rondon shrugged. “It is, what is must be, Colonel Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt checked his rifle and hurriedly inventoried his ammunition. “Well I am going after him, alone if I must. Mr. Cherrie, would you care to accompany me?”

“Senhor Roosevelt, be reasonable, sim?”

George Cherrie stepped forward. “I am ready, Colonel.”

“I am also, father,” Kermit said. “You are not going anywhere without me by your side.”

Roosevelt hesitated before offering his son an approving nod. He thought first of Edith and then of Belle. Shaking aside these concerns, he turned finally to the Englishman. “Lieutenant Martin, would you care to lead the way?”

Martin grinned. “Of course, Colonel, I will be absolutely enthralled to offer my tracking skills to your grand posse.”

Colonel Cândido Rondon sighed with resignation. “Very well, Mr. Roosevelt, but the expedition cannot be held back for longer than twenty-four hours. We must press onward by sundown tomorrow, with or without you and your contingent.”

“Understood,” Roosevelt replied. “I would think less of you, commander, if you failed to act otherwise. I would like to state openly that I alone have decided to pursue Julio, and please note such in your personal logs.” Roosevelt waved his hand. “Now, let us be on our way. Julio’s trail grows colder each minute we dawdle.”

Martin and Cherrie led the way into the deep jungle to the west and away from the river. Theodore Roosevelt lagged twenty or thirty steps behind followed by Kermit, guarding the rear. The ground tilted upward as they meandered above the river basin, and Roosevelt began to stagger before coming to a complete halt, absent his breath. Mercifully, the others waited patiently, allowing the asthmatic former president some time to recover.

Roosevelt noticed George Cherrie listening intently to the sounds of the surrounding jungle. The naturalist turned his head in every direction before sitting down and lowering his hat in thought. “Anything of particular note?” Roosevelt asked, tipping back his canteen to drink.

“Just the usual monkey-calls and insects, Colonel, nothing extraordinary…”

“And if it were… something…?”

Cherrie took a swig of water and wiped his mouth. “In my experience, an abrupt silence would indicate the presence of an outsider.”

“Or a large predator?”

“Yes, possibly.”

Lieutenant Martin chuckled hysterically, waving the others forward. “I have found Julio’s tracks. The prints are no more than an hour or two old. We shan’t have to wait long before catching him now!”

Roosevelt noticed the strangest gleam in Martin’s eyes. “He must be one of the oddest men I have ever met,” he whispered to Kermit. “The man does not appear the least concerned with encountering the beast of the Wide Belt’s legend.”

“Or even about coming face to face with a hostile and dangerous Julio,” Kermit replied.

Roosevelt felt a sudden chill, catching both Kermit’s and Cherrie’s sudden glances; apparently they too were struck by the same dispiriting unease. “Keep your rifles handy and your mind alert for any possibilities,” Roosevelt hissed tersely.

Kermit and Cherrie nodded in agreement.

The four men continued to penetrate deeper into the jungle as the landscape flattened and the terrain became cluttered with huge boulders surrounded by towering trees with thick, twisting trunks. Roosevelt checked his watch, noting that it had been nearly an hour since they had left the Rio Roosevelt’s bank in pursuit of the renegade Julio de Lima.

Suddenly, Lieutenant Martin halted and motioned for silence. Carefully pushing aside some palm fronds, the Englishman gathered the others and pointed ahead toward a wide clearing in the forest. Roosevelt noticed a man-made stone building amid the overgrown meadow; it was approximately fifteen paces long by ten wide with a narrow entrance facing south.

“The Wide Belt’s stone house,” Martin whispered with almost giddy zeal, “built in deference to the Arawuua beast and to protect their gallant warriors from harm during their yearly hunts. How magnificent! And precisely like the chief described. We must be at this very moment treading upon the very center of the creature’s abode!”

“What about Julio?” Roosevelt asked. “Do not forget that he still carries a rifle and enough ammunition to kill us all. I fear Julio more at this moment than I do a monster.”

Martin bowed dutifully. “Of course, Colonel, please allow me to secure the building before you proceed.”

“Be careful, Lieutenant.”

Martin grinned. “Always!”

The three men watched Lieutenant Martin creep toward the Wide Belt’s shelter. Peering around, the Englishman slipped through the door and quickly out of sight. Roosevelt counted to fifteen before Martin reemerged. Martin motioned the others forward. “Come, it is quite safe.”

Roosevelt, Cherrie, and Kermit moved cautiously into the clearing. Kermit lagged behind with his rifle trained on the outlying forest. Roosevelt noticed a deep pit—possibly natural, possibly man-made—surrounded by several equally-spaced fire-pits. The far side of the pit faced the open forest, leaving an opening at ground level; thus forming three steep walls and no escape for anyone or anything lured within, except for retreat. Could the Wide Belts have used this pit to corner and trap the beast? Roosevelt mused.

“Come,” Martin beckoned impatiently. “Julio is not here. You will be quite astonished when you see what lies within these walls, I promise. Come.”

Theodore Roosevelt squeezed inside the doorway followed by George Cherrie. The room was draped in shadow, yet a few rays of sunlight penetrated the patchy and worn roof.  Roosevelt could clearly see a stone vat filled with sparkling jewels near the opposite wall. “George, look—”

Roosevelt suddenly felt a cold presence to his right. He glanced upon a glint of a rifle’s barrel pointed directly toward his temple.

A voice hissed from the shadows: “Drop your rifle, Colonel.”

Theodore Roosevelt froze. The voice was all too familiar. “And you also, Mr. Cherrie. Drop your gun now or senhor Roosevelt’s brains will be splattered across these walls and you will be burdened with that grim image for as long as you live, which incidentally may be mercifully brief.”

With their hands held above their heads, Roosevelt followed Cherrie out the doorway and back into daylight. Roosevelt’s heart sank to untested levels of despair when he noticed Lieutenant Martin pointing his rifle directly at the temple of a prone and unarmed Kermit.

CHAPTER 26

“You do realize,” George Cherrie said calmly, “that you will both likely die lonely deaths in this god-forsaken wilderness with only the trees and mosquitos bearing witness to your utter stupidity.”

Julio tugged violently at the cloth strips binding Cherrie’s hands behind the naturalist’s back. Theodore Roosevelt could almost feel Cherrie’s searing agony, even though he sat on the ground several feet away. “Quiet,” Julio hissed. “You will get what you deserve, Mr. Cherrie. I will never forget the beatings I received at the hands of your mindless slaves. My only regret is that the man-boy Rondon was not among you. How I would have loved having some fun at his expense. Is that not right, senhor Martin?”

Martin cackled like a madman, maintaining his rifle’s barrel aimed directly at Roosevelt’s head. Kermit sat passively to Cherrie’s right, his own hands bound and his mouth gagged. Roosevelt noticed Kermit’s nose dripping blood. Theodore Roosevelt closed his eyes and shook his head, recalling Kermit’s minor insurrection only minutes before, and it’s abrupt and inevitable end at the butt-end of Julio’s rifle.

Theodore Roosevelt seethed. Stay calm, he thought. Keep the hostage-takers occupied with conversation, observe, and probe for weakness.

Julio de Lima grasped Roosevelt’s hands, drawing them firmly behind Teddy’s back. Julio leaned forward whispering into Roosevelt’s ear like a coiled snake. “And you, Colonel, I remember every degrading remark and every accusation.” Julio pulled the bindings tight. “You rich Americans… You come to Brazil to steal our resources and enslave our peoples. Now it is time for the underclass to fight back. It is time for me to live like a king for a change, not take orders from filthy royalty like you.”

Roosevelt cringed with pain. “You’re a madman, Julio. You are stealing from nobody but your own native people. Two men cannot survive in this wilderness without help. What you are doing is suicidal.”

Lieutenant Martin lowered his gun.

Julio backed away slowly. He stood before all three captives and smiled wryly. “Senhor Martin is a crack assassin with his rifle. He can take out Rondon and his monkey Lyra with little effort, and I can easily remove the doctor. The others should fall into place once the officers are eliminated.”

“I think you greatly underestimate these men. Most are of sound moral character. They would most likely—”

“It is you, Colonel, who know little of the camaradas or the men of Brazil. We are all born with so little that we will forge alliances with the devil just to survive botched expeditions like this one. Once these men realize senhor Martin and I are in control and they see the riches we carry, they will side with us. Trust me when I tell you the majority of these men were already quite fed-up with Colonel Rondon’s and your own incompetent leadership. The task will be easier than you might imagine.”

“What about men like Antonio? Luiz?”

Julio chuckled. “I never said the task would be without some… very minor difficulties.” Julio turned to Martin, who gleefully issued a quick and rude slicing motion across his own throat. Julio brushed his hand as if removing a pesky flea. “See, senhors, Mr. Martin knows exactly how to handle dissent amongst the rabble.”

Martin howled with laughter. The Englishman began pacing back and forth gesturing with his hands and muttering to himself. Roosevelt overheard him say, “If only the mighty Arawuua doesn’t eat us all first… chomping us to bits for a light evening snack.”

Julio’s eyes widened. He shook his head.

“I think you can plainly see,” Cherrie whispered, “that Lieutenant Martin has completely lost his mind and cannot be trusted.”

Julio sneered. “Have no worries about Martin, senhor Cherrie. He will do his part when the time is right.”

“Have you not been paying attention? He has not eaten in over a week, even though he has been offered his due rations several times.”

“He is accustomed to living on very little.”

“Even fresh game…”

“The Nhambacurras survive on next to nothing.”

“Starvation can fill a man’s mind with illogical thoughts. I have seen it happen on many expeditions.”

Julio sighed. “Do not play me for a fool, senhor. I understand what you are trying to do. You attempt to divide Martin and myself in a desperate ploy to make your escape.” Julio waved his finger. “This will not work. Any attempt at escape will be met with a bullet directly into Theodore Roosevelt’s brain.”

“Do not hesitate, George,” Roosevelt interrupted breathlessly. “I am fully prepared to die. Try anything to—”

“Silence!” Julio hissed. “I must inform you that the second bullet will silence your precious little pampered son.”

“Listen, Julio,” Cherrie said, attempting to change the subject and calm some frayed nerves. “What do you suppose Martin is doing here? Why did you not just kill the three of us and be on your way?”

Julio sneered. “Now, you finally speak some sense, senhor. I have questioned this tactic many times since Martin and I agreed to this scheme.”

“Then why not kill us?”

Roosevelt had immediate reservations about Cherrie’s present tactics, but lacked any ideas of his own at the moment. I just hope for Kermit’s sake he doesn’t heed the naturalist’s advice.

Julio sighed with resignation. “Because, senhors, I stick to my side of agreements. I find this to be an inconvenient personal fault. Martin is obsessed with luring the Wide Belt’s giant crocodile into this pit. I think he wants to slaughter the beast to prove some point to the natives.” Julio shrugged. “I suppose every man has a personal journey to fulfill. I told him we were too far from the river to find such a creature, but he simply laughed and waved his hand.”

“This creature, “Roosevelt said, “may be far more dangerous than a river crocodile.”

“And it could very well be a forest-dweller,” Cherrie added. “Martin may be correct to wait for the creature here, but Mr. Roosevelt is also correct when he warns that the creature may be more ferocious than you envision.”

“And yet I agreed,” Julio continued, “to allow him his fun for just one night. I will use the Wide Belt’s shelter to protect me through the evening. The natives were more resourceful than we could ever have imagined.”

“And how does he intend to lure the beast?”

Julio laughed perversely. “Unfortunately, senhors, fresh carrion is rare in the deep jungle.”

Roosevelt closed his eyes. This cannot be happening, he thought repeatedly, testing his hand’s bindings.

Darkness overtook the clearing. The men watched silently while Martin collected firewood and constructed a fire above the deepest end of the pit. Julio appeared impatient with his role as camp guard and griped constantly of hunger.

“Eat,” Martin said. “You have stolen more than we can carry. Stop your complaining and eat!”

Julio opened several cans of the expedition’s stolen provisions. He gulped the precious foodstuff down in minutes. Afterwards, he lay back and gazed into the starry sky.

Martin, whistling an inappropriately merry and wholly British tune, arranged the hostage’s rifles and ammunition near the fire. Upon finishing his task, he sauntered over to Julio. “Let them see, Julio. Let President Roosevelt and Mr. Cherrie see the diamonds you have plundered. Allow them to see how the gems sparkle in the firelight.”

Julio sighed deeply. Reluctantly, he reached for his sack of plunder.

Martin slowly leaned over the Brazilian’s shoulder. Roosevelt noticed an odd gleam in the Englishman’s eyes, followed by a brilliant grin.

Roosevelt watched in stunned silence while Julio—caught completely off guard—seemingly never noticed the blade of Martin’s knife materialize beneath his chin. Before Julio could react, Martin’s blade slid effortlessly across Julio’s outstretched neck, severing the brawny camarada’s carotid artery.

CHAPTER 27

Roosevelt watched wordlessly as Julio de Lima collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes just a few feet beyond his own bound ankles. The camarada lay convulsing, his severed throat spewing rivers of blood across the clearing’s floor. Roosevelt could not help but stare into Julio’s blank eyes as his life-force drained away to eternal stillness. Lieutenant Martin straddled his victim like the Colossus of Rhodes, holding his bloodied knife at shoulder height in the grand fashion of a victorious Roman gladiator.

Roosevelt felt for a moment a surge of hope, but the feeling turned abruptly to confusion and then to despair, watching the Englishman stare at the dying man with eyes the size of saucers and his mouth agape with sickening ecstasy—the look of the criminally insane.

George Cherrie uttered nothing during the whole brief episode. There is little doubt he is likely as shocked as I am, Roosevelt thought. Almost an afterthought, Roosevelt spied his bound and gagged son a few feet beyond Cherrie. Roosevelt noticed a tiny trickle of dried blood on Kermit’s temple, no doubt from the blow from Julio’s rifle butt a few hours before. Roosevelt felt relieved that his son’s eyes were now open and that he had finally regained consciousness.

“Unbind us immediately, Lieutenant,” Cherrie said suddenly. Roosevelt detected a bit of desperation in the naturalist’s normally steadfast voice.

Martin stood his ground, continuing to stare down at Julio. After pausing several seconds, the Englishman suddenly looked up, laughing hysterically.

“You heard Mr. Cherrie, Lieutenant,” Roosevelt commanded. “Release us and be on your way. We will not stop or hinder you. You have my word!”

Ignoring Cherrie’s and Roosevelt’s pleas, Martin grasped Julio’s hands and began dragging the limp body away from the hostages and nearer to the pit’s edge. The Englishman dropped his gruesome burden, gasping for breath. Roosevelt overheard him mutter to the corpse. “You are still quite a load, my friend. I see that even a month in the jungle has not pared your bulk.” Martin rubbed his chin. “I wonder…?”

Roosevelt whispered to Cherrie. “We are obviously dealing with an insane man. I doubt we can persuade him with rational argument.”

“We must be careful, Colonel. He has already proved his willingness to murder without provocation. Any miscalculation could very well be our last.”

“Lieutenant Martin,” Roosevelt bellowed. “As your commanding officer, I demand you tell us your intentions. Why do you keep us captive? If you desire the jewels, simply gather them up and be on your way. We cannot stop you.”

Martin laughed heartily. He casually strolled over to Julio’s sack, untied its bindings, and flung its contents across the length and width of the Wide Belt’s pit. He tossed the empty bag toward George Cherrie. “There, gentlemen, I have appeased the Wide Belt’s Gods. Are you satisfied?”

“Well then, Mr. Martin, just what are your demands? I feel we have every right to know.”

Martin shook his head, saying softly, “I have no particular demands, Colonel Roosevelt. But I am going to grant you and Mr. Cherrie the greatest favor a scientist can bestow upon another of an equally inquisitive mind. I intend for you to bear witness to the ancient ritual of the Kariati. I only request that you report such to the outside world, that is, if you are fortunate enough to survive…”

“You’re mad,” Cherrie said flatly. “You wish to lure a living tyrannosaur into this pit and then slaughter the beast singlehandedly? Judging by the size of the footprints we found beside the river, this creature is most likely twelve feet tall and six tons in bulk.”

“Even the African elephant,” Roosevelt added, “which is considerably smaller and presumably less nimble then this creature, requires several skilled shots from a powerful rifle… even then, the kill may not be assured. I know this from direct experience.”

Martin grinned. “I have no intention of using a rifle, my simplistic American friends.” Martin reached down and lifted a long spear from the ground. Roosevelt noticed that it was constructed in Wide Belt fashion, yet a hunting knife functioned as the spear’s tip. “An ancient ritual requires traditional weapons, do you both not agree?”

“You will be killed,” Cherrie said, tugging at his bindings in desperation. “And we will likely die shortly thereafter in the jaws of this beast.”

“Quite possibly, good chap, but first I must prepare for our special visitor.” Martin looked down at Julio. “Are you ready my greedy friend? It warms my heart knowing you will serve a higher purpose for the first time in your pitiful life. I hope those tins you stole were consumed in earnest, because your flesh should be ample and meaty to be worthy of such a magnificent beast.”

Martin stripped off his own clothes, and soon he stood stark naked before the hostages and the fire’s flames. He tossed his ragged trousers and shirt into the pit. “There,” he muttered to himself. “That feels much better. Now, I must get down to business.”

“By the grace of God,” Roosevelt whispered to Cherrie. “He has finally lost all touch with reality. He truly believes he is a native!”

Martin grabbed his axe and chopped forcefully into Julio’s left leg just above the knee. Roosevelt glanced away in revulsion. Martin chopped repeatedly until the leg broke free. The Englishman whistled a merry English tune while performing his grisly task. Roosevelt noticed Martin’s legs coated in freshly splattered blood.

Lieutenant Martin systematically removed Julio’s arms, legs, and finally the camarada’s head. Roosevelt and Cherrie watched helplessly, not uttering a word. Roosevelt assumed from Martin’s skilled butchering that he’d worked from experience gained from living amongst the Nhambiquaras, who had long been rumored to practice the abhorrent act of consuming human flesh.

Martin grabbed the torso by its shirt and dragged it toward the pit’s edge. He shoved the bloody mass into the deepest part of the pit. Martin grabbed each leg, tossing them into the forest near the pit’s mouth.

“Bait,” Cherrie said. “The smells of fresh kill for a predator.”

“Or scavenger,” Roosevelt countered. “Either way, some will certainly come, whether it is jaguar or monstrous beast.”

Martin continued his ghastly butchering as the stars shone brightly above the clearing through a cloudless sky. The Englishman, now almost completely covered in human blood, gathered up most of Julio’s remaining body parts and distributed the bloody slabs near and around the pit. Roosevelt noticed Martin setting aside parts of Julio’s upper arm, and his stomach turned imagining Martin’s intentions with the leftover flesh.

Roosevelt calculated that midnight had passed, and with Martin currently occupied organizing and discarding Julio’s body parts, he whispered to Cherrie. “The moon should be full and directly overhead in a few hours. We can attempt our escape within its light, if the opportunity presents itself.”

“I’ve tried for hours without success to pry my binding loose, Colonel. I’m afraid they were tied securely. What about yours?”

Roosevelt maneuvered his wrists against the small of his back. He felt a measurable gap between his hands. Struggling mightily, he couldn’t pull the binding over either palm. “I’m very close,” Roosevelt said. “Apparently, Julio failed to bind my hands as well as he did yours. He most likely underestimated my strength and tenacity to escape. That may have been his final miscalculation!”

“Good, good.”

“But, even if I manage to free my cuffs, what do you suggest we do? The rifles and ammunition are stockpiled close to Martin and the pit.”

“We need a diversion. We need some way to distract a madman.”

“One step at a time, George. For now, we will speak of this no further.”

George Cherrie nodded in agreement.

Martin returned to the fire and placed Julio’s dismembered arms gently upon its glowing coals. Theodore Roosevelt’s stomach churned. Roosevelt had seen evidence of cannibalism practiced by the tribes of Africa but never by an individual born of such an honored and traditional culture. More bemused than shocked, Roosevelt had little of substance to say to the naked Englishman: “And all this time I figured you a civilized man, Lieutenant, but apparently, I was mistaken.”

Martin laughed. “Humans have consumed their own kind since the dawn of man, Mr. Roosevelt. This meat will provide me great comfort and rejuvenate my weakened body. I will need all my strength to confront the beast, would you not agree?”

“Release us from these bonds,” Cherrie said. “And the three of us will help you slay this creature.”

“But you will try to escape and ruin my fun, Mr. Cherrie. Even in this darkness, I can see it in your eyes and sense it in your voice.”

“Three rifles will most certainly provide better odds than a single man with a spear,” Roosevelt added.

“Gentlemen, the wisdom of the Amazonian natives is far superior to those of the so-called civilized world.  When I was amongst the Navaïté, their shamans revealed to me a closely guarded secret about the mighty Arawuua. The creature can be killed with a single spear-thrust into its neck, but the penetration must be precise and sever the creature’s artery. It is said the beast will bleed out and die very quickly.”

“And if you fail in your first attempt?” Cherrie asked.

Martin shrugged. “Then I believe we will all suffer the consequences of the creature’s wrath.”

“You have gone completely mad.”

“Perhaps… yet, if I succeed, I will rank with the greatest warriors and scientists the world has ever known! Newton… Darwin… Julius Caesar!”

“You will be regarded as none of these,” Roosevelt said flatly. “You will be greeted with scorn and ridicule, and then you will be imprisoned for kidnapping and promptly hanged for murder. Colonel Rondon will see that justice is done.”

“Colonel Rondon is a fool, but he pales in comparison to the British and their utter hypocrisy. They have conquered a quarter of the world to butcher, rape, pillage, and plunder—all in the name of Her Majesty. And the Americans act no better as their influence swells on the world’s stage; no small thanks to you and your despicable policies, Mr. Roosevelt.”

“So, what exactly happened in South Africa?” George Cherrie asked suddenly. “Did the children cry for mercy before you murdered them in cold blood?”

Martin sat silently for a moment, inspecting the human bicep sizzling on the flames before him. Roosevelt caught a whiff of the searing flesh and promptly gagged. Just the thought of burning human skin turned his stomach, although its smell was indistinguishable from the monkey-meat they enjoyed along their journey. “Almost time for a midnight snack,” Martin said.

“You did not answer my question,” Cherrie pressed.

Theodore Roosevelt instantly recognized George Cherrie’s strategy. Provoke the kidnapper until he lowers his guard. Bravo! This was certainly a courageous and brilliant maneuver.

Martin shook his head. “Poor Julio, he was as strong as an ox, although he proved just as vapid in the end. My greatest blunder was choosing such an inept co-conspirator.”

“Did you kill all those people?”

Martin sighed. “You are quickly becoming quite a bore, Mr. Cherrie.”

Roosevelt asked, “But innocent women and children…? How could you do such a thing?”

Martin removed Julio’s smoldering bicep from the fire and set it aside to cool. “One does what one must, Colonel Roosevelt. The women and children were just a small sacrifice for the common good of all South Africans…”

Martin stood quietly for a few moments. Even at some distance and shrouded in shadow, Roosevelt felt Martin drifting into some dark and mysterious corner of his overt insanity.

Martin continued, softly, “You should have seen their tiny faces flushed with terror and begging for mercy.” Martin shrugged as if brushing demons from his brain. “Perhaps they were better off dead than living under Britain’s crushing hand.”

“But the innocent—”

“Spare me, President Roosevelt. I acted no differently than your own legions did to your Native Americans. None of us can claim complete innocence, can we? The pendulum of moral absolutism and high-mindedness swings both ways.”

Martin grasped the meat and ripped out a huge chunk with his discolored teeth. He chewed slowly before swallowing the first morsel. He closed his eyes and then tore into Julio’s flesh like a ravenous dog. Theodore Roosevelt promptly looked away.

Martin giggled like a schoolgirl. “This is undoubtedly the finest meal I’ve had in months! Are you two certain you would not like a bite? I’m afraid I’m fresh out of tea. And with all of these delicious smells permeating the jungle, our friend will surely pay a visit. Only then will the real excitement commence!”

Roosevelt noticed the sky brightening with the approach of the full moon that hovered just beneath the trees to the west. Roosevelt maneuvered his wrists again, finally freeing his left hand. Hurriedly, he stretched his cramped fingers before untying his right wrist. Roosevelt caught Cherrie’s eye and grinned.

Cherrie nodded in response.

“And just how did you receive those nasty scars on your back,” Cherrie said. “Did the British deal you some of their own brand of justice while you awaited the sentence you so rightly deserved?”

Martin tossed Julio’s remains into the pit. He turned slowly toward Cherrie.

Roosevelt sensed immediately that Cherrie had finally struck some hidden nerve. My friend has just struck gold. And just in time!

Martin reached up and gently stroked the jagged ridges crisscrossing his bony shoulder. “No, Mr. Cherrie, these scars were not the result of the British justice system, but they were the handiwork of a British patriarch, nonetheless.” Martin grabbed his spear and sat on the ground just a few feet in front of the captives.

Roosevelt noticed a distant blankness in Martin’s stare. Just come a little closer, Roosevelt thought. A bit closer….

“I was shipped off by my Aunt to a prestigious boarding school in Derbyshire when I was a mere innocent lad of fourteen. My father had been dead for many years and my mother, a pathetic shell of a human being, was a worthless alcoholic. But my dear Auntie inherited a comfortable sum and took me under her wing.

“My grades were always exemplary, but I eventually became bored and fell in for some schoolboy tomfoolery for which I promptly ended up in the Headmaster’s office awaiting punishment of the sort I had not previously been privileged to endure.

“The Headmaster, a stern and proper family man in his late forties, lectured me of my bad behavior. Then he grabbed a heavy wooden paddle and whacked my backside several times. The pain was mild compared to my bruised sense of self-worth, but there was something else that struck me oddly as I played the incident out in my own mind over the next several days and weeks.

“So I continued to get into more mischief and I was sent to the Headmaster where he administered increasing harsher punishment, sometimes hitting me hard enough that the welts lasted for days, and yet I still could not get enough to satisfy my… unique hunger.

“After a month of these staged encounters, I noticed a fleeting glimmer in the Headmaster’s eyes. He invited me to his home, claiming that his wife and children were away for the weekend, whereupon I beheld—much to my sheer delight—an abundance of odd artifacts and devises scattered throughout the Headmaster’s dank cellar.

“At first the games were mildly mischievous, but as boredom took hold over several months, we began to escalate our adventures to greater heights, including the bullwhip welts you see evidenced on my back. Several of my bones were shattered during these encounters, yet I lived in unparalleled ecstasy, much of which I could not explain at the time, being so young.”

Roosevelt returned Cherrie’s befuddled glance with a shake of his head and widened eyes.

“About a year after beginning our little dalliance, the Headmaster made an odd request. He asked that I allow him to choke me to the point of asphyxiation but relent at the very the moment of losing consciousness. This was the most dangerous of our games but I felt so utterly unable to control my basic urges in any way. We took turns binding one another’s neck until the blood ceased to flow to our brains, and yet I still remained unsatisfied. It was then I realized I was beyond all hope—nothing short of death would fulfill my deepest needs.

“So I tied the cloth around the Headmaster’s neck and drew tightly, but when he signaled me to relent, I pulled even tighter. I will always remember the look of terror on his smug face as he gasped his last breaths, much like those helpless Afrikaners and our friend Simplicio when he swam to shore looking for a friendly, helping hand that he unfortunately never received.”

“You should have committed yourself to an asylum,” Roosevelt said woefully. “Even as a schoolboy, you must have known this was deviant behavior.”

Martin shrugged. “The Headmaster was hardly missed in the end. His family covered up his death out of embarrassment, and I resumed school under no suspicion. Besides, with me being a mere lad, would his manner of depravity not be considered even more deplorable?”

“Lieutenant Martin!” George Cherrie cried suddenly. “You must release us all immediately!”

Theodore Roosevelt knew in an instant what caught the naturalist’s attention. All around them, the usual sounds of the nocturnal jungle forest had abruptly silenced.

CHAPTER 28

Martin grabbed his spear and scampered back to the pit’s edge. He stood frozen peering out over the shadowy jungle. Abruptly, he kicked the fire’s ashes aside until only some smoldering logs remained.

With Martin occupied and his hands freed, Roosevelt fell to his side and pulled at his ankle’s bindings.

“Hurry, Colonel,” Cherrie hissed. “Get to the rifles!”

“I’m trying my best,” Roosevelt muttered breathlessly. “Damn-it, they may… have to be…cut.”

Martin crouched low and crept slowly around the outside of the pit and then downward toward the jungle. He halted, leaving thirty feet of open space between him and the forest. Martin raised his spear and stood motionless.

“Colonel, Look!”

Roosevelt suddenly felt the jungle move. He leaned up and turned toward the dim forest. Beyond the moon-lit clearing, he heard small trees crunch and scrubs pushed asunder. Listening closer, he heard the unmistakable sounds of deep guttural breathing. Something about this situation triggered a vivid memory—tracking the mighty bull elephant in deepest Africa, the beast lurking in the dark forests of the savannah; although this felt larger, quicker, and far more dangerous.

Roosevelt noticed the blood-stained axe lying just ten feet away, and he began slithering like a serpent toward the smoldering fire. Suddenly Roosevelt heard a cavernous growl, like the sound of a big cat but with the deep resonance of a rhinoceros. His heart raced.

“Colonel!”

Nearly out of breath, Roosevelt saw that the axe was now within his reach. Lying on his side, Roosevelt extended his arm and grabbed the handle, pulling it inward toward his feet. He bent awkwardly, chopping at his ankle’s bindings.

Beyond the pit, the forest exploded.

Roosevelt looked up. An immense grey mass sprung forward from the shadows. Roosevelt lay frozen, mesmerized by the creature’s gigantic stature and its snakelike eyes that glinted in the moonlight. Just barely discerning the monster’s form in the darkness, Roosevelt noted it standing on two legs with two small forehands that offered little practical function—very close to how Osborn had envisioned the beast from its ancient skeletal remains. The monster swung its menacing head back and forth across the clearing, drawing scent through its elongated snout. Roosevelt’s heart thumped.

Martin held his spear at chest height as the shadowy mass advanced with a terrifying roar and toothy jaws that snapped like an angry crocodile. With a nimble pitch to its left, the monster bypassed the pit’s opening, instead lurching upward along the pit’s edge and directly toward the waiting Martin.

Martin yelled loudly in words that Roosevelt could only describe as a native language. The Englishman gripped his spear firmly and lunged forward, directing his weapon upward and toward the beast’s chest. In the blink of an eye, the creature whacked Martin to the ground with one of its two colossal legs, knocking his spear from his hands and down into the pit.

Roosevelt looked on horrified as Martin lay prone, presumably at the mercy of the shadowy bulk hovering at him. The monster’s head lurched forward, snatching Martin’s torso between razor-sharp teeth. Roosevelt cringed listening to Martin’s bones snapping like twigs. The Englishman’s muffled scream faded mercifully into silence. The beast raised its head high into the air, gnawing Martin’s body until nothing at all remained. The creature raised its head and paused briefly, drawing the remainder of Martin’s corpse down its throat.

Crazed with fear, Roosevelt chopped at his feet’s bindings with renewed urgency. Finally, he broke free. Turning briefly, he slung the axe back along the ground toward the two remaining hostages.

“Colonel!” Cherrie shouted.

Roosevelt rose on cramped, wobbly feet. He scurried over to the makeshift arsenal and pulled his Winchester Browning rifle from the pile. Reaching into his pocket with quaking hands, he pulled out four bullets and began loading. One of the bullets fell to the ground.

The creature lurched forward in three huge strides, knocking Roosevelt to his side with its crocodilian foot. Roosevelt clung to his rifle and rolled aside.

“Colonel!”

The monster overshot its target. It halted and lowered its head, sniffing. The beast swung its gigantic tail around like a battering ram, brushing Roosevelt’s shirt but missing its unseen and undersized assailant by only inches.

Roosevelt rose to his knee. He raised his rifle, but the only angle available was the beast’s belly. He fired.

The creature stammered but swung around freely.

Roosevelt pumped another round into the beast’s neck.

The beast roared. It sidestepped, knocking Roosevelt onto his backside once again. Swiftly, the monster turned its head, face to face with the prone and vulnerable Roosevelt.

Roosevelt aimed and fired directly between the monster’s eyes.

The creature stomped downward, sinking its giant toe-claw through Roosevelt’s trousers. Roosevelt felt a sudden piercing pain in his right shin.

The monster reared back, howling madly; it dragged Roosevelt by the trouser leg like a rag doll. The beast teetered on the pit’s edge, attempting to regain its balance. The pit’s wall abruptly gave way and the monster rolled over the edge, flinging Roosevelt free but headlong into the pit along with the writhing giant.

Roosevelt, still dazed and winded from the fall, quickly took inventory of the situation. Next to him, the monster lay on its back gyrating wildly, attempting to right itself between the narrow walls of the pit. His gun was gone, and he was trapped with no way past the beast and in no condition to scale the pit’s wall. Roosevelt rose tepidly to his feet with his shin dripping blood. Beneath him, he noticed the glimmer of Martin’s spear.

The monster braced its tail against the pit’s wall and pushed itself over on its side. Roosevelt knew he had only mere seconds to act.

Roosevelt grasped the spear and staggered forward. He lunged with all his remaining strength directly at the beast’s throbbing neck. Then, he fell backward into a heap thoroughly depleted.

Theodore Roosevelt’s last conscience sensation this night was of witnessing an erupting volcano of gushing blood.

CHAPTER 29

Roosevelt woke slowly, feeling like he had just been stampeded by a hundred buffalo. His mind spun and his head ached as if recovering from his worse hangover. Directly above him, the skies brightened with the dawn of a new day, and he was surrounded by the usual jungle sounds at daybreak. He would have thought the previous evening a bad dream, if he were not lying at the bottom of a pit with George Cherrie standing above him administering some sort of first aid to his right knee.

“George, where is Kermit?”

“He is fine, Colonel. He is standing guard against predators. Kermit and I heard some prowling jaguars just before sunrise. Come, we have little time. Soon, all hell will break loose when this beast’s corpse begins to rot and every creature in the Amazon closes in for the feast.”

Roosevelt glanced over at the mound of dark greenish flesh piled next to him. The creature’s once menacing head and torso lay silent and still, swarmed over by a cloud of flies as dense as the forest thicket. Adjusting his spectacles, Roosevelt noticed the creature’s skin covered with swirling black patches—millions of ants pouring forth from the Amazon’s base already hard at work with nature’s inexorable cleanup.

“How is my leg?”

Cherrie smiled. “Merely a good rub, Colonel. I wrapped it the best I could. Dr. Cajazeria can tend to it properly once we get back to the river. Come, you must get up and we must get going! I will snap a few photographs, and then it will be imperative we get away from this clearing.”

Roosevelt, with a little help from Cherrie, rose slowly to his feet. His trusted Winchester lay on the ground alongside what appeared to be the severed claw from the beast’s vestigial forelimb.

Cherrie grinned. “Kermit thought you might want a little souvenir to take back to Osborn.”

Cherrie hurriedly unpacked his Kodak model 3A and unfurled its accordion-like lens. He directed Roosevelt to stand beside the slain monster holding Martin’s spear, but Roosevelt refused, instead choosing to stand unarmed with his hands at his hips.

“No, Mr. Cherrie,” Roosevelt said. “This magnificent creature was a survivor from a different time, another world long since passed to the ever-shifting sands of mother earth. And like any old warrior who had survived the battlefields of life, it would have been better to let it walk away and die of old age and in peace. It certainly deserved a better fate than at my feeble hands.”

Cherrie triggered his camera. “But we had little choice, Colonel.”

“Perhaps, yet I somehow feel wholly unworthy. I cannot in good conscience stand proudly as the creature’s glorious conqueror. I will not, and I suppose I never will.”

The three men hustled from the clearing, entering the jungle to the east. Theodore Roosevelt immediately lagged behind, hindered by an acute attack of asthma and favoring his right leg. After twenty minutes of determined trekking, Roosevelt could not advance any further. Breathing heavily, he sat down and shook his canteen. “I have… about a pint… remaining,” he said. “Here… you two can share what’s left.”

“No, father,” Kermit said. “You are in much worse shape than George and I. Drink! You must keep your strength.”

“Kermit, if I am too great a burden… then you must abandon me here. Just leave me my rifle… and a single bullet.”

“Nonsense!” Kermit pointed eastward. “Father, you are going to get up and walk to the river. George and I will carry you on our backs if we must.”

“Colonel Roosevelt,” Cherrie lectured sternly. “I just want to make it clear that we will never abandon anyone of our own party, especially you! You saved both of our lives last night, and I will be forever in your debt. Now, enough of this foolishness, we must keep moving!”

They pushed onward as the morning sun rose slowly behind the trees, and soon, the ground began sloping downward. Ever short of breath, Teddy Roosevelt rested often, and although his shin throbbed with intense pain, he never complained to Cherrie or Kermit. Upon sight of the river’s valley, Roosevelt’s stomach churned and he promptly vomited.

Kermit caught Cherrie’s eye before pressing forward once again.

Theodore Roosevelt felt too weak to walk the final three hundred yards through the underbrush and to the river. Propped up by both Kermit and Cherrie, Roosevelt hobbled out of the thicket and collapsed to the ground beneath the Wide Belt’s stone monument. Roosevelt breathed a deep sigh of relief when he noticed two of the dugouts pulled up on shore surrounded by Colonel Rondon and the other members of the expedition.

Cherrie hollered loudly, drawing Rondon’s attention. Rondon motioned to Antonio, and the two men crouched low and scurried toward Cherrie.

“Colonel Roosevelt is hurt,” Cherrie said. “He needs the doctor right away.”

Rondon motioned sharply. “Antonio, see the Colonel down to the boats.”

“Sim, senhor.” Antonio reached down to assist Roosevelt to his feet.

“It’s so good to see you Antonio. I have never been—” Roosevelt’s eye caught some movement amongst the trees. Looking closer, he clearly saw a native’s face amongst the bushes. “Antonio! Look over at those—”

”Sim, senhor Roosevelt,” the ever-polite Brazilian interrupted in a hushed tone. “I’m afraid the Wide Belts have had us surrounded since before dawn.”

CHAPTER 30

Disregarding the palpable danger closing in all around them, every man of the expedition pitched in and helped construct a bed of soft palm fronds to comfort Colonel Roosevelt. Dr. Cajazeria rolled up Roosevelt’s right trouser leg and wiped away a blotch of dried blood and bubbling yellow puss using some cloth and alcohol. Cajazeria leaned back, stroking his own chin. “The infection is advanced, senhor. Frankly, I have never seen human tissue break down so swiftly.”

“Yes,” Roosevelt replied sheepishly. “A mere scrape while wading in the river several days ago. I thought nothing of it at the time. I must apologize for not notifying you before.”

Kermit Roosevelt, stroking Trigueiro’s scrawny neck, caught George Cherrie’s raised eyebrow.

“Yes, senhor, but even a tiny wound under these conditions can lead to much bigger problems. Luckily I brought some of the best new ointments known to medicine. I should be able to get you through this ordeal, if your malaria can be kept in check.”

Roosevelt grinned. “I have great confidence in you, doctor, yet the Wide Belts may have different plans for me.”

“Sim, senhor, they may yet have the ultimate say whether or not any of us live to see the next sunrise.”

Lieutenant Lyra pulled two of his camaradas aside and huddled closely. Lyra waved his hand and the men wandered slowly toward the boats. A pair of arrows thumped the dugouts, and the camaradas immediately retreated.

Rondon raised his pistol and fired a single shot into the sky. He turned to Roosevelt, saying, “Just a little reminder of our capabilities.”

Roosevelt smirked. “Bully for you, Commander Rondon.” Roosevelt leaned up and glanced around. The natives, who had disappeared into the jungle following the gunshot, were slowly reemerging. “What we have here is a good, old-fashioned standoff,” Roosevelt said wryly.

Colonel Rondon wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m afraid that is only partially true, senhor. The natives, in fact, hold a significant advantage in numbers and in stealth. Our only advantage is that they are apparently still leery of our guns. But I am still puzzled why they have not simply slaughtered us, since they have obviously journeyed so far to do so.”

“Could they have some other agenda?”

“Once these natives groups set their collective minds on warfare, there is usually very little that can convince them otherwise, and yet I am not quite giving up hope.”

“Might they be willing to compromise?”

“We shall see…”

Roosevelt grabbed his Winchester and cradled it across his chest like a baby. “Well, we will know soon enough if they are in a chatting mood. If not, then I am willing to fight to the bitter end.”

A solitary native warrior emerged from the jungle. He crouched low and advanced toward the outsiders, jabbering loudly in his native language. The warrior raised and lowered his empty hands in a calming manner.

Rondon raised a brow. “Well, Colonel Roosevelt, it appears they wish to talk after all.” Rondon turned. “Antonio!”

Antonio ambled forward. He halted, listening closely to the approaching warrior. He turned to Rondon. “He is pleading that we do not use our ‘thunder sticks’. The Wide Belts wish to send a delegation that includes Chief Tataire and his father.”

“Antonio, tell him the Chief may speak to us, but we will keep our weapons at the ready while he does so.”

Antonio conversed briefly with the native and then translated for Rondon. “He says that having the sticks pointed at their warriors is not acceptable. He says they don’t quite trust us and that we may attempt to take Tataire captive with our magic.”

Theodore Roosevelt cocked his rifle. “That is a risk the chief must be willing to endure.”

Antonio inquired again, but the native stood silent with his chest pressed forward and his nose held high.

Rondon shook his head, muttering, “The chief realizes he holds all of the cards.” He waved his hand. “Lieutenant Lyra, order all the men to set aside their rifles.”

Chief Tataire emerged slowly from the forest followed by his gangly father. A handful of warriors strode forward, forming a human shield around the chief. The awkward delegation halted several yards from Colonel Rondon and the prone Roosevelt. Roosevelt discretely gathered up a few palm fronds to cover his rifle.

Chief Tataire’s eyes blazed fire. He spoke, translated by Antonio.

“You have trespassed on our sacred grounds, even though I strictly forbade you to do so. I would have served justice upon you swiftly if I were not cautioned by my father that you were likely still under the witches’ spell and that the spell had to be broken before we avenged our ancestors by consuming your flesh. The elders have counseled me that spells can be passed through your brain mass and its evil can drive warriors insane if their afflicted enemies are not purged while their eyes remain open and their minds are awake.

“Your escape from our village showed the strength of your spell, but my father has sensed the hardships you have endured along the river and now believes your spell has been weakened enough for us to finally take what is rightfully ours.”

Tataire gestured widely.

Roosevelt suddenly noticed at least a hundred armed warriors peering out from the jungle. Roosevelt slowly moved for his rifle, and he saw Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra doing the same. Dr. Cajazeria drew his pistol.

“You have insulted our ancestors. The penalty for such a transgression is death!”

“Wait!” Roosevelt shouted suddenly. “Antonio, tell him to wait!”

Antonio hollered out to the Wide Belt chief. Chief Tataire turned to his father, who replied with a short whisper. Tataire, looking somewhat disappointed, raised his hand signaling his warriors to stand down.

“Kermit,” Roosevelt hissed. “Show them the claw. Give the creature’s claw to the natives.”

“But father, that claw our only tangible proof—”

“Kermit, please don’t disobey me now! Such proof will be little consolation upon all of our deaths. Just do it!”

Kermit grabbed the burlap holding the foot-long claw carved from the monster’s forearm. He strode hurriedly toward the chief holding the bag forward as a humble offering.

Tataire accepted the bag and removed its blood-stained contents. Theodore Roosevelt thought Tataire appeared more confused than curious. The natives surrounding him murmured restlessly. Tataire’s father stepped forward and grasped the claw with widened eyes. “Arawuua!” he cried. Antonio translated the native’s words for all to hear. “The outsiders have slaughtered the sacred Arawuua!”

The natives jabbered loudly amongst each other, each reaching in and touching the claw with reverence. Tataire’s father offered the claw to his son and then strode directly toward Theodore Roosevelt without an escort. Despite a feeble and overtly-ignored plea from Tataire, the wrinkled native continued onward with his chest puffed forward and nose held high. He halted before Roosevelt, his eyes fixed upon Teddy’s wounded shin. Roosevelt thought he noticed a flash of sorrow within the man’s eyes.

The man spoke loudly, so that all—including his own son, the chief—could hear.

“This, I have not spoken even to Tataire, but my entire life I have been plagued by sleep-dreams that have troubled me to the point of madness. In these dreams I have seen great turmoil come to our people caused by invaders from beyond the earth’s edge. I was most disturbed by a dream telling me that I would be the last man of our tribe to see the Arawuua alive and that no great leaders will emerge from our ranks to confront the outsiders and defend our lands.

“The great visions tell me that our fate cannot be changed, but we will fight with great honor to slow those who invade our territory, because this is all we can do.”

Tataire’s father pointed to the east. “The ritual of the Kariati has served our people for countless sunrises, but I believe the Arawuua has now passed over the horizon and into the realm of sleep-dreams. Our world will decline from this time forward until our tribe also passes into memory, like all creatures that crawl upon the land and swim in the rivers and even the great trees that fall and rot into dirt.”

He pointed down at Roosevelt. “You have killed the sacred Arawuua. You are now a warrior of our tribe in the highest order and are free to come and go upon our lands as you desire, and the members of your tribe will not be harmed.”

“I am honored,” Roosevelt said diplomatically.

“But with this honor, we ask you to pledge to uphold the traditions of the Kariati and act with great humbleness, respecting the immense privilege the Gods have bestowed to you. Bragging of your exploits is said to bring great shame upon our peoples, along with flooding and drought.”

“I pledge with all my heart to uphold your most honored traditions,” Roosevelt replied.

**********

The expedition wasted little time climbing back into their dugouts and proceeding northward and down the twisting Rio Roosevelt River, and by nightfall they had already passed through the second gorge officially exiting the Wide Belt’s lands.

Colonel Roosevelt’s condition deteriorated over the next several days, and he was tended to continuously by Dr. Cajazeria. Kermit did his best to help, although stricken by malarial fever himself. Kermit made the entries in his father’s daily logs when Roosevelt lay too weakened to even hold his pen.

Ten days passed and the elevation of the surrounding land flattened considerably, and they made excellent progress between increasingly rare stretches of rapids. On April 15, 1914, six weeks after taking to the unknown river, Luiz discovered a hunk of wood that had apparently been cut with an axe, and the expedition rejoiced knowing they were finally approaching civilization once again.

With this encouraging news and feeling considerably better, Theodore Roosevelt gathered George Cherrie and Kermit beside his makeshift bed under the bright stars of the Amazonian night. “Well, I can now say with some confidence that I have again delayed my appointment at the Pearly Gates, at least for the duration of this grand and delightful expedition.

“During these past days in the infirmary I have thought long and hard of the incident we have had the misfortune of witnessing on this journey and the legacy strewn about in its horrific wake. All of my life I have regarded myself as less vain than the average politician, but alas I seem to have once again been deluded by my own arrogance. I gather being hood-winked by such a character as Martin and taken hostage by such a lithesome creature as Julio is a bit too much for my pride to swallow.

“I guess my pledge to the Wide Belts provides me some cover, but you two men are under no such governance and you can do whatever your conscience dictates. My decision to push these events aside will cause me great angst and will likely do so until the end of my days.”

“Colonel Roosevelt,” Cherrie said. “I owe you my life, and I will follow wherever you may lead.”

Kermit rested his hand gently upon his father’s shoulder. “Father, I will always be at your side.”

Theodore Roosevelt smiled uneasily. “Good, good. And it also gives me great pleasure to have successfully thwarted the Grim Reaper once again. That old boy has been stalking me for years now. I must surely frustrate him to no end.”

CHAPTER 31

Museu Nacional (National Museum of Brazil)

Rio de Janeiro

October 8, 1923

Like most who are obliged to speak before a large audience, wilderness hardened naturalist George K. Cherrie always felt a bit exposed—countless probing eyes set solely upon him, complete strangers acting as prosecutors, judges, and jury—every word parsed, every misstep smugly noted and revisited at the first opportunity, usually at the end of a long, draining discourse. Yet the words usually flowed easily for Cherrie, little anecdotes about adventures in untamed jungles, exotic wild creatures, and hardened men, anything to keep an audience amused and entertained and willing to sit through the more mundane droning about new species of colorful birds and their arduous habitats.

Dr. Juan Ortiz Lobão stepped toward the podium leading the first round of polite applause. He shuffled past Cherrie’s exhibit of illustrated drawings and offered his hand graciously. George Cherrie accepted with a deep sigh.

“On behalf of the National Museum of Brazil and the American Museum of Natural History, I would like to offer my sincerest gratitude to senhor Cherrie. How delightfully he has shared his keen scientific insights into South America’s abundant natural beauty and diversity as well as his riveting personal journeys.”

A second round of applause ended with Dr. Lobão’s gentle motions for order. “And now senhor Cherrie has agreed to take a few questions. Please be brief and to the point.”

A balding middle-aged man raised his hand and rose to his feet. He smiled broadly. “Can you share with us some of your emotions upon hearing of Theodore Roosevelt’s untimely death, and also whether you believe the rumors that his demise was a direct result of the infection he received during your expedition, even though he lived more than four years following your return?”

Cherrie cleared his throat. “Colonel Roosevelt and I became deep personal friends during our time together in the Amazon as do most men when thrust together under such dire circumstances. Naturally his death brought me great sadness and it still does to this very day. Your second question is mere conjecture, but from all accounts both he and his doctors had admitted his infected shin was the primary cause of his rapidly failing health near the end of his life.”

Another man stood. “Cândido Rondon is renowned for his Pacifist views, especially in regard to our native populations, whereas Theodore Roosevelt was known for seeking justice in the ways of the American Wild West. How did such diverse men coexist and command a mission such as the one you undertook?”

“Rondon and Roosevelt reconciled their differences very effectively.”

“Have you spoken to Rondon since Roosevelt’s death? Do you keep in touch with other members of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition?”

Cherrie pointed at his illustrations. “Does anyone wish to ask about my beautiful artwork?”

The audience giggled nervously.

Dr. Lobão waved his hand. “I do offer my deepest apologies, senhor Cherrie. Please understand that Cândido Rondon is a national hero to my countrymen, and President Roosevelt continues to be one of the most talked about personalities in the world. We do not often have an opportunity to pose such questions to someone who has personally experienced events that we can only gather from books or newspaper articles.”

Cherrie offered his warmest smile and nodded graciously. “I have not spoken to Commander Rondon since we exited the River of Doubt, although I have read his memoirs and accounts of our mission. This is my first visit to Rio since the end of the Great War and I plan to meet with the Commander later this week. As for the others, we are all busy with our work and have gone our separate ways.”

Dr. Lobão raised a single finger. “Mr. Cherrie has time for one more question.”

Cherrie scanned the room. A clean-shaven man in his early forties rose abruptly from his seat near the auditorium’s rear. He held a notebook in his left hand and a readied pencil in his right. “There have been many rumors circulating around the Mato Grosso region over this past decade that directly contradict many of Colonel Roosevelt’s accounts of the expedition and do not—”

“Pardon me. Can I have your name?”

“Sim, senhor, I humbly apologize. My name is Enrique Batista representing the Jornal do Brasil, Rio’s oldest and most prestigious newspaper.”

“Go on…”

“Well, senhor, there is Leo Miller’s account of a bearded white man who was hired by Colonel Roosevelt to guide the expedition?”

Cherrie shook his head. “The camaradas were all of Portuguese or African descent.”

“But why would senhor Miller—?”

“Leo Miller departed our group before we embarked on the river leg of the expedition. Leo is a good man, but he had little contact with the camaradas, whereas I got to know each and every one of these rugged men quite well. Now, allow me to pose a simple question to you, senhor Batista. Who do you think would most likely know the race and nationality of these individuals, me or him?”

The audience members murmured amongst themselves. Some stood and turned to catch a glimpse of the questioner.

“Why, you, senhor Cherrie. Although I do think it odd senhor Miller would make up such a claim without—”

“Does Miller still claim this as fact?”

“Well, no… He has since recanted his account of the white man. But still—”

“Senhor Batista,” Dr. Lobão interrupted. “Please refrain from badgering our special guest. He has graciously agreed to come all the way to Rio just to speak with us, and he should be treated with our best intentions.”

George Cherrie waved his hand. “Obrigado, senhor Lobão, but I am happy to tackle such difficult rumors if, by doing so, I can clear the air and set the record straight. Believe me; I’ve heard all this gossip before. Mr. Batista, do you have any more questions?”

“Sim, senhor… Several members of the camarada’s families claim that Colonel Roosevelt met and pacified the recently discovered Wide Belt tribe of the deep Amazon, although in his book Roosevelt reported that you passed through this region without much incident, except for the death of Colonel Rondon’s dog. Many find this hard to believe, senhor. These natives are reputed to kill strangers upon sight.”

Cherrie shrugged.

“And there are accounts that you and Colonel Roosevelt documented a new and previously unknown creature while on this expedition and that Roosevelt hunted and killed this monstrous beast by himself and without any assistance. Is this also true?”

The auditorium erupted in muffled laughter. George Cherrie joined in the mirth accompanied by a shake of his head. “Senhor Batista, at the time of our expedition President Theodore Roosevelt was a fifty-four year old man beaten down by malaria, half-starved with one good leg and nearly blind in one eye paired with another that was not much better. If you wish to believe that Mr. Roosevelt could have slaughtered a wild animal of the Amazon larger than a centipede, well then by all means do so. And, by the way, I have some favored real estate to sell to you deep in the jungle.”

There was brief interlude of scattered applause amid continued murmuring.

Cherrie continued, “But sadly, great men like Theodore Roosevelt and your own Cândido Rondon are always trapped forever within a framework our own dreams and aspirations which is always grander than the human residing at their very core. Roosevelt was a man amongst men, but he would have been the first to admit he was far from a God. Please trust me when I say he remained firmly grounded, a mere mortal like us all. Tales such as this have besieged all men of elevated stature throughout history. And here, as they say, there is little new under the sun.”

George Cherrie stood back, basking in thunderous applause.

**********

Cherrie felt every jolt and every bump as the open-air trolley clanked along Rio de Janeiro’s outer boulevards and away from the city’s center toward the vast blue South Atlantic to the east. He inhaled the fresh salty air, and he could not help but think of playful summer vacations on Maine’s rocky coastline with Stella and the children—bygone days filled with little worries, corn on the cob, and succulent boiled lobster. Beyond the road, the ocean spread across an endless horizon, its surface shimmering under early spring’s inviting skies. Ships of all shapes and sizes clogged the harbor with masts reflecting the afternoon sun beneath the imposing cliffs of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain.

The trolley came to a screeching stop amid a cluster of passing automobiles with motors purring and spitting foul exhaust, making Cherrie long for simpler days of horses and carriages and long solitary excursions into pristine forests where the air was fresh and the mind could be at peace. The trolley driver turned to Cherrie with a friendly smile and pointed. “The Instituto Militar de Engenharia, senhor.”

Cherrie paid the driver his due and stepped off into the crisp Brazilian air. He strode down a concrete walkway and entered a large building constructed of stone, brick, and mortar. After being directed by a young man in a smart brown uniform to a prominent office on the building’s ground floor, Cherrie rechecked the door’s ornate title before stepping inside.

George Cherrie recognized immediately the smallish man huddled over a shiny oak desk cluttered with stacks of paper. Other than a few additional gray hairs, Commander Cândido Rondon appeared ageless, virtually unchanged from when they had gone their separate ways nine long and eventful years before.

“I have never seen a more unnatural sight as this, senhor, donned in civilian clothing and not barking out his daily orders. Can a man who has tamed the mighty Amazon be so uttered defeated by a simple pile of paper?”

Cândido Rondon glanced up. He smiled widely and rose to his feet. “Paperwork is the grease that lubricates a functioning bureaucracy, my friend, both military and civilian. I’m certain it works the same throughout the world. George Cherrie! What a delightful surprise.” Rondon slipped hurriedly around his desk, offering Cherrie a firm handshake and a manly hug. “I received your telegram only yesterday. I am so glad you could stop by. Please, senhor, sit… sit.”

Cherrie settled into one of the three plush chairs surrounding Rondon’s desk.

Rondon pulled up a chair beside him. “How is your family? Have you spent much time on your Vermont farm? I remember well your vivid descriptions of your orchards and of the autumn colors. How lovely a memory to cherish…”

“Not as much as I would like to spend, senhor.  But recently I have thought of retiring from field work and returning to the States for good.”

“Ah, you are far too young for retirement, Mr. Cherrie. You have much more to offer the world, sim?”

“And look at you, a luxurious office and a fancy title: Director of Engineering of the Army?”

“Sim, sim, although you know I would give this all up to be back in the field again. How I miss the Mato Grasso and the Amazon, and I do miss my men.”

“Yes, I did receive word of Lieutenant Lyra, and I offer my heartfelt condolences…”

Cherrie noticed a genuine look of extreme sadness engulf Rondon’s rugged face. If it were any other man but Cândido Rondon, Cherrie would have expected the man’s eyes to mist and tear. "Yes, he died an honorable death, swept away while surveying the Rio Sepotuba five years ago.” Rondon shook his head. “He performed his duties admirably to bitter end. There will be no man—past, present, or future—his equal under my command.”

“Yes, he will be remembered as a good and loyal officer.”

Rondon paused for a moment. “And of senhor Roosevelt…?”

“Yes, and I wish to engage in some private talk.” Cherrie glanced toward the open doorway.

“I understand, of course.” Rondon rose from his chair and closed the door tightly. He returned to his seat.

Cherrie leaned in closely. “Have you had the opportunity to read the Colonel’s book?”

“Sim, senhor, ‘Through the Brazilian Wilderness’, sim…”

“What did you think?”

“Well, obviously, Mr. Roosevelt was very creative in certain aspects of—”

“Did this not trouble you?”

Rondon shrugged. “Mr. Roosevelt had every right to write his personal account of the expedition the way he saw fit, would you not agree? Whether he omitted any reference to Lieutenant Martin or altered the manner of Julio’s death, holds little relevance to the historical nature of the mission.”

“And of the dark beast…?”

“Yes, of course, this must be considered a tremendous loss to those like yourself who classify such creatures. Just last year Antonio and Luiz guided a group of prospectors back into the Wide Belt lands, finding the monument torn asunder and the stone building disassembled and the clearing overrun by the jungle’s natural encroachment. The Wide Belts have fought fiercely to defend their lands these past ten years, but the chief remembered Antonio in particular, telling him that the Arawuua no longer existed in the flesh and that the Kariati is no longer practiced. Tataire reminded Antonio of the sacred nature of the bygone ritual and how they should respect the Wide Belt’s ancestors by speaking little of its history, thus allowing its memory to fade with future generations.”

“Do you suppose this is the reason why the Colonel chose to omit these factual events in his memoirs? Do you believe he did so simply to appease the native’s ancestors?”

“Colonel Roosevelt was a man of his word, whether offered to men whom he regarded as peers or those he considered primitive savages. He was obliged to accept the Wide Belt’s terms in a gambit to spare all of our lives, and it appears he remained steadfast to his promise to the very end of his own life.”

“Hence, can you not see my eternal conflict, senhor Rondon? I was an eyewitness to perhaps the greatest scientific find of all time, and as a scientist I feel compelled to report such to the world, but doing so would expose an American icon to scorn and ridicule, along with the strong possibility it may be against his final wishes.”

“Perhaps he left the decision completely up to you, George.”

Cherrie rubbed his chin. “That was not quite the simple answer I wished to hear from you, Commander.”

“And what are Kermit Roosevelt’s thoughts on this subject? He also witnessed this event and he may understand his father’s reasoning far better than either of us.”

Cherrie sighed. “Kermit married Belle and they had three children, two of which Roosevelt had the pleasure of holding before he passed. But after returning from the war and after his father’s death, he was a changed man, spending more time with the bottle than with his young family.”

Rondon lowered his eyes and shook his head. “This is such a shame for one who is so young and who had shown so much potential.”

“I have met with him on several occasions, but he refuses to speak about the expedition or of his father’s wishes.”

“Well, senhor Cherrie, I sympathize greatly with your plight, but I personally did not bear witness to the beast, although I did glimpse one of its appendages. You may never know Colonel Roosevelt’s thoughts on the matter, lost with his untimely death, and the creature’s imprint upon this planet fades with every passing year and with the passing of the current-most Wide Belt generation. This is unfortunate, but it is the way of things—oftentimes God works in peculiar and mysterious ways.”

CHAPTER 32

Cherrie’s Rocky Dell Farm

Newfane, Vermont

January 3, 1948

George Cherrie leaned awkwardly over his cane and peered out of his kitchen window at huge snowflakes drifting softly from deep grey New England skies. The chilly darkness descended early in mid-winter and he lamented the passing of fall’s colors as the shadows overwhelmed the cottony-white landscape before him. Cherrie raised his shirt’s sleeve to remove his frosty breath from the window’s surface. He struggled to see his driveway’s end and the snow-covered roadway beyond.

“Get away from that window this instant,” Stella said, lifting the perking coffee pot off the burner. “Didn’t the doctor just warn you about pneumonia? Weren’t you listening?”

“What, dear?”

Stella shook her head. “George, I seriously doubt anyone would be foolish enough to come all the way up from New York City on a night like this. Must all of the Museum’s business be so hurried? Could they not wait just a day or two for the weather to clear? What could be so important?”

Cherrie spotted a pair of headlights through the snowflakes. He hobbled to the kitchen table and sat. “He’s here.”

“Okay, I’ll warm up some stew.”

Stella answered a rap on the front door. A tall young man carrying a large briefcase stood on the stoop dressed in a long trench coat and a snow-caked hat. The man removed his hat and dusted off the snow as Stella closed the door tightly behind him. The man smiled broadly. “Mrs. Cherrie, I can only presume?”

“Yes, George has been expecting you. Come in and warm up. You must be exhausted having driven all this way in this snow.”

Cherrie, feeling every one of his eighty-three years, rose slowly from the table. He locked eyes with the visitor, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties. The man placed the briefcase gingerly on the floor before removing his coat and gloves.

“I can take those,” Stella said, gathering up the wet garments.

The man extended his hand timidly. “My name is Jonathan Harner. I’ve been sent by Mr. Davison to represent the Museum in this affair.”

Cherrie took Harner’s hand and shook firmly. “George Cherrie,” he said.

Harner chuckled but quickly regained his composure. “I sincerely apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Cherrie, but you hardly need to introduce yourself to anyone who has studied Natural History or even to anyone who is familiar with Theodore Roosevelt’s legacy for that matter. I have been a great admirer of your work since I was a little boy and have attended several of your lectures.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was one of those young college students sitting at the rear of the hall too intimidated to ask any questions.”

“You should have spoken up. You must be bold and question those in authority. It is the best way to learn.”

Stella smiled warmly. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Harner?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Cherrie glanced down at Harner’s briefcase.

Harner continued, “And if truth be told, I volunteered to bring this to you today. Mr. Davison wished to send it by special messenger, but I literally pleaded with him to reconsider. It was my chance to meet you, George Cherrie, one of my personal heroes and an actual living friend to one of our greatest presidents, Teddy Roosevelt! I just couldn’t resist the opportunity.”

Stella said, “Isn’t that nice, dear.”

“Colonel,” Cherrie said flatly.

Harner paused. “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Roosevelt abhorred that name. We simply called him Colonel or Colonel Roosevelt.”

“Oh, I apologize…”

“George!” Stella scolded. “Let the young man tell his story. Colonel Roosevelt has been gone for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he doesn’t mind what he’s called.”

Cherrie chuckled mischievously. “So, Mr. Harner, what do you have for me? It must be pretty important for you to come all this way in the middle of a Vermont snowstorm. The telegram I received from the Museum was very vague, only hinting of something regarding the Roosevelt family or Colonel Roosevelt himself.”

Harner grabbed the briefcase and placed it gently on the table before Cherrie. “Any personal correspondence or artifact of Theodore Roosevelt’s is given the utmost attention and is scrutinized closely. But finding previously undocumented correspondence of a man of such eminence is rarer still. And this particular oversight was extraordinary, as you will soon see.”

“And how does this relate to me?”

Harner opened the case and gingerly removed a four-inch thick yellowed and neatly wrapped package. Cherrie noticed the words: ‘Confidential’ and ‘For the addressee’s eyes only’ stamped on all sides. A hand-written mailing tag was affixed to the package’s center: ‘Mr. George K. Cherrie, Rocky Dell Farm, Newfane Vermont’.

“We confirmed that it was indeed Theodore Roosevelt’s own handwriting,” Harner said.

“Do you know approximately when he fabricated this?”

“Our experts could not determine an exact date, but it was found amongst his final works, possibly in the final months of his life. Only Theodore Roosevelt himself could have told us why it was not mailed.”

Cherrie’s heart thumped.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Cherrie?”

“No, no, I often get quite emotional thinking about my old friend.”

“I understand.”

“Do you know whether anyone has examined its contents?”

Harner shook his head. “The package has remained sealed, presumably since President Roosevelt last held it in his own hands. It was discovered last year in the Museum of Natural History’s archives quite by accident. Since then we have made overtures to the Roosevelt families, who have in turn decided to turn the package over to you, the intended addressee, stating that Colonel Roosevelt would have wished it handled that way.”

“Extraordinary...”

Harner smiled broadly. “The Museum of Natural History would of course be interested in obtaining any new documents or notes from Mr. Roosevelt, if you choose to donate such papers. Anything scribed by a former President of the United States is of priceless historical value, especially when the author is Theodore Roosevelt.”

“I will give it some thought, but first I would like to examine the package in private.”

“George!” Stella said, shaking her head. “This young man has travelled a long way in a heavy snowstorm just to meet you. We just can’t send him back into the cold night. I won’t have it!”

Harner waved his hand diplomatically. “No, Mrs. Cherrie, it is quite all right.”

“But we have extra bedrooms…”

“I’ve rented a room in Brattleboro for the evening. I must be on my way before the roads become impassable.”

“I’m sorry, young man,” Cherrie said.

Harner rose from the table, accepting his coat and hat from Stella. “There is one last thing I’d like to say, Mr. Cherrie. It has been an honor meeting you, sir, and I will remember this moment for the rest of my life. Just last summer I drove my wife and children out to see Yellowstone Park. What a stunning legacy men like Theodore Roosevelt and his predecessors have left for future generations with their tenacious efforts to preserve America’s stunning beauty. On our way home we made certain to visit the new Rushmore monument in South Dakota. What a grand spectacle to behold—Mr. Roosevelt carved high on a mountaintop in solid granite for all to behold, a statue that will stare down upon this earth for perhaps a hundred thousand years. What a fitting tribute to a truly great man. And to think, I’m now standing before a man who can call him a good, personal friend.”

Cherrie entered his library and placed the package squarely at his desk’s center. He tossed a few logs into his fireplace, inhaled deeply, and sat. Taking a letter opener he cut gingerly into the parcel’s fragile edges. He gently pulled the contents free—a simple letter attached to an untitled manuscript. He opened the letter and began to read:

November 28, 1918: Dearest George, It breaks my heart that Edith and I could not make it up to Rocky Dell this past fall as I have longed to do ever since you described to me your grand apple orchards and the taste of fresh honey while we slogged along half-starved in the Amazon. But I have not been feeling quite up to snuff lately due to this damn infected leg, which I’ve come to the rightful conclusion was part of the monster’s legacy as the Wide Belts had dutifully warned. But, sadly, nothing seems to help me now, not the salves or the lotions, not even the most expensive doctors in New York City can explain why this poison remains within me and why I can do so little to fight its unstoppable progress.

And yet it is of ‘the monster’ that I wish to speak to you about, now that my own demise seems eminent. George, I have been a fool, and I have been a coward. I can live with playing the fool, but I have been abhorred with cowardice in any form my entire life.

I made the greatest mistake of my life when I returned from the Amazon telling only half-truths and even outright lies in a cowardly attempt to protect my own damn legacy. I knew any accounts of finding a living prehistoric (can we even use the term prehistoric?) beast in the Amazon would make me the laughingstock of the ages. I even used my oath to the Wide Belts to somehow justify my actions, but I only ended up making a complete jackass of myself and, consequentially, I have dragged you, Colonel Rondon, and even poor Kermit down this same damnable path.

George, I would like to set matters straight once and for all.

I know this will put you and Rondon in a tight spot once again, but I will write any testimonial stating your explicit innocence regarding this episode and its aftermath. I will say that you and Rondon were simply following my lead, which incidentally is the honest truth. I am more than willing to fall on this blade; and, as a matter of record, I will insist upon it!

One such wrong that I, myself, must set right are my own memoirs. I have enclosed a copy of the updated version for your perusal. Please feel free to note any discrepancies or typographical errors.

Hope to hear from you soon,

Theodore Roosevelt.

Cherrie settled into his chair collecting a myriad of thoughts while his gut cycled through every conceivable human emotion. Finally, he could not help but chuckle. For all these years of anguish, my answer lay amid some dusty bin just two states away!

Cherrie reached down and picked up the manuscript. He opened its cover and read: Through the Brazilian Wilderness by Theodore Roosevelt. He thumbed hurriedly through the chapters: With a Mule-Train across Nhambiquara Land, The English Stranger, The River of Doubt, Escape from the Wide Belts, My Encounter with the Jurassic… George Cherrie suddenly felt like the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted off his slumping shoulders. He felt liberated for the first time in over thirty years.

Cherrie ambled to his office safe and began to spin its dial. The tumblers clicked in place and the heavy steel door swung open. Reaching to the bottom of a pile of paperwork, he pulled out a yellowed, eight by ten inch envelope. A small handwritten note was attached: Per the terms of my final Will and Testament, I require that this envelope be unopened and destroyed upon my death, George K. Cherrie, August 28, 1915.

Cherrie sat down at his desk and broke the seal. He pulled out four glossy photographs and their corresponding negatives. The first shot was of a gangly and bearded Lieutenant Martin, paddling his dugout down the Rio Roosevelt. The second was of a massive three-toed footprint carved into a sandy beach. Flipping to the third photograph, he beheld a shadowy image of a newly dead monster from before the Stone-age, and the fourth was a clear picture of a battered and broken Theodore Roosevelt standing beside the creature’s nightmarish head.

Cherrie stared at the last photograph for a few moments, gathering in details of the monster’s jagged teeth and its terrifying eyes that lay open since taking its final breaths on earth just hours before the image was captured. And yet something gave Cherrie great pause when he looked upon Roosevelt’s lined face. Cherrie grabbed a magnifying glass and leaned closer.

There was something different in this shot—something in Roosevelt’s eyes. Cherrie had seen hundreds of photographs of Theodore Roosevelt’s trophies over the years, but this seemed odd—Roosevelt appeared detached, almost indifferent to his prey; there was no puffed chest or wry smile.

George Cherrie rubbed his chin and looked up from his desk, catching his own reflection upon the picture window of his modest den. What he saw was a grey-haired old man who was quite humbled by the monumental task before him. Here was a man who is about to change the very course of history by shattering the legacy of one of the most enigmatic and beloved figures of all time, and all at President Roosevelt’s own bequest! And George Cherrie actually had Roosevelt’s explicit permission to do so in writing!

Cherrie stared through the window and into the dark wintry night as the winds whipped the snow into a howling gale against his clattering wooden shutters. Suddenly, he felt chill.

He felt a stirring in the deep recesses of his mind—a memory from half a lifetime ago, in a distant land where the afternoon sun scorched the earth and the humidity crushed men’s lungs and their will to persevere—sitting on a boulder overlooking a peaceful river with his new best friend, before any insurrections, murders, or before encountering any deadly beast. He with his cherubic face and trademark spectacles and toothy grin, raising his canteen in a spontaneous toast: “George, it has certainly been a glorious life we’ve lived, don’t you think? You know I’ve often been accused of being born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I can hardy disagree with this assessment. And yet most men born with my advantages never strive to make a difference in this world, to make an imprint on society other than to foolishly squander their inheritance. I believe the purpose of life is to somehow make the world better for those that follow—whether that is to become President of the United States and broker peace between two countries and save millions of lives, or teach two young students to read out of a one room shack in western Nairobi.

“George, we are indeed most fortunate, and when that day comes when we stand before the gates of Heaven or Hell, who amongst the sainted or the damned can rightfully say they’ve formed friendships such as ours, breathed the air we have breathed, and have seen the sights we have seen.”

“George!” Stella’s familiar voice from the kitchen drew Cherrie back to the drafty farm house on a cold and blustery January night. “Dinner’s about ready.”

Cherrie thoughts turned to his lovely Stella, his children, and his precious grandchildren, and he smiled with unbounded delight. “I’ll be there in a minute, dear.”

“Don’t be too long or the stew will get cold!”

George Cherrie rose to his feet and gathered up Roosevelt’s letter and manuscript, along with his four photographs and negatives. He ambled over to the fireplace and tossed everything upon the flickering flames.

### END ###

To review this work on Amazon.com please click: How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (Kindle)

**********

Mark Paul Jacobs lives in lovely Dauphin, Pennsylvania. He enjoys fishing the Canadian north, poker, and annoying his wife. He has authored two novels: How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the last Mighty T-Rex, a Historical Science Fiction tale set in 1914, and the hard science fiction novel: The Yaakmen of Tyrie, a powerful and mysterious tale of bravery, loss, perseverance, betrayal, and redemption. He is also quite proud of his awe-inspiring short story: The Day God Winked and his chilling novelette with the provocative title: The Watchers from within Moments Revealed, an almost universally well reviewed work for which he has written a screenplay suitable for an ‘Outer Limits’ episode. These and several other works are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, Sony, and Smashwords.com. How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the last Mighty T-Rex and The Yaakmen of Tyrie is available in paperback via Createspace.com. Mark is working on a movie screenplay tentatively called Stain which is a gritty murder conspiracy based in Central Pennsylvania similar to the movie ‘Fargo’ or ‘Reservoir Dogs’. Please enjoy his works and don’t be afraid to tell him what you think on his Facebook page, twitter account, or by email. And lastly, please take the time to leave him a review of his work; it doesn’t have to be long or long-winded, but it does make him feel that his hard word has touched someone’s life in some way. You can leave a review wherever his books are available.

A few notes about my novel: The Yaakmen of Tyrie: currently offered at Amazon (Kindle) and Smashwords.com. An epic adventure of monumental proportions; A heroic tale of perseverance, bravery, loss, betrayal, and redemption; A deep, jaw-dropping mystery that will keep you guessing until the very last pages. The Yaakmen of Tyrie is set on an alien world with a double moon, and where men’s lives span only ten or eleven long years. Quintar is a Yaakman— one in the latest generation of men and women who partner with the giant, hairy bipeds to connect remote settlements nestled in the mountainous regions surrounding the Great Confluence of Tyrie. But Quintar realizes his destiny only after he stumbles upon an odd object high in the mountains, and he dreams of the mythical Thrimara. Thrust suddenly into politics by the Supreme Yaakleader Carathis, a man whose stare could melt any man’s arrogance; and accompanied by the brooding Lenna, the proud fisherman Barrazan, the young apprentice Kristren and Kristren’s mentor Entya, the secretive trapper Ruppon, and the diminutive scholar Porrias, Quintar embarks on a harrowing journey into the unknown wilderness on a quest to unravel Tyrie’s greatest mystery. Enjoy! Download: The Yaakmen of Tyrie, Now! Amazon (Kindle) or at Smashwords (all formats)

Following is an excerpt (Chapters 1-9, complete Part 1) from my 5 part novel The Yaakmen of Tyrie. Enjoy!

THE YAAKMEN OF TYRIE: PART 1: CONFLUENCE

CHAPTER  1 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

“Winter arrives early in the high regions,” thought Quintar, recalling one of his mentor Carathis’s stern lectures, offered so many cycles ago during his youthful training, far away to the southeast below the Great River’s confluence. “Many good Yaakriders have been lost venturing into the high mountains after the leaves of Payet lose their summer hues. Most are lured by plentiful game— fattened by winter’s approach— and quick profit.”

Quintar rubbed his eyes, ever haunted by the Supreme Yaakleader’s fierce glare and waving finger. “But the experienced amongst our guild understand the danger of late season hunts; they know well that paths amid the peaks can narrow to little more than a Yaak’s breast, and howling blizzards can sweep from deceivingly peaceful skies.”

Beneath Quintar, the huge Yaak-beast shuddered. “You must never forget, young Yaakrider, carelessness can bring swift death.”

Carathis’s image, swirling through Quintar’s weary mind, dissolved like a lake-fog struck by the rising sun’s warming rays. The Yaakman opened his eyelids slowly. Vast, snow-swept peaks towered before him, bathed in pale-red beneath Ellini’s crescent.

Quintar stroked his sweat-gnarled beard and brushed unkempt brown hair from broad shoulders. He inhaled deeply while searching the deepening sky for bright-yellow Alberon, and he shivered anticipating winter’s approach— lonely Thermegan skimming the western horizon following cycles of bitter cold and snow piled higher than a man’s shoulder or a Yaak’s knees. He pulled his battered overcoat close and his longbow tight.

Quintar felt the beast quake again. “Steady Shila,” he whispered soothingly, stretching his own cramped legs bound to a harness fastened to the Yaak’s hip. Beneath him, the Yaak-beast distributed her shaggy bulk over two powerful legs.

Without warning and to Quintar’s bewilderment, the great beast turned her hunched neck from the clearing, raising her over-sized head and aiming saucer eyes toward the distant slopes. Quintar huddled close to the Yaak’s mass. He could feel her drawing deep breaths into her massive lungs.

The Yaakmen studied the endless peaks upon which the Yaakbeast gazed— the great northern mountains disappeared beyond the clouds and Quintar’s familiarity. Shila thrust forth two strong arms— each the length of a man— flexing spindly fingers as if clawing some nameless and unseen foe.

Moments later, the huge biped turned leisurely back to the clearing. Quintar shook his head. No man could ever understand a Yaak's thoughts, he mused.

Quintar noticed three pig-creatures meandering near the forest’s edge. Glancing to Shila’s right, he located massive Anderro squatting several meters into the woods. Upon Anderro’s hip, Lenna pulled two arrows from his quiver. Quintar turned his eyes to Thimbar, crouching motionless near the forest’s opening below. Thimbar’s rider Enro returned Quintar’s glance with a fleeting nod.

Quintar drew his bow and released his arrow, striking a pig’s breast. Lenna’s arrow thumped the same yelping animal a heartbeat later. A net jumped from the meadow’s floor near Thimbar.

Shila and Anderro lumbered forward, flanking the zigzagging pigs. With surprising speed and agility, the Yaak herded the prey toward stationary Thimbar. Two pigs ran directly into the net— ensnared and thrashing— while the wounded creature skipped wide and raced from the clearing.

Quintar caught Lenna’s eye. With a sharp tug on Shila’s hair, Quintar urged the beast past Thimbar and into the woods.

Quintar held tight as Shila ambled through the forest drawing pig’s scent through flared nostrils. The ground sloped downward and the trees gave way to squat bushes. Shila plodded down a steep bank, slowed, and then finally halted.

Quintar took a deep breath and pushed aside the Yaak’s mane. He peered out over a mountain stream ravine, strewn with huge boulders and uprooted trunks. Quintar’s prey lay convulsing beneath Shila’s three-pronged toes.

Quintar pulled himself from his harness and hurriedly gutted the pig-creature. He tossed the entrails to gathering scavengers and secured the carcass to Shila’s side. He staggered to the stream’s edge, dipped his knife into the frigid water, and then glanced downstream.

A dull metallic surface caught the Yaakman’s eye.

He paused. Is my mind playing tricks on me?

Quintar tossed icy water across his brow and brushed away the drops. He scanned the rocky riverbank again, spotting instantly the peculiar object buried amid roots at the stream’s edge. Instinctively, Quintar gazed upward and upon the barren cliffs overlooking the vale. The Yaakman pondered for a moment before shaking his head.

Quintar trudged downward along the stream’s edge, ducking beneath tangled branches and pushing aside thick grassy reeds. Eventually, he stood before the clump. He reached out and guardedly stroked the object’s smooth surface, marveling at its flawless texture and wondering of its makers and its purpose. Quintar clutched some roots and pulled himself atop the knotted mess.

He froze— a mesh of smashed compartments and jagged metal beams lay before him.

Quintar lowered himself into the root-clogged jumble. He noticed a single undamaged compartment, about man-height, with dirt-caked walls and what appeared to be a circular entryway at waist level. He ran his hands across the entrance and then brushed green moss from a latch at the gateway’s center. Quintar rubbed his hairy chin. He grasped the handle firmly and turned. The door popped open, filling the Yaakman’s nostrils with a moldy stench. He crawled inside.

Quintar’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. In the shadows, he saw two unclothed human skeletons strapped to cushioned seats by the neck and waist. Metallic bracelets bound the skeleton's ankles and hands.

He paused.

Quintar pulled himself from the chamber and back atop the root-clump. He noticed Shila wandering along the rocky shallows. He leaped from the clump and hurriedly climbed into her harness. Without urging, Shila set off trampling through the reeds and up the riverbank. Quintar never looked back.

Shila plodded back to the meadow where they’d begun their chase. Quintar noticed small, green furry rodents scurrying over the entrails of Lenna and Enro’s prey and winged scavengers lurking in the shadowy trees above Anderro and Thimbar. Below the stoic beasts, Enro and Lenna gathered their weapons.

Lenna grinned broadly. “Quintar, have you ever seen such Chakra? Just another quarter cycle and—”

“Daylight burns quickly,” Quintar interrupted. “And Alberon rises late tonight.” Quintar caught Enro’s steely gaze. “At sunrise, we return to Tyrie.”

Lenna spat and sheathed his knife while Enro stroked his own gray beard. Wordlessly, Enro climbed atop Thimbar and Lenna mounted Anderro, and the two hairy beasts lumbered into the darkening woods.

The meadow quieted.

Quintar’s thoughts drifted while he watched scavengers pick the Chakra’s remains. He noticed a Great Thrikar circling against the ever deepening sky; its enormous wings unfurled and bulbous eyes shifting. The bird swooped over the bloody entrails, sending furry scavengers squealing and scattering. The Thrikar hovered for a moment and then rushed downward, snatching the pig’s head in sharp talons. Majestically, it whooshed skyward, carrying away its prize.

Quintar sighed deeply. Shila sprung forward, carrying him away and into the forest.

Quintar closed his eyes as the forest rushed by. Thimbar led the giant Yaak single file through the brush and woods. Quintar held tight to hairs on Shila’s lower neck while the strangeness of the object along the riverbank haunted him still.

The three beasts ambled over a ridge and then descended the bank of a mountain stream. They followed the stream down a narrow, twisting path. Quintar listened to the splash of enormous feet through shallow water.

Darkness overcame the forest and the trio of beasts slowed. Quintar noticed glowing campfires on the opposite shore.

He thought only of rest.

**********

Quintar lay under his canvass shelter wrapped in woolen blankets. Ominous clouds moved from the north and both moons disappeared from the night sky. Quintar saw his warm breath by the campfire’s light. He drifted into a restful sleep.

He was alone atop a high pinnacle where the air was clear and also quite thin. Above his head, fluffy white clouds rolled effortlessly towards a horizon with no end. The sky was a deeper blue than he had ever seen. But he could see no sun!

A vast, green valley lay before him, sliced by a wide river, and cradled by steep slopes and rolling hills. To the north, the river split at a vast confluence surrounded by checkered farmlands. Below the river’s convergence on the river’s western shore, he beheld a congregation of homesteads bellowing white smoke and set upon tiers connected by a labyrinth of seven twisting roads.

Quintar recognized the settlement of Tyrie: the greatest of three colonies that encompassed the lands of the Great Confluence. And the place he had grown to manhood.

An odd-looking, gold and black Thrikar flew over his head and perched on a rock ledge beside him. “Behold,” said the bird to an astonished Quintar. The bird pointed its wing downward, toward the confluence’s farmlands.

Quintar envisioned his youth nearly four seasons past: the towering figure of his father atop his plow, driving snorting Zampha-ox through fertile fields washed by spring’s massive floods. And his father’s smiling face as he lifted Quintar to hold its reins.

“There will come a time when you and your brother will take over,” Quintar heard his father say. “Then you can teach your sons as I’ve taught you, and carry on our most honorable traditions. You will be the fifth, Quintar; you will be our fifth generation.”

Quintar saw his young self, withdrawn and silent.

Quintar recalled the first time he witnessed the brave Yaakriders emerge from the wilds on their mysterious beasts, their manner stern and their faces hardened from years of unimagined adventures in distant regions. He thought of nothing else since. He had become obsessed....

He remembered the day he received the letter bearing the Supreme Yaakleader’s seal, and his great joy, followed by deep sadness. He recalled his mother’s tears on the day he left to begin his apprenticeship and his sister’s embrace. He remembered approaching his father working the fields, but the farmer wiped his brow and looked away, and Quintar could do little else but move onward.

Quintar lowered his head, and then he scowled. “You have shown me nothing that I don’t already know, bird. Why torment me so?”

The bird squawked. “You do not know all, Yaakrider. Many things of this world are shrouded in darkness. But if want to see, you must first let yourself fly. Do you wish to be blind forever?”

Quintar furrowed his brow. “But I cannot fly, I have no wings. I’ll plummet to the ground to my death.”

“You will not fall, if you search for the truth,” the bird cackled. Then the bird launched from its perch and flew away toward the eastern horizon. Moments later, it was gone.

Quintar looked around, and to his astonishment, his arms became wings made of bright, multicolored feathers. He looked downward and beheld huge talons where his feet should have been. He moved his wings tentatively at first, but as he gained confidence, he flapped harder. Suddenly, he lifted from the ground.

The feeling was like none he had experienced before. He felt a sense of exhilaration and freedom. He soared above the highest perch, above the highest mountain and down the valley of the Great River. He glided above the tallest trees, across green meadows and fields and over deep-blue lakes.

“Look up there! The Thrimara,” the people of the valley cried. “He will make us see. He will show us!”

“I am not worthy,” Quintar replied, with eyes downcast.

“Lead us,” they said. “Or we will live forever in darkness.”

“I will try. I can only try, but I can’t promise...”

He flew out of the valley towards the distant eastern mountains and upon a strong updraft, spiraled into blue sky. When he reached the farthest mountain, he began to struggle; his wings felt like stone. He felt as if he were flying through water.

He could go no farther.

He looked down at his feet and gasped— his thin bird-ankles were bound with heavy metal rings.

He plummeted, but he never reached the ground.

Quintar awoke to the sounds of snoring Yaakriders. Dawn had not arrived, yet the camp glowed in a dull light. He propped himself up for a better look.

A blanket of fresh snow covered the forest’s floor.

CHAPTER  2 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

Quintar pushed through throngs of swirling citizens and barking peddlers in Tyrie’s Central Marketplace just as the late morning sun peeked above the snow-capped peaks enveloping the Valley of the Great Confluence. He stopped and closed his eyes, allowing memories of the long hunt to evaporate, replaced by pungent aromas of roasting meats and boiling stews.

“Looking for somewhere to spend your credits, good Yaakman,” a merchant bellowed, bowing curtly. With exaggerated grace, he waved his hand slowly over his wares. “Well, as you can see, I present the finest goods from all three of Tyrie's settlements. Perhaps you’d be interested in a nice wool coat, stitched by the finest seamstresses in the northern settlement of Norelda or lush furs gathered at outposts on the wilderness’s edge. I also have smoked fish, pulled from Lake Adair's crystal-clear waters and prepared south of the falls of Kahnor in the noble settlement of Adair.”

Quintar grinned, running his fingers through freshly clipped hair. The Yaakman understood the merchant’s routine all too well. Seasons ago, he and Lenna had spent many a summer day playing amid the markets, getting into mischief or running errands for a credit or two.

The merchant rubbed his chin. “Come, Master Quintar, there’s little reason to be coy. The markets have been buzzing for days with tales of your recent bounty. Most agree it was the finest Chakra-pig presented at auction in recent memory. Sadly, an unpretentious merchant like me could not dream of matching the highest bids.”

“My humble regrets,” Quintar said teasingly.

“Maybe you wish to treat your beasts to some tubers as tribute to their service. A gesture of good fortune, is it not?” The merchant turned, gathering a yellow-green root. “Just look at this fresh Charkur. Do your beasts not deserve the best?”

“Farm-grown?” An all too familiar voice sliced through the browsing citizens. Even Quintar, if for only a moment, felt his heart flutter and his breath deepen. The man strode forward, parting the remaining market-goers like he bore a deadly plague.

“Master Carathis,” the merchant stammered. “I…”

“I asked whether this Charkur is farm-grown,” the Supreme Yaakleader said, stroking his neatly-trimmed mustache and grey-streaked beard.  “I cannot state my question any clearer.” Carathis's green eyes never wavered from the beleaguered merchant. Carathis's brooding eminence was legendary amongst Tyrie's citizens, and it was said that only a man or women with great nerve could withstand the Supreme Yaakleader's deadly stare for more than a handful of breaths.

The merchant swallowed hard, gathering his courage. “I can assure you this root is certified-grown by the farmers on the Great Confluence, Master Yaakrider. Fair-minded merchants are well aware of the statutes forbidding the collection of the beast’s wild feed.” He bowed.

Carathis snatched the root and sniffed. He caught Quintar’s eye and then nodded. “Come, Quintar, let us walk together and away from these crowds. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.”

The two Yaakriders strolled wordlessly through the bustling market, its cobbled streets congested with peoples of all status and dozens of carts filled with wares of every imaginable sort, drawn by shaggy two-horned quadrupeds. Quintar lagged a respectful half-step behind Carathis's brash presence, knowing well the Supreme Yaakleader's aversion to idle chatter.

Carathis led Quintar out of the markets and across Tyrie’s lowest tier. Soon, they passed Tyrie’s Great Meeting Hall and Hall of Commerce and a number of large, private homes owned by Tyrie’s successful merchants and traders or political leaders or organizers of metalworker or mining guilds. Above them and to the west, the road twisted upward and the homesteads became more modest, constructed for a growing class of smaller merchants, tradespeople, weapon makers, carpenters, and builders. Quintar recalled that Druiden, master of Adair’s Academy of Knowledge and census taker, reported that over nine thousand humans now resided just below the Great River’s confluence.

Beyond the buildings to the east, the sloping floodplain ended at the bank of the Great River— its blue-green water seeping gracefully southward.

They continued up the road until the crowds thinned. Finally, Carathis turned to Quintar. “I have named you to represent the Yaakrider’s guild at this year's Great Council.”

Quintar halted abruptly, his eyes widened. Quintar slowly shook his head.

“Do you have any questions?” Carathis asked with a devilish smirk. “Perhaps a simple comment to pass our time? I have named you to one of the most prestigious positions in the lands, and you stand before me mute? I expected more of you.”

“No Carathis, I am honored. Yet I can think of many Yaakleaders more senior and perhaps some more deserving.”

“Quintar, you are always the humble man. But I have chosen you, and I alone have the only vote of consequence in this matter. And I do so with the authority granted to me by the bylaws of our guild.”

Carathis and Quintar continued onward. Quintar took a few steps, digesting what he had just heard, asking finally, “When will the Great Council meet?”

“Twelve days following Ellini’s full cycle, and, of course, after the members are assembled.”

“Under a moonless sky? During the celebrations?”

“Yes, a day chosen by Ruma himself. I guess he reasoned it would assure good fortune.” Carathis shrugged. “I don't bother myself with such trite, yet alas, it is his privilege to do so.”

“Good fortune is always welcome,” Quintar said, “although never guaranteed.” Quintar rubbed his chin as the reality of his newly elevated status finally began to sink inward. He turned and matched Carathis's steely gaze. “I give you my word as Yaakrider of Tyrie that I will represent our guild with earnestness and dignity.” Quintar bowed slightly.

“Good, good. And I will give you ample opportunity to structure your thoughts. I’m ordering you north to meet the Noreldan representatives at Lake Norelda’s ferry docks upon Alberon’s half-phase. I’m commanding Hassen south to Adair to escort the representatives from the southern settlement.”

“And who will speak for Norelda at Council?”

“Samael will represent the Noreldan merchants, a newly elected man named Balyar will represent the ranchers on Norelda’s slopes, and our old friend Tharmstron will speak for the northern trapper communities.”

“Everyone in Norelda knows Master Samael,” Quintar said. “And I have met the trapper Tharmstron, but I have never heard of a rancher named Balyar.”

“And there will be a fourth person— another trapper— who will attend the meeting at the behest of Master Druiden of Adair and tell a story the subject of which even I know nothing.”

“A second trapper?”

“Yes.” Carathis shrugged. “Yet in matters of the Great Council, we Yaakriders do as we’re told without question.”

“Still, I must—”

“What you must do is prepare! A man confident in his facts should not fear speaking before others. I have listened to you lecture those under your command, and I have no doubt of your competence.”

“Yes,” Quintar replied, once again bowing curtly.

**********

Farissa's Inn and Pub was a landmark amongst the people who inhabited the lands of Tyrie. Nestled amid the settlement’s second tier, Farissa boasted the finest brew found in all the lands and distilled Jenna that many testified was unmatched in quality and smoothness.

Farissa himself was an affable fellow, who ran his establishment with his wife and eight children. Yet even Farissa had his limits, and he had little tolerance for unruly behavior amongst his patrons.

Quintar and Lenna sat under Farissa’s soft lanterns in the crowded pub’s corner. Quintar took a sip of brew and wiped his lips. Lenna raised a huge glass of Jenna. Belching loudly, Lenna wiped a tiny stream of the golden-brown liquid from his unshaven chin.

“It’s best to beware Farissa’s Jenna, my friend,” Quintar said, eying his companion somberly.

“Representative to the Great Council of Tyrie…?” Lenna shook his head, raising his glass. “I would have wished to see the look on Hassen’s face.”

“Carathis could have selected any Yaakleader. He cares little for seniority.”

“Nor does Carathis care of others grumbling within the guild, so it appears.”

“I cannot speak for others, yet I doubt any rider would have questioned Hassen’s appointment.”

Lenna took another long swig of Jenna and waved his finger. “Nor does the majority of the guild dare question any of Carathis’s decisions. There are riders who believe Hassen’s time has passed, while an equal number say Quintar’s time draws closer.”

Quintar slowly sipped some brew. He lowered the mug gently to the table’s polished surface. “Hassen has rightfully earned his status as Carathis’s second.”

“With that, I can agree.” Lenna turned his wavering eyes toward three burly, bearded men sitting at a nearby table. Each bore clothes fashioned from wild animal skins and their voices boomed above the Inn’s customary chatter. A rack of rich furs lay against the closest wall. Lenna leaned over and spat on Farissa’s floor. “Trappers,” he said loudly. “I can smell their stench.”

Quintar eyed Lenna sharply.

Lenna sighed. “Yet, perhaps in your case, Carathis is motivated beyond loyalty?”

Quintar leaned slowly back in his chair, feeling like he had eaten the bitterest of root. “Ruma?”

“Your father leads the Council, does he not?”

“Carathis knows politics. He understands that Ruma and I are father and son in blood only. What advantage could Carathis seek?”

“Blood carries a strong bond, my friend. And do not overlook that your brother Hayden has been chosen to represent the confluence’s farmers.”

“Hayden and I have not spoken since childhood.”

“Still…”

Quintar leaned close. “Listen Lenna, Hayden has spent half his life trying to ride Ruma’s reputation into the Great Meeting Hall. I have even been told he brags openly of replacing Ruma when my father passes. I wish my brother well, yet unless Carathis has chosen me simply to enrage Ruma, I can only predict my father’s indifference.” Quintar shrugged.

Lenna grinned broadly. “So you do take an interest in politics?”

Quintar waved his hand. “I have little interest in days filled with boring speeches, endless debates, and dissatisfied citizens.”

Lenna again took a gulp of Jenna. He slammed the glass to the table, belching vigorously. Lenna’s eyes once again shifted toward the table of three trappers. A huge man with flaming red hair and a rugged face, bellowed loudly. Lenna's eyes narrowed. “That's what Farissa gets when he leaves his doors open to vermin.”

Quintar shook his head. Lenna’s latest outburst was a bit too loud for Quintar’s comfort.

The trappers abruptly quieted. “Do you have a problem, Yaakrider?” the red-headed trapper blurted forcefully.

Quintar raised his palm. “No, my trapper comrades, but I’m afraid my companion has had too much of Farissa’s Jenna.”

“Well, Farissa does make a strong drink. Your friend should be more mindful of his manners.” The trapper shook his head, turning with exaggerated emphasis back to his companions.

Lenna chortled loudly.

“And what of you?” Quintar asked, hoping to maintain Lenna’s wavering attention. “Have you found a buyer for your homestead?”

“A merchant came to me a few cycles ago. He says he wants it for his son or daughter. He said he would stop by in the next few days, before we set out along the northern trail.”

“Your furnishings alone should fetch a decent price.”

Lenna sat for a few moments staring into his glass. “And who will we be carrying back with us from Norelda?”

“A merchant, a rancher, and two trappers.”

“Two trappers? Why a second trapper?”

“Carathis told me this man was invited to the meeting to tell a story, the subject of which we know nothing.”

Lenna sniffed. “I wonder what scat-filled tale he will be spew to waste the Council's time?”

Quintar shrugged.

“I wouldn’t trust any trapper,” Lenna bellowed. “They'll do anything to gain power amongst the settlement’s elite.”

“You cannot deny, my friend, the basic edict that all men deserve to be represented fairly.”

“If it were up to me, no trapper would be allowed to disgrace the Council. And now, they allow two?” Lenna chuckled grimly. “Well, I’m consoled with the knowledge that all trappers hate Yaak. I enjoy watching them squirm when harnessed to the beasts.”

The three trappers abruptly rose to their feet, turning to Quintar's and Lenna's table. Lenna smiled broadly, leaping eagerly from his chair. A moment later, Quintar sighed, rising also. Farissa, who had been keeping his eye on the situation, jumped in between the mismatched groups. Farissa's three grown sons closed inward for support.

“Master Quintar,” the Innkeeper said firmly. “I think it’s time to escort Master Lenna from my establishment.”

Lenna cackled like a crazed madman.

Quintar could see anger in the Innkeeper's face, but deep within Farissa's eyes Quintar noticed a touch of deep sorrow. Quintar nodded dutifully and grasped Lenna's arm. With a bit of firmness, he began leading Lenna away.

Lenna burst violently from Quintar's grip, turning and glaring at the Yaakleader with a fury Quintar rarely saw in his lifelong friend.

Lenna paused for a moment and then staggered toward the door.

CHAPTER  3 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

Barrazan braced against the ship’s creaking planks drawing warm sunlight to his bronzed face. He inhaled deeply the cool moist air, opening his eyes to an infinite horizon and fluttering lakebirds dodging Lake Adair’s gentle swells.

Barrazan lived and breathed the lake’s calm serenity, yet he also reveled in its shuttering fury, when the northwest gales gathered the waters into towering monsters, enough to swallow any ship regardless its size. He recalled gazing outward from Adair’s docks in his youth, dreaming of the day he would gain freedom from the land and conquer the lake's mystique— dreaming of escape from the drunken shell of a man he so loathsomely called father and a series of lazy, Jenna-swilling step-mothers, Barrazan could barely recall or even wish to remember.

And yet his fortunes turned on the day he lay, bloodied and close to death by his father's whip, in Adair's gutter— barely able to move or walk; his arm shattered, the cursed words 'worthless' and 'vermin' swirling through his confused head— a young boy begging passersby for a sharp knife to relieve his pain and rescue him from his world, his dream of life on the lake abruptly in ruins.

But instead, Barrazan was found by a ship-owner named Cariak, who took the boy into his home and nursed him slowly back to health. Upon which the Chief granted him the position of cabin boy, assigned to Cariak’s modest vessel; although admittedly, even young Barrazan understood there was little need for such a position.

Barrazan smiled inwardly, eying Chief Cariak climbing upon the mainsail's mast. He thought little of his past life, ensnared by the challenges of the present. But Barrazan’s gut warmed knowing good men like Cariak strode this world— honorable men. And he thought many times of offering his gratitude to the man who saved his life yet always deferred to Cariak’s pride and stubborn self-deprecation.

Now under a slight breeze and upon a wavering mast, Cariak secured himself to a high lookout. Holding his hand to his leathery brow, Cariak scanned the blue waters surrounding him.

“Interesting,” Barrazan muttered, shaking his head slightly.

Demprias baited the last of a series of equally spaced hooks. He leaned close to Barrazan's ear. “What do suppose the old man's after? You know him better than most.”

“Big game.”

Demprias’s face soured. “Kalsh?”

“Late spawn.”

Demprias spat. “Kalsh is a waste of my time. But more importantly, it also portends a lessening of my share.”

“Tradition,” Barrazan replied brusquely, securing the line's end to a hollowed wooden float.

Demprias hissed. “Adair's superstitions do not interest me.”

“Sometime I wonder what does interests you, Demprias… other than credits and women.”

“Aye, I have many interests, dear Barrazan. Have you considered my latest proposition?”

Barrazan shook his head and glanced around uneasily. “Chief Cariak has always treated me fairly. Most men of the lake would kill to be Cariak’s Firstmate.”

Demprias smiled wryly, moving even closer. “Loyalty can only get you so far, my friend. Everyone in Adair knows the conglomerates have offered you Chief on most any ship. You have nothing here to prove.”

“The conglomerates have many ships and countless bosses. Here, I’m beholden to one man and myself. I'm content.”

Demprias tossed the line into the frothing water. Barrazan shoved the float off the deck.

“But you are still Firstmate Barrazan, not Chief. You are no longer a young deckhand, and I needn’t remind you that another season has passed. You must think of the future.”

Barrazan sighed. “I can only speculate for whose future you speak?”

A wry smile creased Demprias's sun-touched face. “Your future, of course... Yet I’d only expect to follow your humble footsteps. We are a team, are we not?” He bowed mockingly.

“I see...”

“So tell me,” Demprias continued, “what are your plans after season? Ice fishing? Laboring in the warehouses?”

Barrazan shrugged.

“Ah, I figured as much. You are wise in the ways of the water, my friend, yet ignorant in the ways of land. The warehouses pay nothing, and the settlement’s prospects are no better.”

“Then what do you suggest, my suddenly ambitious friend?”

Demprias eyes danced, his voice lowered. “Listen, during winter we could build our own boat and split the profits. There are real credits in ownership.”

Barrazan snickered. “You have a history of big dreams and little action, my friend. I recall just this past spring you also had elaborate plans to—”

“It’ll be different this time.”

Barrazan laughed.

“I give you my word.”

Barrazan sighed with resignation. “So, where do we rent the tools, and where do we find a shed large enough for construction? And who can we contract for the lumber?”

Demprias grasped Barrazan’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses, good man. I have a cousin in—”

“Prepare to retrieve all lines,” Chief Cariak shouted, thrusting his gnarled fingers toward a mid-lake shoal. “Repus, Aremia... tend the sails.”

Demprias grunted loudly.

Barrazan rushed aft and loosened the rudder. Gathering his strength, he pulled the ship starboard. Demprias grudgingly snatched a long pole with a hooked tip. Repus and Aremia leaped to mid-ship and began to free the mainsail’s ropes.

The ship turned slowly. Demprias caught Barrazan’s eye, aiming the pole toward the bobbing floats. Barrazan nodded, adjusting the rudder. Demprias thrust the pole into the waves and hooked the line. He pulled inward until the float was within arm’s reach.

Barrazan secured the rudder and then rushed to Demprias’s side. The two men hurriedly tugged the lines from the water. Occasionally, a silver-scaled Quidida flopped to the deck, and the men kicked the fish toward the hold. Several of the glistening fish slithered off the planks and flashed back into the lake. Demprias shook his head disapprovingly.

Barrazan glanced amongst the waves. He noticed sharp rocks jutting from the rippling surface several hundred meters to the ship’s left. Barrazan caught Cariak's eye and pointed toward the shallows. Cariak acknowledged with a swift nod.

Cariak cupped his hands to wafer-thin lips. “Men—”

Barrazan waved his hand. Repus and Aremia dropped the mainsail, flushing lakebirds to the breeze.

The ship staggered, gripped by the lake’s swells. Aremia, Repus, and Demprias fanned out along the ship’s rail. The three men stood motionless, casting their eyes upon the undulating waves. Barrazan clambered to mid-ship. He grasped the rail and stared deep into the crystal-clear water.

Several breaths later, Barrazan noticed the murky depths transform into huge boulders, passing like huge monoliths, four or five meters beneath the hull.

“Give me signs,” Cariak said. “Anything.”

Suddenly, Barrazan eyes were drawn to the lake’s surface. A small silver fish thrashed amongst the swells several meters to port. A heartbeat later, a school of fish churned the water and then disappeared. Barrazan pointed. “Chief—”

Cariak nodded. “They’re feeding atop the reef.” A smile creased the Chief’s coarse face. “Repus, Aremia, get the harpoons ready.”

Barrazan grabbed his gloves and hurried across the slick deck from mid to starboard. Aremia and Repus returned to the rail carrying wooden rods tipped with barbed spears; each rod trailed coils of rope. Cariak climbed down off the mast.

“Demprias, help Repus,” Barrazan commanded.

A chill wind brushed Barrazan’s face, and the lake’s surface rippled. Barrazan grasped the starboard rail as the ship creaked sideways to the wind. Barrazan noticed a cluster of dark clouds swirl across the windward horizon.

Suddenly, Barrazan saw a huge, white form roll over the surface. Within a blink of his eye, it sank beneath the waves. A second creature emerged to Barrazan’s right. Barrazan studied its massive outline against the shallow reef below. The creature flashed over the rocks and then swooshed away into deeper water. “A big pair,” Barrazan shouted. “And the female’s belly is full.”

“They’re too big to net,” Cariak hollered, “and too quick to chase. Prepare the bait.”

Barrazan nodded. “Demprias—”

Demprias grabbed two huge buckets of fish guts. He struggled to the rail and dumped the contents overboard. Barrazan watched as the water beneath them turned a ghastly green-purple.

Forty breaths passed, and Barrazan began to notice the rocky bottom giving way to deepening blue. Suddenly, Barrazan saw a white flash far beneath the surface— a moment later, a second flash. Barrazan waved his hand.

“Be ready, men,” Cariak cried. “They’ve caught the scent and are collecting below.”

Suddenly, a huge ugly head with two long whiskers breached the surface and rolled across the dispersing bait. Barrazan jumped back, caught in the glare of two blank eyes, each the size of a man’s waist.

Repus flung his harpoon, but it deflected off the giant’s fin. Hurriedly, Repus withdrew the harpoon and tossed again. This time, the harpoon struck the Kalsh’s flesh just below its spine and held tight.

“Good work Repus,” Barrazan shouted. “That’s the male. Let’s get the other.”

The crew cheered.

“Don’t offer congratulations yet,” Cariak cautioned. “These old dogs have plenty of fight, and the female’s always stronger. There’s still work to be done to land these beasts. Trust my words…”

Cariak shuffled over to the starboard deck just as a second huge form emerged beside the boat. Aremia eyed the beast, holding his harpoon steady. Chief Cariak jumped to his side and secured the rope. “Steady man. Look for the spot below the spine, and don’t hit her swollen belly. Don’t waste a throw. Wait, Now!”

Aremia sunk his harpoon deep into the second fish. Aremia and Cariak pulled the rope tight. The fish made a strong run toward its struggling partner and then suddenly away. Aremia fell to the deck, losing his grip. Cariak held on, bracing his heels on the deck’s lip. Aremia jumped back up and regained his hold.

The two powerful fish tugged the boat in many directions. Barrazan rushed aft and grabbed the rudder; he tried desperately to keep the ship from spinning and tangling the two ropes.

Cariak huffed and laughed. “These two are a tough old couple, probably older than Cariak. It’s a pity to take them.”

The fish harpooned by Repus began to tire, and soon the wriggling giant swam placidly beside the boat. Demprias sliced the fish’s gullet, and a dark-green blood mucked the water. Repus threaded a rope through the monster’s gaping mouth and out its undulating gill.

“Watch the other,” Cariak said. “The blood will enrage the female.”

The second fish made a violent run away from the boat and then deep into the lake. Cariak and Aremia held fast. Repus and Demprias ambled over to help. All four men struggled to control the fish as it dove into the lake’s shadowy depths. The rope strained.

In time, the creature fatigued, and the men regained most of the rope. Once again, Barrazan noticed the giant’s outline beneath the lake’s waves; this time just a meter beneath the waves. The fish made several more runs, before surrendering to the fishermen’s strength and stamina. Breathing heavily, Barrazan stooped to the water and sliced mercifully.

The crew gathered their strength and lugged the two beasts onto the deck. Green guts spilled across wooden planks while lakebirds circled overhead.

Cariak stooped and pushed the female’s massive underbelly. “She holds a full load of roe to be sure.”

Suddenly, the huge fish thrashed its tail, knocking Demprias off his feet and onto his backside.

They all laughed.

“A fiery beast,” Chief Cariak said. “Some say they make the finest feasts and bring the most fortune.”

Demprias rubbed his bruised thigh and then his reddened face. “Rest assured shipmates, I’ll be first in line for a taste.”

The afternoon turned into evening, and murky clouds rolled from the north, masking the sun. A chill breeze brushed the darkened water, and the men bundled in heavy wool coats. Cariak ordered the decks secured and the canvas, raised. Barrazan turned the ship at an angle to the wind, beginning the long tack homeward.

Cariak stepped to Barrazan’s side. “This has been a good day and an abundant season. The Kalsh will bring Adair much joy. The community will be pleased.”

“Perhaps...”

The old Chief grasped Barrazan’s shoulder. “There is more to life than filling holds with Quidida, good fisherman. None can argue our good fortune, but now we must give back and sacrifice some.” Cariak smirked. “And I have a request that you may find compelling.”

**********

“The seasons change, young Porrias,” Master Druiden said, gazing from a window high atop Adair’s Academy of Knowledge. “The broad leaf Payet withers to autumnal reds and yellows, yet our mission continues without respite.”

“Can we not take comfort in what we’ve accomplished since the Payet first bloomed, Master Druiden?” Porrias asked.

Druiden stroked his long white beard. “Of course, good scribe, yet our work is far from complete. We must continue to expand our academies northward to Tyrie and Norelda and even to the untamed trapper outposts on the wilderness’s fringe. We must endeavor to enlighten all people of the Great Confluence’s valley, young Porrias. Yet sometimes, regretfully, we neglect those most in need.”

“Education is the building stone of civilization.”

Druiden’s eyes gleamed. “Well spoken, young man.”

“They’re your noble words, Master Druiden.” Porrias bowed curtly. “Yet, all things change, including our leaders. Do they not?”

“Sadly, this is the way of things, I suppose.”

“Chief Cariak?”

Druiden sighed. “I too regret Cariak has declined to represent the fleets at this year’s Council of Representatives. None doubt Adair will suffer the loss of his wisdom and insight.”

“And experience and leadership.”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Then you agree, Master Druiden?”

“But alas, Cariak feels young ideas are needed at the meetings and he cannot provide such anymore. It is regrettable.”

“Replaced by a Firstmate? Hardly a—”

“Do not judge a man’s capability by his status,” Druiden said, eying the young scribe sternly.

Porrias lowered his eyes. “Still, there are other independent Chiefs or even leaders of fishing conglomerates. There are ill feelings among the guildsmen. I’ve overheard the arguments. The fishermen are clearly divided.”

Druiden waved his hand. “None of this should concern the academy, good Porrias. Cariak was voted by his peers and can rightfully choose his replacement. The elders are well aware of the traditions.”

“Some suspect politics.”

“There is more to the old Chief than meets the eye.”

“Many say Cariak dislikes big companies and their contracts.” Porrias’s voice lowered. “He has openly accused them of servitude.”

“Enough! You have repeated a harsh accusation and one not to be spoken lightly.”

“Possibly, yet you must agree that conglomerates come close.”

Druiden raised his brow.

Porrias strolled to a window and peered westward across a vast river delta, opening southward into the wide expanse of Lake Adair. Below, citizens scurried through Adair’s town square, constructing firepits and erecting podiums. “Why do we celebrate the end of fishing season while the ships still sail, Master Druiden? The ships are not warehoused until just before ice-in.”

“The celebration is tradition, young Porrias. It has been done this way for generations.”

Porrias shook his head. “A waste of time and resources, it seems.”

“Humans must bond. We crave the comfort of ceremony.”

“This time would have been better spent preparing for winter.”

Druiden’s eyes sparkled. “Understanding and wisdom comes with experience, young man. Someday, you’ll understand, good scribe. Someday, you’ll understand.”

**********

The sun settled over Adair’s western ranges, drawing shadows across faded Payet gardens and mature sculpted hedges.

Barrazan sat in the town’s square holding a slice of bread topped with small orange-green eggs. Before him, wild Chakra and fresh fish sizzled above glowing coals, and long tables overflowed with food and drink. Over a central pit, two huge fatty slabs steamed serenely, surrounded by dozens of revelers awaiting a taste of Lake Adair’s rarest delicacy.

Barrazan sniffed the bread and nibbled the roe.

Demprias offered his flask. “Good Jenna should kill the taste.”

Barrazan took the bottle and gulped. He coughed. “Most likely distilled in a trapper’s hole.”

Demprias ogled a young lady strolling through the square. She smiled at Demprias while twisting long, auburn hair. He smirked. “Cariak is no fool, you must agree.”

Barrazan shrugged.

“First, he infuriates the guild by naming a mere fisherman to the Council of Representatives, all while maintaining his hold on the fleet’s best Firstmate; the best Firstmate who is not yet Chief.”

Barrazan took another sip and returned the flask.

“Listen, Barrazan. You’ve always been in good with Cariak and the fleet. You play the game well, my friend. But explain to me how a lowly Firstmate gets appointed representative?”

“Best hold your tongue, shipmate. Does the Jenna speak for you?”

Demprias waved his hand. “I meant no offense, but how much influence does Cariak think you’ll wield at the Council? A Firstmate carries little leverage with our fleet, let alone amongst Tyrie’s most powerful politicians. Do you not agree?”

Barrazan noticed Master Druiden emerge from the crowd followed by a slender, younger man. Druiden’s colorful robe shuffled beneath his woolen coat. Barrazan judged Druiden’s companion to be about Demprias’s age, maybe younger.

Demprias and Barrazan rose to their feet.

Druiden brushed his long beard. “Chief Cariak told me that you two were among those responsible for providing the Kalsh.”

Barrazan bowed. “Cariak is a very modest man, Master Druiden. Without his direction—”

“Cariak is a good man, but he does not bestow complements lightly. He feels you men are among the fleet’s finest crew. Maybe this is one of the many reasons why he chose you, Barrazan, to represent the fishing companies.”

Barrazan and Demprias exchanged glances. “I’m honored, Master scribe, yet I cannot hope to equal Cariak’s wisdom and experience.”

“You will learn… You must learn or face your constituencies’ scorn, good fisherman. This is a risk all representatives face. Yet many never get the opportunity to accomplish great things. You are very fortunate.”

“I’m humbled.”

Druiden smiled. “And now some introductions are in order. This young man is Porrias, one of the brightest young historians in Adair. He will accompany you and me to the meeting and act as scribe.”

Barrazan, Demprias, and Porrias nodded curtly.

Demprias said, “Porrias and I have spoken previously, Master Druiden.”

Porrias’s eyes brightened. “Yes, I do recall... Earlier this year, you were one of the fishermen whom I quizzed about the far reaches of Lake Adair and the Great Southern Lake. You and your comrades were very helpful, and I’m forever grateful. The Great Southern Lake has yet to be mapped with precision. Just a few cycles ago, I was able to—”

Druiden gently waved his hand. “Perhaps you two can talk of this some other time. Sometimes young Porrias is a bit too devoted to his work, it appears.” Druiden sighed. “Alas, he reminds me of someone else in his youth.”

Porrias’s chin dropped.

“Then, young representative, we will meet in three days below the Falls of Rhavha at the trail head opposite Kahnor’s ferry docks. Master Carathis has promised Yaakriders and an adequate number of beasts to transport our delegation.”

Barrazan nodded.

Presently, the wizened scholar’s eyes appeared lost in deepest memory. “Many seasons have passed since I’ve looked forward to a trip to Tyrie by Yaak. I fear, before long, my old bones will be unable to make this trip.” He sighed. “Then it will be up to young leaders like you, Barrazan, to fill the void.”

Druiden bowed and turned toward the square. Porrias bid the fishermen farewell and followed dutifully.

Demprias glanced at a passing maiden and took another slug of Jenna. He coughed. “Trapper’s swill...” He emptied the flask on the ground.

Barrazan laughed.

**********

The party continued as bright Alberon peeked above the eastern ranges. Druiden watched the revelry and tapped his feet to the music.

Abruptly, Druiden rose. He strolled to the square’s center and raised his arms. The dancers and musicians took notice and put down their instruments. And a hush swept through the crowd.

Druiden stepped upon a high, wooden podium. “Good citizens of Adair,” he began. “We should all thank Chief Cariak and his crew for the Kalsh. May they bring us prosperity and good fortune.”

Hoots and claps resonated through the crowd. Some near Barrazan and Demprias patted the fishermen’s shoulder and shook their hands.

“And, as most of you know, they sacrificed some of their profits so we may all partake in this feast.” He turned to Adair’s merchants and businessmen. “So keep this in mind when these men ask for lodging or drink in the coming days. They may appreciate your generosity.” The crowd clapped again, and the merchants turned to one another, smiling and nodding.

“We have all been blessed with a bountiful summer and fall. There is plenty of fish to eat and barter. And we have also made progress in medicine and education, which are vital for a growing population. And how our population grows!” Druiden acknowledged two young women carrying delicate bundles. They both smiled and cuddled their infants.

“In a few days, we will travel to Tyrie and represent Adair at this fall’s Council of Representatives. Adair’s delegation will strive to keep trade active between human settlements, so we can assure ourselves a good standard of living. And we must continue to solidify Adair’s position as the intellectual nexus of the Lands of the Confluence.”

Druiden paused. “And we must also prepare for the upcoming winter, because nature itself has sent forth signs that this winter may be more severe than most.” The crowd turned to one another, murmuring.

“Indeed, this has been a good year. But in this year, as in any year, there is a price to pay for our good fortunes. Let us not forget those who have died on the lake and in the wilderness, so that we all may live better lives and fulfill our destinies.”

Druiden raised his arms, and the citizens stood silent with heads bowed. And Druiden heard only crackling fires across the settlement of Adair.

**********

After the fires of celebration had died down and most of the revelers had wandered off to sleep, Barrazan strode alone down Adair's more disfavored avenues under Ellini's waning light. He stopped, gazing upon the sagging eaves of a dwelling he hardly remembered but could never forget; his father long since gone— so say the rumors the locals passed on to Barrazan with great indifference— falling and choking on his own vomit; his fate sealed on some forgotten night, face-down on some muddy, scat-filled street.

Barrazan thought long for this day when he would gather enough courage to return to this spot to confront his tormentor, whether in body or in spirit. In his mind, he screamed: Representative to the Great Council of Tyrie! What say you now! You, you…. The impact of the words seemed deeper to the fisherman when uttered silently, rather than blurting aloud for all who might happen to overhear, and perhaps judge him a bit deranged. This was his personal tale to bear; it was not meant to be shared with others. Barrazan shook his head.

Fighting the urge to grin, he strode away and down the street.

CHAPTER  4 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

High, thorny bushes lined the stone pathway, before a log homestead adorned with carved archways and ornate sills, and a stone chimney puffing thick smoke scattering in the breeze. The courtyard lay covered with clusters of thick, flower-bearing plants, a twisted clump of stems and thistles— seasonal flora— once bearing colorful yellow, orange, and purple blossoms yet now barren since summer’s passing. Squat, fruit-bearing trees surrounded the yard; some well pruned, others neglected— all blanketed in a thin layer of snow.

Lenna flung his ax into a tree-stump and wiped his forehead on his coat’s sleeve. He collected an armful of Olaf firewood, pausing before the flower gardens and prickly bushes.

He saw a vision of Xriera in midsummer— her long, flowing, black hair bound by a green scarf atop her delicate head. He recalled how hard she worked pruning the flowers and the great joy they gave her. And the smile! Lenna would never forget the smile that engulfed her face when he returned from the wilds. He could never forget that smile.

Lenna noticed an older man trudging up the road dabbing his forehead with a folded handkerchief. The man halted, breathing heavily.

“Welcome Joda,” Lenna said. “I hope you brought your change purse.”

The man chortled, his eyes scanning the building and grounds.

Lenna kicked open the front door and dropped the firewood inside. “I was expecting you later. I'm afraid I haven’t had time to clean.”

Joda’s smile evaporated. “I understand, good fellow, it must be difficult...”

“Come in.”

Joda ambled up the front walkway still ogling the homestead’s exterior. He stopped beneath the doorway’s arch and ran his hand along its smooth frame. “Built this spring?”

Lenna unbuttoned his coat and nodded politely.

Joda removed his leather hat before strolling inside. A gentle heat radiated from the crackling fireplace opposite the dining area. Joda’s eyes wandered. “Superior workmanship, I see.” He gave the table a rap and then rubbed his knuckles. “There’s nothing more elegant than crafted Sohla.”

“My father is a fine woodworker.”

Joda raised his finger. “Forentis is a true artist, good Yaakrider. His craftsmanship is known throughout the valley, especially amongst our more affluent citizens. I was somewhat surprised that you, his only son, did not follow in his most skillful footsteps. An offer to be Forentis’s apprentice must have been difficult to refuse.”

Lenna glanced around the room indifferently.

Joda smirked. “Well, if truth be told, I sought this homestead because of Forentis’s artistry. I was only too happy to see it up for market. I only regret the circumstances.”

Joda squirmed, eying Lenna guardedly. “I’ll be direct, young man. My daughter will be joined in two cycles to the son of one of my closest business associates. I wish to offer this home as a gift, so the youngsters can have a good start.” Joda pushed closer. “And it won’t harm the relationship with my associate either.”

Lenna stood expressionless.

Joda cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, my wife wishes to stop by tomorrow afternoon, if that schedule pleases you.”

“That should be fine.”

“Then we can discuss a price.”

“I’ll clean up before she arrives.”

“It can’t hurt. You know how women…” Joda shook his head and glanced downward. “Tomorrow then...?”

Lenna nodded and escorted Joda out the door. He returned to the dining room and eased into a chair near the fireplace. Lenna stared deep into the fire’s flames. The glowing embers drew lasting patterns in his eyes, and the Olaf’s earthy scent filled his nostrils and his head.

It was spring in Adair, and bright, blooming flowers lined the city streets. Excitement filled the air as the first of the fishing fleet rounded the far point laden with the season’s first catch. The sun warmed the earth, evaporating the remnants of long winter.

Nearing late afternoon, the ship’s sails were withdrawn and the creaking vessels eased into the docks. Dozens of wagons, pulled by shaggy Zampha, lined the shallow wharf while the crowds hooted and cheered as scores of white-scaled Zariema and gray Quidida were lifted from holds circled by ever-present lakebirds.

“A sign of good fortune for the entire season,” said the old-time sailors, who still followed the fleets, although too feeble to work.

Lenna strode down the dock toward the moored ship. Demprias stood on deck lowering a bucket to the water. He raised the rope, seized the sloshing bucket with both hands, and tossed it across the planks.

Lenna stopped and squatted beside the ship. “How does it feel to be back at what you do best?”

Demprias held his hand above his eyes to shade the sun. “Lenna! What brings you here?”

“Fish, what else? Do you have any?”

“Plenty, but none for you, my friend. I don't like your attitude. You Yaakriders are very arrogant.”

“Then I’ll find another boat. It’s a big lake. I’m sure Tyrie’s merchants won’t care where I get our fish. They all look and smell the same.”

Demprias approached Lenna and slapped his shoulder. “How are you my friend?”

“Fine, and you? I’ve been told that ice still jams the lake. How do you manage it?”

“Some slabs are as big as a house. Yes, they are very hazardous, especially when the wind gales.” Demprias shook his head. “They’ll be around until Alberon’s next cycle. It’s a dangerous time for fishermen, but the fish are shallow until the waters warm and easy to catch. That alone is worth the risk. How long will you be here?”

“Until three days noon. The Yaak will be loaded by then, if the fish is ready.

“Excellent! The spring festival is tonight, and my cousin Azzerian can’t wait to meet you.”

Lenna rolled his eyes. They both laughed.

The recreation hall was alive with dancing and song. Jenna was pouring from hardwood kegs set above each table. A stone fireplace, nestled in building’s center, cradled a large fire. Fresh fish sizzled near the flames, and the sweet smell of Olaf engulfed all present.

Lenna and Demprias, each holding a flask of Jenna, leaned against a table. “There she is,” Demprias said. “Be on your guard! She’s as wild as the winter’s cold.”

Demprias pointed to two young women serving long plates of steaming fish. The first woman was striking— long, curly light brown hair and light blue eyes. And she wore a long white robe tied in front with a wide, red belt. The second woman was short and petite, with dark black hair tied into a fist-sized ball. She wore a light green robe matching the color of her eyes. Both women wore large, yellow flowers in their hair. They giggled and smiled, glancing teasingly toward the two men.

Lenna and Demprias strolled over to the women.

“Azzerian,” Demprias said. “I’d like you to meet my friend from Tyrie, Lenna.

“Lenna, my cousin Azzerian.”

Azzerian gave Lenna a mischievous look. “So this is the brave Yaakman you keep telling us about.” She slipped her hand around Lenna's elbow.

Demprias said, “And this is Azzerian’s friend, Xriera.”

Lenna was captivated by Xriera’s large, green eyes and charming smile. A moment passed before they spoke.

Xriera’s voice was soft and playful. “A Yaakrider... how adventurous.”

“Sometimes, but mostly it’s dull and tedious. And how do you occupy yourself?”

“We...” Azzerian interrupted. “We clean and prepare fish. So you and your beasts can haul them away to Tyrie or wherever.”

Xriera laughed. “Not quite as glamorous as a Yaakman.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I’ve always wanted to ride one of your beasts,” Azzerian said. “Is she near here? Perhaps in the morning we can—”

“For one thing,” Lenna said. “The Beast isn’t mine. No rider owns a Yaak. The Yaak and man are partners. And I’ll most likely be very busy in the morning.”

Azzerian stood wordless. Demprias smiled.

“She didn’t mean to offend you,” Xriera said softly. “It’s just Azzerian, being Azzerian.”

“I took no offense...” Lenna couldn’t help but stare into Xriera’s eyes.

Azzerian smiled and released Lenna's arm. “I think we better leave these two alone,” she said to Demprias. “Or throw a bucket of water on them.” Azzerian laughed playfully, leading Demprias away.

Xriera shook her head. “So, tell me about yourself, Yaakman.”

“I’ve been a Yaakrider for two seasons. My usual routes are to the north, but I come south occasionally to see my friend Demprias.”

“My roots are in Norelda,” Xriera said softly. “I’ve been told my birth parents were trappers. I was orphaned when young and have lived as an Adairian since I can remember.”

Xriera gazed into Lenna’s eyes. “What else do you seek, Yaakman?”

Lenna stood silent.

Long after the party was over, Lenna and Xriera strolled hand in hand to Lake Adair’s shore. And under Alberon’s full brilliance, they kissed.

Lenna returned to Tyrie and worked for several cycles building a homestead. And in early summer returned to Adair where he and Xriera were joined in a simple ceremony under a Sohla tree beside the Great River. And the next morning, he lifted her onto Anderro, and together they rode north to their new home.

Lenna poked the smoldering logs, recalling with great delight how Xriera’s lovely eyes lit up when she first beheld the grounds and furnishings that he and his father had labored so hard to assemble. And the parties she hosted proudly and thoughtfully and always graciously; although Lenna hardly noticed her intimate struggle within her tiny body until the very end. Within the span of thirty cycles, this vibrant young woman had slowed and her energy waned, until finally she withdrew to the confines of their homestead.

The hot mid-summer sun shone dull upon the settlement of Tyrie as Lenna ran like a madman through the busy streets. He threw his pack against the steps and burst through the front door of the Academy of Healing. Two Healers cast their eyes downward as he jogged down the long corridor.

Lenna hesitated before the door of the Chief Healer. He inhaled deeply then entered.

A frail, bald man in a long red robe glanced at Lenna. He rose slowly to his feet. “She had been ill for some time— possibly before the two of you were joined. I’m aware she had trapper blood— too many generations in isolated communities, I suppose. Her body was returned to the river a cycle past.”

Lenna dropped to his knees.

Lenna began to shiver as evening approached, and his world darkened as the shadows crept slowly along the walls of polished hardwood. He glanced upon a sill beneath the window, now bearing several empty vases— where her orange, green, and red flowers once flourished— realizing finally that this home was built for her, and had somehow absorbed her essence, her kindness, her simple beauty. Although their time together was measured in mere cycles and not years as Lenna had first envisioned, he would carry her forever in his heart— and Lenna desired nothing more; this structure of carved logs and shingled roof would be a constant and painful reminder of a future that was never destined to unfold.

Lenna eased out of his chair, opened a trunk, and filled his pack with clothing. He grabbed a glowing log from the fireplace and placed it gently on a pile of kindling beside the chimney. He seized a chair and smashed a window. A steady stream of nighttime air began to course through the homestead. He slung his pack across his shoulder and strolled to the front doorway, turning briefly for one final look over the smoke filled room. He headed out, leaving the door ajar.

Lenna halted when he reached the stone walkway. A single, shrunken bud clung to a bush beside the path— a last reminder of a long summer and of the long winter to come. He pulled it from the vine, its withered bulk crumbling between his fingers.

Lenna buttoned his coat and strode down the walkway and down the road toward the settlement of Tyrie. Flashes of light interrupted the darkening night behind him, and golden flames leaped upwards toward a reddening sky.

CHAPTER  5 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

Quintar emerged from the Yaakrider Barracks to a predawn sky speckled with fading stars. Wearily, he slung Shila’s harness across his shoulder and began the familiar trek up the eastern path, passing through forest drawing darkness equal to deepest night.

Upon the sprawling hillside, the Yaakman exited the path into a clearing occupied by colossal platforms bathed in flickering torchlight. Lying in shadow beyond the torches stood Tyrie’s storehouses— a series of enormous buildings used as a central repository of the settlement’s surplus grains and other staples. A procession of overflowing carts, pulled by snorting Zampha-beasts and piloted by hooded drivers, emerged from the fog-laden valley below. One by one they clomped up the well-worn path, halting amid a cluster of brooding laborers and robed expediters.

Quintar looked above and to the east, in the direction of the Yaak colony commonly called the West Meadows by the people of Tyrie. A kilometer into the forest stood hundreds of massive shapes constructed of branches and mud. The creature’s colony was reputed to extend deep into the forest, although humans were, by tradition, ever mindful of entering or disturbing the beast’s domain.

Suddenly, Quintar saw several gigantic figures emerge from the forest’s shadow bordering the Meadows. Noiselessly, they lumbered past Quintar— a solemn procession of imposing forms against the brightening woodland.

The male Yaakraya were first to appear. Used to transport goods between settlements, they were considerably less intelligent than their female counterparts yet three times more massive. Quintar recognized a few of the beasts from previous runs, although he’d found distinguishing the Yaakraya more and more difficult as winter approached— a consequence of their long, shaggy mane’s slow transformation from brown to dirty white.  The females arrived lastly, including Shila, Anderro, and Thimbar.

Shila ambled to Quintar and slowly knelt. “How have you been my friend?” Quintar asked, stroking the Yaak’s stringy hair “Are you ready for another run?”

Shila turned her head and snorted. She turned away, unhurried. Quintar chuckled, securing his harness to Shila’s hip.

The colossal Yaakraya assembled in a serpentine line. The first beast backed against a tall platform and workers slipped a huge backpack over the creature’s broad shoulders. The laborers hurriedly secured the packs using broad straps bound to the beast’s abdomen and hips. Urging the giant away, they beckoned another to take its place.

Soon, all the packs were loaded, and the laborers dismissed the remaining Yaakraya. Lenna and Enro meandered amongst the heavily burdened beasts tugging on straps and tightening ropes.

A Yaakrider Wierta-expediter approached Quintar, pulling a parchment from his coat. “Here are invoices for grains, meats, and dried fish, and contracts for a full load of Noreldan garments and furs.”

Quintar nodded, stuffing the papers in his pack.

“I wish you good fortune, good Yaakleader.” The Wierta bowed curtly, before turning away.

Quintar grabbed the hairs on Shila's hip and hoisted himself into his harness. Lenna climbed atop Anderro and Enro upon Thimbar.

Quintar urged Shila through a grove of trees and onto the Northern Trail. A line of lumbering Yaakraya snaked behind Shila, followed by the remaining female Yaak and their riders.

By late morning, the Yaaktroop ambled along a trail west of the Great River’s divergence. Thousands of acres of abandoned farmland bordered the river to the east. Above the plain, Quintar observed patches of homesteads spread over the hillside. Steep, impassable cliffs loomed to the north.

The path veered northwestward below the river’s northwest branch, and the terrain sloped upward on a twisting path. The Yaak slowed and Quintar ordered rest.

Later that afternoon, they approached a wide plateau along the river valley carved by the northwest river branch. The line of Yaak meandered along the rocky flood plain toward the northwest. To Quintar’s right, the river widened and slowed. Soon, the trail disappeared into the water.

Quintar gazed upon the crossing of Sarhelm: a ford offering the Yaak easy passage across a shallow stretch of the northwest branch. Farther upstream, the waterway narrowed to a tight chasm where a sturdy rope bridge allowed men and pack animals a crossing in springtime and summer.

Quintar raised his hand and the party halted. The heavily-laden Yaakraya gathered beside the river and gently squatted. The Yaakriders dismounted and inspected the beast’s cargo. Lenna and Enro passed huge buckets of water to the resting giants.

Soon, the Yaakriders climbed upon their Yaak, and the Yaakraya rose on their stocky feet. Shila and Quintar led the Yaakraya across the half-kilometer wide crossing.

Shila plodded through the swift current, the water never reaching her hips or Quintar’s feet. The remaining outriders entered the water when the last Yaakraya waded midstream.

After the last Yaak emerged on the rocky northern shore, the Yaakriders wasted no time urging the beasts away from the bank and upward to the east. Just as the sun disappeared behind the hills, the party reached a clearing beside a small stream. Quintar ordered the troop to make camp for the night.

Quintar and Enro sat beside the crackling fire with bellies full of warm Chakra-pig. Quintar threw a branch on the flames and glanced out over the camp’s periphery. He noticed Lenna standing in the shadows near the resting Yaakbeasts. Quintar approached him.

“Do you suppose,” Lenna said, gently patting Anderro’s belly, “she will give birth on the trail, or will she wait until she returns to her colony in Tyrie?”

“Even the old-timers aren’t sure,” Quintar said. “Some say a Yaak can wait several cycles once their time for birthing is near, although all are certain she’ll disappear without warning.”

“She’ll just leave?”

“Yes, but they always return.”

“Where do they go?”

“Nobody can guess. No man has ever witnessed a Yaak’s birth. The scholars of Adair say they birth only twice during their long adulthood; although they can produce more if their colonies are stressed.”

The two Yaakmen stood in silence for a few moments, and then Quintar said, “It is said, Yaakriders whose companions give birth are bestowed good fortune during the coming year.”

Lenna turned to Quintar, and in the dim moonlight Quintar could detect the faintest grin. “Through the heaviest storms, Quintar, the following dawn always brings new life and new hope.”

Quintar grasped Lenna’s shoulder, and together the two men returned to the campfire.

The morning sun greeted the Yaakriders, and they ate a light breakfast before breaking camp. Quintar led the party upwards and along the perilous paths just above the steep cliffs north of the Great Confluence.

By mid-morning, the path narrowed and bent along a high ridge. The Yaak trudged single file along the jagged cliff, wary of the steep vertical drop to their right. Below and to the south, Quintar beheld the entire valley of the Great Confluence, all the way to the river’s bend below the settlement of Tyrie. Tall hills, capped with rock and snow, towered above him to the north.

The afternoon turned to early evening, and the sun ducked behind menacing clouds. Eventually, the path meandered east while dropping a few hundred meters in elevation. Quintar spotted the northeast river branch thundering through the valley far below. Lake Norelda lay just thirty kilometers to the northeast, he calculated.

Daylight waned, and snowflakes began to fall from a darkening sky. Soon, the snow intensified, and Quintar lost sight of the Yaakraya in a veil of whiteness. He ordered the troop to make camp.

They awoke to a clear morning. The snow from the previous night melted in the early sun, and they continued along the northeast river branch. Through late morning and early afternoon, the Yaaktroop twisted upward along the trail toward Lake Norelda, passing countless swift rapids and gentle waterfalls to their right.

The river flattened and slowed by late afternoon. Shila led the Yaaktroop through a forest of tall Sohla evergreens. Before long, the woods opened to a grassy meadow surrounded by ten cabins and two enormous platforms, similar to the structures found beside Tyrie’s storehouses. Two fire pits lay carved into the clearing’s center.

Beyond the trees and the rocky shore, Quintar saw Lake Norelda's deep blue waters reflecting the bright sun.

CHAPTER  6 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

“Is she a big one, father?” young Kristren asked.

“I hope we don’t find out,” Balyar whispered.

Balyar peered into the darkness yet saw no movement. His dog Jett scampered back and forth sniffing the powdery snow. Before them, Ellini and Alberon cast eerie double shadows across the sloping landscape high above the northern settlement of Norelda.

Suddenly, Jett paused and began whimpering. Kristren trotted to the dog and then motioned his father over.

Balyar held a flickering torch close to the ground. He reached down and touched the oddly-shaped imprints. “Fresh.”

Something made the lanky rancher uneasy, and without thinking, he reached up and stroked a deep scar that crossed his face from ear to rugged chin.

“Come, boy.”

Father and son jogged down the hill, pausing before a cluster of sheep imprisoned behind split wooden rails. He and Kristren hurriedly looked the animals over before moving onward. Swiftly, they passed a coop stirring with clucking chickens and then ambled downward into the courtyard. Balyar followed Kristren through the homestead’s door.

Anderia sprang to her feet, cradling her infant son. “Pinthra?”

Kristren gasped for breath. “Could be...”

Balyar’s eyes flashed in the candlelight. “Fetch me two pans, boy. Now, get going!”

Kristren scrambled into the kitchen. Balyar grabbed his crossbow and two bows. Hurriedly, the rancher filled a quiver with a dozen metal-tipped arrows. Kristren returned with two small pans. The boy’s hands shook. Balyar threaded one bow over Kristren’s shoulder.

Anderia brushed aside a tear. “Be careful.”

Father and son rushed out the door.

Balyar and Jett followed a trail of fresh blood to the field’s edge. Balyar found a mangled sheep in a shallow ditch. Hurriedly, he collected the carcass in a cloth sack. Balyar loaded his crossbow. Beside him, Kristren looked on with wide eyes.

“Will she be back, father?”

“Once a Pinthra has taken blood, they’ll stay close unless driven off or killed.”

“Can they be frightened away?”

“Loud noise is best...” Balyar lifted an eyebrow. “But Pinthra are unpredictable and dangerous, and you should never underestimate the dark beasts.” Again, Balyar reached up and felt his scar. “Be ready with those pans.”

Balyar and Kristren stooped near the ditch where they found the dead sheep. Jett continued to pace back and forth, whimpering. Kristren tried to keep the dog from wandering off. Bright Alberon shined directly overhead. Father and son huddled to fight the chill.

Suddenly, Jett yelped.

Balyar heard a low growl from the forest's edge. Then he saw a phantom-like shape passing between the trees. Two large, luminous eyes flared in the shadows. Another set of blank eyes flashed from a nearby grove, and a loud hiss echoed from the woods. Balyar’s spine tingled.

Jett barked at the dark forms and pawed at the ground. Kristren banged on the pans while Balyar shouted toward the woods. Balyar kept the crossbow within arm's reach.

The nearest dark shadow reared up on its hind legs, releasing a heinous yell. For an instant, Balyar glimpsed fanged teeth and two stubby horns.

Jett barked louder than before.

Suddenly, the dark shapes turned and leaped back into the woods. Moments later, Jett stopped barking.

Balyar stood listening to his heartbeat for quite some time.

**********

A rooster heralded the morning sun and Balyar awoke sluggishly. He stretched and staggered into the kitchen. Anderia stood fanning the fireplace’s glowing embers. Jett lay curled beneath Balyar’s feet. Balyar scratched the dog’s neck.

Anderia pulled aside her slender braids. “I just let him in. The poor thing must have been standing vigil all night.” She glanced toward Balyar. “And you look like you need more sleep yourself.”

“There are chores to be done and packing for the trip.”

“I’ve already set aside some of your things.”

“Is Kristren up yet?”

Anderia lifted a kettle over the hearth. “He just got to bed a few hours ago. Is it any wonder he’s still sleeping after last night’s excitement?”

“I need him.”

“He needs his rest.”

Balyar splashed water on his face. “Samael is meeting me here, later this morning.”

“Oh—”

“He wanted to talk before we set out for Tyrie.”

“Why here?”

“Maybe he wanted to see how common people live, or he just sought the exercise.”

Anderia smiled wryly. “We are not often graced by the presence of the representative of Noreldan merchants.”

Balyar sniffed. “I’ll wager he hasn’t been outside the settlement since spring.”

“Then, I’ll make him some hot tea and prepare a comfortable chair. And then ask him why he charges such high prices at his market.”

Balyar grinned. “Perhaps an appropriate argument for some other time, dear wife.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Balyar. I like the councilman, but I think greed sometimes clouds his thinking.”

“He is not only the wealthiest man in Norelda but possibly the fattest. I hope his heart doesn’t fail coming up the path. I think he underestimates the climb.” Balyar pulled a blanket snug to his youngest son.

Anderia stirred the kettle. “And how prepared are you to represent the ranchers? Do you have their confidence? Will they allow you to negotiate freely? Will they support the decisions you make in Tyrie?”

“I didn’t campaign for this job.”

“Still, they will expect results.”

“I know.”

“And hold you accountable.”

“I did get them to agree on key issues, such as getting this year’s huge supply of Mathran wool to market and negotiating for food reserves for winter.”

Anderia glanced at her husband and shook her head.

“Kristren handled himself well last night,” Balyar continued, reading her mood. “I know he’s just a grown boy, but I’m confident he’ll manage things well while I’m gone.”

“But, he is just a dozen cycles over two years old?”

“I have faith in him.”

Anderia stared at the fire and then adjusted the kettle over the flames. “I wish you didn’t have to leave, Balyar. Fall is such a difficult time on the ranch, and me with the baby... I feel a bit overwhelmed.”

“I know.”

“And with Pinthra lurking everywhere.”

“Kristren is a better archer than me. He can—”

“But there’s so much to get done. There’s firewood to be stored and hay to be collected…”

Balyar placed his hand on Anderia’s shoulder. “Kristren will do just fine, you’ll see. Don’t worry.”

**********

Balyar sat on a boulder on the trail’s edge, gazing downward over the distant village and the deep basin enveloped in a mid-morning fog. The wide expanse of Lake Norelda lay before him, enclosed in majestic mountains and steep cliffs and surrounded by tiers of green pastures. Balyar sighed, envisioning the Great Confluence of Tyrie, many days trek to the southwest below the elongated lake and the river branch that flowed downward, eventually draining into the Great River’s merge.

Balyar noticed the ample figure of Councilman Samael plodding up the rocky trail. “Master Samael! I see you’ve survived the climb.”

Samael paused. “I have not yet… succumbed… but I dearly hope… sweet Lady Anderia… has something warm to drink.”

Balyar slapped Samael across the councilman’s shoulders. “Indeed she has, my good man. Indeed she has. Come with me.”

Balyar led the huffing councilman several hundred meters off the path and into his modest home. Samael removed his hat, dipping his head to Anderia, before plopping down onto a kitchen chair.

Anderia smiled broadly. “Perhaps, the honorable councilman will accept some hot tea.”

“You will save my life, dear lady.”

Anderia poured a cup. Samael took a cautious sip. “Ahhhh, Sequippa root, fresh and smooth. How delightful.”

“Picked by our son Kristren just last week,” Balyar said. “The Sequippa has been most sweet and pungent this year.”

Samael caught Balyar’s eyes through the tea’s steam. “We have little time this morning, so let us proceed to business. My sources report a good harvest of wool on the ranches this fall. I presume they’re correct?”

Balyar eyed Samael suspiciously. “Your sources...?”

“Come now, good rancher, we represent all Noreldans here. I make money regardless your guild’s circumstances.”

Balyar stroked his beard and sighed. “The ranchers have a surplus of three ton of Mathran fleece and eight ton of sheep’s wool.”

Samael raised his thick eyebrows. “Indeed, a good year.”

“The best I can recall.”

“The wool, animal pelts, and garments will give us great leverage to barter with Tyrie and Adair for the needed grains, fish, and meats.” Samael scowled. “You know how quickly Noreldans tire of mutton or an occasional chicken after the snows drive Norelda to isolation. And we want to keep the citizens happy, do we not?”

Balyar said, “And this will be a long winter, if the old-timers are to be believed. Many say that the more plentiful the summer, the harsher the winter.”

Samael nodded. “Possibly, nature’s way of maintaining balance, good rancher?”

“I don’t know, but we would be wise to plan ahead. Many ranchers have already stockpiled additional firewood and hay.”

Anderia poured the councilman another cup of tea. Samael took a quick sip and then nodded politely.

Balyar leaned forward. “And who has been chosen to represent the trappers at this meeting?”

Samael smiled wryly. “Tharmstron.”

“Tharmstron! I’ve never met the man, but he’s reputed to be outspoken and somewhat mistrustful.”

“Ah, good rancher, in politics it’s best not to prejudge…”

“Have you worked with him before?”

“Make no mistake, Balyar, Tharmstron is a strong and honorable man. Do not forget, it was Tharmstron who argued for his scattered communities to have more involvement with the settlements, and it was he who organized trappers for greater leverage with the merchants— a measure, lightening my pockets significantly, by the way.

“And most important of all, it was Tharmstron who foresaw the need to educate the young of his clans— a plan that recently reached fruition in a pact with Druiden of Adair, providing teachers to trapper outposts where before there was none. Tharmstron is a man to be respected. One must not underestimate him.” Samael took another sip of tea.

Balyar sighed. “Trappers have always been strange folk— too many years in the wilds, I suppose. Only recently have they become concerned with settlement affairs, and now they’re involved in our greatest councils. How times change.”

“Many things change in our lands,” Samael said solemnly. “But representatives like you and I must assure these changes are wise and just. All peoples must be represented fairly, including trappers, or we risk losing all; this is especially self-evident during hard times.”

Kristren pushed through the front door holding an armful of firewood. Jett trotted between his feet, shaking off muddy snow.

“Good morning sir,” Kristren said.

“And to you, young man,” Samael replied.

“This is my eldest, Kristren,” Balyar said. “He’ll run my ranch while I’m in Tyrie.”

Kristren dumped the firewood beside the fireplace. He removed his gloves and flexed fingers over the fire.

“Have you finished the morning chores?”

“Yes, the wood’s split and the animals are fed. Will you be leaving soon, father?”

“Yes, and you can help by carrying my bag down to the village.”

“I wish I could go with you.”

“I need you to take care of your mother and brother.”

Samael tapped his fingers. “If you’re ready… We must get to the ferry docks before noon. If everything goes well, we will meet the Yaakriders at the lake's western portage by sunrise tomorrow. Tyrie is two days journey by Yaak from there.”

Kristren strapped his father's luggage across his shoulder and exited with the councilman into the cool, morning air. Balyar lifted his infant son from his crib, cradled him in his arms, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. He placed the boy gently in his bed and covered him with blankets.

Anderia stood washing pans from breakfast. Balyar reached over her shoulder and took her hand. She stared straight ahead.

“Take care,” Anderia said.

Balyar, Samael, and Kristren tramped down the meandering path, leading from the upper ranches down to the Noreldan settlement, some distance below. Jett ran ahead of the trio. Balyar and Kristren bounced along, but the aging and overweight merchant huffed and puffed.

Samael halted and wiped his forehead. “In my younger days… I could make the climb to the ranches… thrice daily. Now I fear death along the way. The trip up to your homestead this morning was worse. I should have met you at the docks.” He plopped down on a rock beside the path and patted his stomach. “There are some drawbacks to a plentiful summer after all, good rancher.”

Balyar smirked. “The life of a merchant makes you soft. Working a ranch for a season would keep you fit.”

“I’ve no doubt. But the upcoming winter will make us all leaner, especially if we don’t plan well. That’s why our voice must be heard at the Council. There are over twelve hundred people depending on our foresight and strength. It’s a responsibility I take quite seriously.”

“Well spoken, my friend. And you feel Tharmstron will be an asset?”

Samael’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, but always remember that Tharmstron speaks for the trappers, much the same as you speak for ranchers and I for the Noreldan merchants. We of the northern communities form a broad alliance born of geography and mutual needs. Our stronger bonds are to our constituents and finally to our families. There may be circumstances where Tharmstron will do whatever is in his people's best interest and not necessarily ours.”

Finally, they reached the settlement’s edge. The sun had burned the morning haze, and Lake Norelda's rippling blue water swarmed with boats of various shapes and sizes.

They entered Norelda's bustling streets, confronted by citizens offering praise, food, and drink. Samael nodded curtly yet ushered Balyar and Kristren away.

Samael glanced toward the elevated sun. “Let’s move on. Noon approaches and we’re expected at the ferry dock. Tharmstron and his companion will be waiting.”

The men arrived at a gateway cut through a rock wall. A line of heavily laden Zampha carts plodded through the gate and downward toward the lake.

Samael beamed. “Packs for the giant Yaakraya, crammed with furs and garments stitched in Noreldan factories.”

Kristren’s eyes danced.

The men strolled through the gate and then down to a series of floating docks located several hundred meters below. Balyar noticed a large boat with a flat deck tied to the dock. Several men crisscrossed the deck, checking sails and fastening rigging. Another dozen men used a huge wooden lever-crane to hoist the heavy packs from the carts onto the boat.

Balyar counted aloud. “Three or four dozen Yaakraya packs at least.”

Samael smiled broadly.

Balyar and Samael approached the ferry. Kristren took his father's bag and hurled it aboard. One of the ferrymen smiled at Kristren and tossed the bag below deck. Samael stepped across a plank and onto the boat.

Balyar bid Kristren farewell. Kristren trotted off the dock and up the road. Jett followed, jumping and sniffing at the boy’s feet.

Balyar watched until Kristren disappeared through the gate and then boarded the ferry. Behind him, two burly men approached the dock. Balyar noticed both men carried bags fashioned from hides of wild animals. One man was three or four seasons older than the other and sported a long, dark beard. The younger man was clean-shaven. Both wore fur-lined hats, Mathran jackets, and Alem-hide boots. They strode up the plank, tossing bags to the crew.

The older trapper smiled. “I see you made it, honorable Samael. And you must be the rancher, Balyar.” He reached out and seized the rancher’s wrist. “You have the reputation of a fair and honorable man.”

“Yes, I am Balyar. And I’m honored to finally meet the esteemed Tharmstron. I’ve heard many tales...”

The trapper bellowed, “I hope all you have heard has been good.” He turned to his young companion. “This is Ruppon. He has an interesting story to tell, but only before the Council of Representatives as I have pledged to Master Druiden of Adair.”

The young trapper nodded.

The four men watched as the last gigantic pack was hoisted aboard and secured to the ship’s deck. The ferrymen released their vessel, and three rowboats towed the boat to the bay’s mouth. A southwest wind ruffled the lake, and the ferrymen raised two broad sails. And with the wind at their tail, they sailed toward the lake’s center.

**********

Kristren jogged up the path with Jett following close behind. Kristren halted and turned. Before him, Lake Norelda glistened in the bright sunshine. He placed his hand to his brow, spotting a brown platform with two white blotches amid the field of deep blue.

“My time is coming soon, Jett. Next year, I’ll be the one who goes to Tyrie. I’ll be the one who’ll ride the Yaak to the city of the confluence and beyond. This, I promise, Jett. I promise with all my heart.”

Jett turned his brown eyes to the boy, barked, and bound up the path. Kristren jogged after him.

**********

Balyar grasped the railing as the ferry listed and bobbed beneath bulging sails. He turned and saw the outline of the distant settlement atop a thin band at the water’s far shore. High above the settlement, his beloved ranch was lost in the distance.

Balyar sighed, watching lakebirds dodge the ship’s mast. Samael meandered across the creaking deck to Balyar’s side. Both men marveled at the distant, snowcapped peaks to the north and northwest.

The afternoon sun drifted downward, and the ferry sailed southwestward driven by a steady wind. By early evening, Balyar spotted the Yaakrider’s base near the foot of the slender lake. Atop the ship’s highest mast, a keen-sighted ferryman studied the distant site and then yelled joyously. The other ferrymen cheered in response.

Samael turned to Balyar. “The ferrymen have spotted the Yaakrider’s banner on the shoreline. There will be no delay. We’ll be underway by morning.”

The ferry moved toward the docks as the sun touched the western mountains. Balyar observed two proud young men standing on the shore: one man was tall with trimmed hair, and the other was shorter with dark hair bound across his forehead. Behind the two men stood a field of huge, stoic Yaak, their whitish-brown hair contrasting the dark forest. Several other stern-faced men emerged behind the row of Yaak.

The ferry eased into the dock. Ferrymen jumped to the wooden planks and secured the ship. The two men on shore approached the dock.

CHAPTER  7 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

Quintar and Carathis emerged from the Yaakrider’s barracks just as the sun poked above Tyrie’s snow-laden ranges. Steadfastly, they strode downward along the settlement’s angled streets, their flowing green robes tucked neatly beneath heavy woolen coats. Upon reaching the settlement’s lowest tier, they approached Tyrie’s Great Meeting Hall. Quintar noticed the Hall’s sloped rooftop blanketed with newly fallen snow. He followed the Supreme Yaakleader through the Hall’s ornate doorway.

The two Yaakmen entered a huge room filled with lavish artwork and polished furnishings. The wall opposite the doorway supported four deep windows facing northeast to capture the morning sun, and between stood wooden sculptures hewed to the likeness of Tyrie’s wild creatures. Quintar noted the Yaak’s proud image displayed most prominently. Quintar rubbed his boot upon a floor constructed of dark Sohla planks, patterned in concentric boxes spiraling inward to the room’s center. There, within an enormous stone fireplace, Olaf firewood crackled and spat, emitting a sweet odor that Quintar inhaled with great pleasure.

A group of robed individuals sat at a large rectangular table located near the hearth. A balding man with a white beard rose to his feet and bowed curtly. “Hail the noble Carathis and young Quintar.”

“And greetings to you, Pincar,” Carathis replied. “Friend and delegate of Tyrie’s merchants.”

Carathis and Quintar removed their coats, and then sat.

Ruma, head of the Council of Representatives and delegate of the confluence’s farming community, sat at the table’s head. He rose from his seat with palms outstretched, his ornamented robe flowing gracefully to his elbows. The conversations ceased and all eyes were drawn forward. “All representatives are present. The meeting can proceed.”

Ruma began with an introduction of the Council. To Ruma's right sat Councilwoman Charon— a proud and noble lady with short, graying hair. She represented Tyrie’s tradespeople: the manufacturers, miners, and carpenters. Ruma’s son Hayden sat beside her. Both Hayden and Ruma represented Tyrie’s farmers: a large and most influential faction. Carathis and Quintar sat to Charon’s left. The noble Adairian educator Druiden sat to Hayden’s right, and next to him, the young scribe Porrias. Beside Porrias sat the uneasy representative of Adair’s fishing industry, Barrazan.

Seated opposite Ruma, were the amiable and wealthy Tyrinian merchants: Pincar and Dumas. Dumas was the eldest representative and respected by all for his wisdom and insight. The Noreldan merchant Samael and the Noreldan rancher Balyar sat near the table’s center. The robust trapper Tharmstron was seated to Balyar's right, and next to him sat the mysterious trapper Ruppon.

The meeting began with a lengthy summary of the past season presented by each group’s representative. Hayden spoke of an excellent growing season and a surplus of grains, fruits, and tuber foods grown to supplement the Yaak’s natural diet. Ruma interrupted Hayden and complemented Druiden on the development of rich, new strains of Charkur and Waax, and grains engineered to resist pestilence and vermin.

Charon talked at length of manufacturing production and the discovery of new veins of salts and metal ore. Barrazan stood before the Council and spoke of a successful harvest of Quidida and Zariema— dried, salted, and awaiting shipment north to Tyrie and Norelda. And Druiden talked with great passion of advancements in education and the sciences.

Balyar spoke of a huge harvest of Mathran wool, which brought gasps of astonishment from the representatives and smiles from the merchants— all except the old and wizened merchant Dumas, who sat stroking his gray eyebrows with wrinkled fingers. Quintar noticed Ruma glancing frequently at the elder councilman, apparently noting Dumas’s reaction to each topic discussed.

Tharmstron rose and talked of an abundance of pelts for sale in the three settlements. “Heavy and rich they are. Never in all my seasons have I seen such quality on the hides of wild creatures.”

Suddenly the elder Dumas's eyes flashed with a mixture of both dismay and concern. He lowered his head, falling deeply in thought.

Finally, Quintar stood before the Council and recounted several successful hunting expeditions into the distant mountainous regions above the northwest river branch. “The lands were strange, and the air was thin but game was robust and abundant.” He talked of expanding trade runs north to Norelda and south to Adair, and of the nature and disposition of the Yaak-beasts of Tyrie. As he spoke, Quintar felt Ruma’s slicing eyes, sometimes glimpsing signs of admiration in his father’s grim face, yet most of the farmer’s expressions faded rapidly to looks of sadness and regret.

Ruma rose from his seat, glancing to both Dumas and Carathis. “And now we shall discuss the reason why I have asked for an extra day of council. I realize this is a busy time of year for all of us, and I know you are all anxious to return to your homes, trades, and loved ones. But I would not have asked for this time, if the matter to be presented were of little significance. I hope we all listen and debate this subject earnestly and with open minds, for it may affect all of our lives during these coming cycles.” Ruma paused. “I will now ask the esteemed Carathis to speak.” Ruma sat.

Carathis folded his hands. He began slowly. “Most of us know that the Yaak is a species of high intellect, which is quite evident in my guild’s daily interactions with the beasts and the cooperation they have offered humans for untold generations— the nature of which even we Yaakriders do not fully comprehend yet accept gratefully.

“But many are unaware that the Yaakbeasts also possess superior instinct. They anticipate conditions in our ever-changing environment far beyond man’s current understanding or reasoning.”

Carathis cleared his throat. “I’ll be direct, good council members. We have observed the Yaak stockpiling huge amounts of Waax and Charkur over the last several cycles.”

“Should this concern us, Master Yaakrider?” Tharmstron asked. “Is it unusual for the Yaak to store food for winter?”

“Because, good councilman, even the old-timers have never seen the Yaak hoard so much, in so little time, and so urgently. More alarmingly, the beasts have actually accelerated their pace of hoarding as winter draws closer.”

Councilwoman Charon spoke: “Has it not been said, good Yaakleader, when the Yaakbeasts store food early in fall, the ensuing winter will be unusually long and cold?”

“You are correct, Lady Charon. The Yaak’s instinct is seldom proved wrong. We can think of no other reason for their behavior.”

“And this may explain the quality of the pelts we’ve trapped,” Tharmstron added. “I fear a good season for a trapper may prove a dangerous omen for us all.”

Carathis raised his hand softly. “Yes, and if I may continue, I’ll add that the Yaak’s hair is of unusual fullness this fall— thick and strong.”

The members sat silently, pondering everything said.

The merchant Pincar spoke first. “All of this is interesting speculation, but I’ve heard this all before. Last year we heard evidence that a certain conjunction of Ellini and Alberon would bring a disastrous winter. The year before we were told a drought would bring a cold and harsh season.” He sighed. “And both years, the winters were average. Why should we think this year different?” Pincar shook his head.

Many representatives turned to one another, nodding.

The Adairian scholar Druiden rose. “Let us not dismiss these observations so hurriedly, good council members. I agree with the honorable Pincar. We must not alarm the public without ample evidence, yet these are unusual signs and call for careful debate.” Druiden sat.

“None can foresee the future,” Ruma said. “Nonetheless, we should always prepare for the worst. A severe winter will cause hardship for all of our people. Only fools would not take precautions. This is the least we owe our citizens.”

Some representatives stared at the table, while others watched the fireplace. Quintar noticed Ruma’s face suddenly flush with shadow.

“There is something else,” Ruma said gravely. “But before we debate this most controversial issue, my friend and senior representative, Dumas, has requested some time to address you. Dumas has asked only for our patience and for us to kindly listen to his statement.”

Dumas lifted his frail body gently from his seat. He nodded curtly to Ruma, steadying himself against the table’s edge. “Fellow representatives, I have seen by my calculations the better part of thirteen springs. I know but a few in all the lands who can make such a claim. Maybe now, there are none still alive.

“For this, I consider myself most fortunate, not only for a long life, but also for the opportunity, so freely given to me, to nobly serve my guild, my city, and our civilization.”

Dumas's gray eyes darted from person to person, catching briefly the transfixed gaze of each. “But, alas my bones grow old, and I’m fast becoming weary, and I’m confident that I will not witness winter’s end and spring’s golden renewal. Yet perhaps before I depart, I can still be of use to the Council and to Tyrie. And I’m grateful the Council has allowed an old man his opportunity to ramble onward once again.”

Carathis said, “I speak for the entire Council, Master merchant. We are all honored to be in the presence of one who has served Tyrie with such dignity and for so long. Your opinions will always be heard with earnestness and given the greatest reflection and consideration.”

There was a murmur of consensus around the table. Dumas lowered his head, seemingly eager to continue.

“My earliest recollections are of the winter preceding the spring of my second year. My father was a simple merchant, selling Noreldan pelts in the winter or grains in summer and fall. My mother was a strong woman, kept busy raising two daughters and five sons for which I was youngest.

“We were not a wealthy merchant family, yet we managed to survive living in a cabin somewhere to the northwest of Tyrie— the exact location I’ll never know, but I do recall our home was located on the wilderness’s edge. As you all know, many homesteads in those earlier times were dispersed many kilometers from Tyrie’s main settlement, even though our population was less than half what it is today. These pioneers did not depend on the settlement for their daily needs, and they remained self-sufficient even through the harshest winters. I don’t recall many neighbors, nor contact with humans other than my family, until my father brought me to Tyrie’s settlement the following spring.

“That particular winter was unusually long, and I can still feel the bitter cold in the depths of my bones. The storms raged for days and days, and sometimes a single storm would pile snow higher than the height of a man. I recall that by mid-winter, the drifts covered our cabin’s roof.

“On a clear and cold afternoon, a strange man arrived at our homestead. He was tall and rugged, and his face was scarred and his cheeks burned from cold. A dark beard hung beneath the burn, speckled with frost that stuck to the strands like ice on trees. We had never seen a man like this before, so quite naturally my brothers and I became quite fascinated with the stranger.

“My older brothers urged me outside the cabin and through a tunnel of snow, and up a wooden stair we had built to reach the snow’s height. There, I remember seeing a huge, white figure. My five brothers and I circled the furry creature, studying its sturdy legs and stroking its gnarled, white pelt. I noticed a freshly healed wound above a greenish stain on the Yaak-beast’s side. The misfortunate creature carried a harness and pack upon its arched back.

“Yaakman, my eldest brother said, motioning toward the cabin where the stranger rested.

“Long past the afternoon and into the evening, the stranger and my father spoke in hushed tones. Their speech was laced with anxiety and their faces flushed with anguish. To this day, I never forgot the look of absolute fear upon my father's face. My mother trembled with dread and huddled her children, sharing the stranger's secret with only the eldest, whom she reasoned old enough to understand.

“Before dawn of the following day, the stranger was gone.

“For some time thereafter, my father and my eldest brother Gerrob would leave home for days on end, returning exhausted and anxious. Many strangers came to our home, some staying hours, some staying days; all seemed to bring sorrowful news. Food was scarce and my family sometimes went for weeks without meat, surviving on meager rations of stale grains and wild roots.

“One fateful night, my father returned alone. He bled from the head and arm and lay weakened from blood-loss. My mother tended to his wounds and then gathered the family. With her head held high, she told us that our father would recover from his wounds, but she sobbed uncontrollably while reporting Gerrob’s death.

“Was it a...? My older sister asked, daring not utter the unspeakable word.

“Yes, my mother said grimly. It was Ordai.”

Ordai! Quintar thought. Ordai! Someone still lives who witnessed a time when the legendary snow-beasts invaded the Valley of the Great Confluence. It was as if a tale told in folklore burst into life through a single eyewitness. No other name could exact a more emotional response from Tyrie’s citizens.

“The Ordai,” Tharmstron grunted above the Council’s murmurs. “Is the honorable Dumas standing here, telling us the Ordai will return this winter?”

Samael shook his head dismissively. “In Norelda, the watch for Ordai ended in my father's time. I have yet to see any evidence of the beast’s return.”

“Please, dear friends,” Ruma said. “Let our senior representative continue. He has expressed his desire to offer some additional explanation.”

Quintar felt a chill draft flow through the hall as the elder merchant’s eyes fixed on the table’s center. Golden embers flickered in the fireplace, sending glowing orbs spiraling into the air. Quintar inhaled deeply, watching the embers rain slowly upon the polished wooden floors.

“There is something else,” Dumas said gravely. “I recall my father telling us that the Yaakmen had observed unusual behavior among the beasts during the previous year’s fall season. Some of this I can’t recall, but two points I still remember clearly: my father told my brothers and me that the Yaak had developed a thick, heavy pelt and that the creatures were hoarding huge amounts of food, far beyond the sum of prior years.”

The representatives sat silently.

Finally, Carathis spoke: “This has also been observed and noted in our oldest Yaakrider traditions and lore, some of which have been passed down through generations in my trade.” He sighed. “The Yaak likely hoard for a reason.”

Tharmstron said, “There appears to be ample signs the upcoming winter will be harsh, and I’ve no doubt that others at this table will prepare with great earnestness. But I’m still not convinced a severe winter will summon the snow-beasts.” Tharmstron crossed his arms and shook his head.

Ruma spoke: “Talk of the Ordai stirs many emotions amongst our citizens. Tales of the snow-beasts are taught to our youngest children and are thus an integral part of our culture. But it has been four generations since the Ordai roamed the Valley of the Confluence, and understandably, to us they are more legend than real flesh and blood.”

Ruma rose to his feet, his eyes steadfast with resolve. “But make no mistake fellow representatives: to our forefathers, the terror was real. I still recall the icy terror on my own grandfather’s face, when he spoke of the horrible beasts from the north. Before he died, he warned me never to forget that the snow-beasts may someday return…”

“Ere long the days of winter fold

Of bitter root and tales of old

Eleven Thermegan shall fly anew

The twelfth shall the Ordai rule”

All eyes turned toward the slender Adairian scribe Porrias.

“May I… may I beg the Council's forgiveness. It was a saying taught to me by my father, as it had been told by his father. I’ve begun to scribe all such sayings that I’ve had the privilege to hear and remember.”

Dumas looked the young scribe over, and then a thin smile formed on the wizened merchant’s face. “I’ve talked too long, and now my work is complete.” He lowered slowly to his seat.

Ruma, still standing, paused for a moment. “We have listened and deliberated much this morning, and we still must hear from Tharmstron and his young companion Ruppon. We must also discuss plans for winter and those discussions may continue for days.” Ruma glanced out the window as bright sunshine beat down upon Tyrie’s streets, and a steady trickle fell from the Hall’s slushy roof. “It appears that noon has passed. A break for food and fresh air is in order.”

The representatives rose and began filing from the room. Carathis turned to speak with Pincar. Quintar walked to the hallway, coming face to face with Hayden. Their eyes locked.

Hayden’s jaw tightened. “Look at us now, both representatives...”

“Mother would be proud,” Quintar replied.

Hayden chuckled nervously.

“And how are Ari and Marcura?”

“My sister Ari… Our sister Ari and her new husband have built a homestead north of the city. She was disappointed you couldn’t attend the joining. Mother is the same as always.”

“And Ruma?”

Hayden hesitated. “Father was interested to learn that Carathis had named you a representative. I’d not heard your name mentioned in ages… only mother. Perhaps the passing seasons have mellowed him some.”

A moment later, Ruma and Dumas strolled down the hall toward the two men. Ruma stopped. Dumas nodded to Quintar and Hayden before hobbling toward the door.

The three men stood in awkward silence. Ruma stared at Quintar and their eyes met. “You present yourself well, young Yaakman. All of us are pleased to have you here.”

“Thank you, father.”

Ruma nodded. And then he and Hayden turned and strode down the hallway.

CHAPTER  8 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

The noontime sun shone brightly over the Great Meeting Hall as the representatives chatted and argued politely over the morning’s business.

Ruma rose and held forth his hand. “Let us begin again. The day grows short and we have a great deal to discuss before evening. Let us now turn to the honorable Tharmstron, who has graciously accepted Master Druiden’s invitation to address the Council, although he has gone to great lengths to caution me that his speech’s merits can only be judged by the Council itself.”

Tharmstron rose from his chair, tugging his green robe awkwardly over broad shoulders. “Esteemed representatives, I would first like to thank the Council for allowing us this time to speak. My young comrade Ruppon and me will try not to take up much of the Council’s valuable time. And I apologize for our crude speech, because as you all know, we are an uneducated people, yet perhaps I will be the last generation to be so.” He nodded graciously toward Druiden and Porrias.

Dumas’s eyes gleamed. “Judge not the manner of a man's speech but the content of his argument.”

“Well spoken,” Ruma said. “Now, please continue, Master Tharmstron...”

“Trappers, by their nature, roam far into the wilderness searching for new and untapped areas full of healthy game. The educated scholars of Adair know this well and have formed an alliance with us trappers to share information of the lands we’ve traveled in return for maps and teachers to instruct our young.

“These maps have proved useful to the men and women in my profession, and also to Yaakriders, who hunt far into the wilderness and even to the south, below Lake Adair’s western bay.” Tharmstron turned to Carathis and Quintar, who acknowledged with polite nods.

“In late summer of this past year, I journeyed to Adair on business. There, I had the honor of dining on fresh Quidida with Master Druiden in his home overlooking the Bay of Adair. As we ate, I told him a tale that had been told to me by a group of trappers who our party met at an outpost located to the east of Norelda on the wilderness’s edge.

“Indeed, the story was strange, yet as with other tales told and retold at campfires all through the wilderness— and if the truth be known, most of these stories are flavored with Jenna— we trappers accept these tales as questionable, at best.”

The representatives chuckled.

“So as we ate, I laughed, and retold the story to Druiden and apologized for wasting his valuable time.

“But the wise Druiden was not amused. He listened to the tale with great earnestness, and I saw in his eyes a glow of serious thought. He asked me to seek out the tale’s source, and if I found truthfulness in its claims, present the story to the Council of Representatives.”

Tharmstron paused, inhaling deeply. “My esteemed council members, I have not only spoken with the source, but I have brought him here to tell the story in person.” He turned and placed his hand on his young companion’s shoulder. “I present the trapper Ruppon.”

Tharmstron sat and motioned Ruppon to stand.

The young trapper rose, his eyes darting to each of the council.

“Please begin, young man,” Ruma said. “The Council is eager to hear your tale. We are not often prepared in such a tantalizing manner.”

“My name is Ruppon,” he began tepidly. “My family’s been trappers for generations. I grew up at outposts all through the wilderness. Like most of us trappers, I don’t call any one place my home.

“In early spring of this year, just after the river retreat, me and my older brother Jarem and five Breva entered the wilderness southwest of the trapper outpost that Tharmstron mentioned before. We wanted to get to a small valley between two mountain ranges almost straight east from Adair. The valley’s cut by a river branch coming into Lake Adair from its eastern arm.

“Us trappers like this route in the spring. The river is mostly without rapids, and it’s easy to run hides by boat to the lake. There, we can sell them to the merchants in Adair or peddle them right in Adair’s markets. Either way, a trapper can earn some good credits.

“Jarem and me drove the Breva up the steep ground to a pass between the mountains. Some of you might not know that a Breva is a crossbreed between a Zampha and Mathran. We trappers like this cross, because it has the strength of a Zampha and can climb like a Mathran, which can come in handy when trapping in hilly country.

“It took us a half cycle of Ellini to come down into the valley from the north. The days were bright and there were good signs of game. And we wasted no time setting our traps for the Camorr and Alem that roamed the river retreat marches and stream basins of the valley. Jarem and me camped close to our traps because we also tracked Pinthra.

“One night, we used Alberon’s bright light to prepare our skins for packing. There was no breeze, and I remember the smoke from our fire drifted straight up into the branches of Sohla that surrounded our campsite. Jarem found a wild pig in one of our traps, and we roasted it. All I remembered hearing that night was the crackling of Olaf in the fire and pork sizzling on the spit, until….

“Without no warning, our Breva became restless, yelping their high pitch whine and pulling on the ropes that bound them to the trees. Jarem and me dropped our knives and jumped for our crossbows. We pointed our weapons into the dark shadows between the trees.

“Pinthra? I whispered to Jarem.

“No, he said. It’s too early, and Pinthra don’t like a big fire.

“Before I could say something else, we heard a man’s voice call from the woods.

“I must beg pardon for annoying your animals, said the voice.

“Jarem held his crossbow firm. Who are you? Come forward and show your face. Don’t you know that men who sneak up on a trapper after dark risk being split by an arrow, without no questions?

“I know, said the voice, because I was once a trapper like you. But I’m very hungry, and I haven’t talked with another human in two years.

“Through Alberon’s light, I saw a figure creep out from between the trees.

“I’m alone and unarmed, the man said over and over.

“A weak and haggard man stepped into the firelight. His shoulders were stooped, and he had long, gray hair and a scruffy beard. His coat and boots were ragged, and his shirt and trousers were tore. On his back, he carried an old skin pack. Later on, my brother and me both agreed that he looked like a man who had wandered the wilderness for a long time.

“My name is Darros, the man said. Can I make camp here and share your pig and some Jenna, if you might? I’ve not tasted Jenna for as long as I can remember.

“His wild eyes shined at the idea of Jenna and pork. My first thought was that the man was crazed, so both of us kept our hands near our bows.

“What brings you to this valley? Jarem asked. And if you are a trapper, where are your traps?

“I said that I was once a trapper, Darros said, pulling off his pack. Now I’m just a wanderer. I have no home.

“Why did you leave the settlements? I asked. Why would a man not seek others for such a long time? Are you a criminal? I let him see that I had a crossbow within easy reach.

“Darros walked to the fire, shaking his head. So many questions, he said. I’m very hungry and thirsty. All the time, his eyes never left the pig.

“We don’t starve fellow travelers, Jarem told him. Then my brother cut a slice of pork and handed it to the stranger. The man ate like a crazed animal.

“After he ate a good part of our pig, he tried to explain his past. Yes, he said, I was a trapper. I lived at an outpost near Norelda. I’ve trapped most northern and southern routes, including this one. I gave up trapping two springs ago, deciding instead to roam the wilderness away from men and their ways.

“Darros gave us a look of disgust when he mentioned others, and I gave my brother a quick look. Jarem just shook his head— we both knew the man was not telling us all the truth.”

“Master Tharmstron,” Councilwoman Charon asked. “Have you any confirmation, this man Darros was once a member of the trapper community, as he had told young Ruppon?”

“Yes, Councilwoman Charon,” Tharmstron replied. “After the honorable Druiden asked me to investigate this story further, I talked to others at the Noreldan settlement that Ruppon spoke of. Some say, a man calling himself Darros once trapped from a northwest outpost, but he had not been seen in over two years.”

Tharmstron scowled. “More importantly, this man Darros did not choose to leave the trade, he was banished for thievery! I believe this is the same man.”

Ruma lifted his hand softly. “Well, let us continue with this tale. Young man...”

“As the night wore on, my brother and me warmed to the wandering stranger. He ate his fill of pork and drank a good share of our Jenna. As his hunger went away, he started to talk wondrous tales of his time in the wilderness.

“He talked of traveling north and east, and up and through the high mountains, where the air was thin and huge mountains of hard ice melted into deep, blue-green pools, even during summer’s heat. And he talked of a barren pass, where game was scarce and hunger nearly killed him. On clear days, he said, he could see mountains so high they touched the sky in never-ending rows of peaks and slopes.

“He barely survived the pass and followed a stream down to a basin that emptied into a bigger river running almost due east. He said he didn’t follow the river right away, but he stayed near the river’s bank the whole summer, hunting and fishing.

“There was plenty of game, he said. And he found at least nine Yaak tribes. He figured about a thousand beasts lived in this one valley alone.

“When winter came, he built a small cabin near one of the Yaak tribes on a plateau overlooking the river. The Yaak didn’t pay him much attention, except for one day, when three of the older female Yaak stopped by. He’d guessed they were just curious of the cabin he’d built.

“They took a good look at me and my cabin, he said, probably just checking to see if I was dangerous. He laughed. Otherwise, they just left me alone. They acted as if I wasn’t even there, he said… strange beasts.”

“When spring came, he built a hollowed boat and waited for the river to retreat. Then he abandoned his cabin, entering the river flowing east.

“He told us that he floated down the twisting river for many cycles of Ellini, stopping when he found good hunting grounds or when he just grew weary of traveling. By the stars and sun, he noticed the river twisted southeast, then south, and even southwest for awhile, passing through steep canyons and barren hills.

“Eventually, he told Jarem and me, the river opened to a marsh so big that it took many days to cross, and that large serpent-creatures lived in this marsh, so terrible, he spoke of them little.”

The representatives murmured.

“Darros said that the marsh ended in a huge lake. And upon crossing this lake, he found the river again and then continued southward.

“This stretch of the river contained many rapids, but Darros also told us that the hunting along this rugged shore was the best he had ever experienced, thus making the perils of the waterway somewhat bearable.

“Taking his time, Darros eventually made his way downriver. One day, he saw a colony of birds feeding in the shallows below a high riverbank. This made him wary, as he had come to learn that birds often fed just above the beginning of rapids or falls.

“He said, the air was thick with dew, and he heard the dull sounds of water in the distance, so he pulled his boat to the shore. He walked through the woods to the river’s head. There, he said, the forest opened to bare rock.

“Darros described to my brother and me, a waterfall higher than he had ever seen in all his years. The water fell in two tiers: the first he could see below, dividing the river into many streams; the second falling into a valley, he could not yet see.

“Words couldn’t describe the view of that valley, he said. Two mountain ranges towered on either side, and the basin spread out to the southwest beyond his sight. From where he looked, the river pooled at the bottom of the falls, twisting down the valley’s center.

“It took him two days to climb to the bottom of the falls and into the valley below. He described the land as green and full of game, and he spent many cycles below the falls, fishing and hunting.

“This man Darros told us that he would have been happy to stay in this valley forever, if he didn’t come upon what he saw next.”

Ruppon paused, glancing over the transfixed representatives.

“Just a day down the valley from the falls, he happened on a clearing above the flood bank. Strange, he thought, because he had never known Yaak to clear land in this way. The path through the clearing appeared to have been made by men. He followed the path into the forest, where he found a small cabin made of timber and thatched reeds.”

The council members began to murmur. Some shook their heads while others openly expressed shock. Only Dumas sat expressionless, staring at Ruppon.

“The cabin appeared to be built for four or five men. The beds were crude, made of Sohla branches and Payet leaves. Darros thought the cabins were not made sturdy enough to keep men safe in winter. He also said that it looked like no one had been there since the previous summer. When he walked farther away from the river, the path opened to a wide clearing. Here, he said, he found a number of fire pits surrounded by forty cabins.”

Carathis sprang to his feet. “Forty cabins! This suggests over a hundred individuals. Who are these people and where did they come from?”

“Can we not trace our ancestry back five or six generations?” Charon asked. “Do we not have census information?”

“Yes,” Druiden replied. “The scholars of Adair have taken census for over twenty years.

Pincar asked, “Then, can we not account for the loss of such a group?”

“As you all know,” Druiden said. “Men or women may be banished to the wilderness for a variety of reasons: murder, rape, thievery, subjugation. But banishments are rare, and only two women in our history have been exiled, and from all accounts, those women were beyond child-bearing years.”

“Of course,” Charon said. “I follow Master Druiden's thoughts. A group this size would have required women, if they wished to last more than a single generation.”

The others chuckled yet only briefly.

Druiden turned. “Master Tharmstron, our census of the trapping community has never been complete. Could a group of trappers have become lost, or could they have deserted our lands for some reason?”

Tharmstron rubbed his chin. “Trapping is a dangerous business. And many brave men have been lost and have lost their lives in my trade. And some have been banished as thieves or worse. But our community is small, and I’m certain that if a large group of trappers had abandoned the Valley of the Confluence, it would have been noted in our tales or song. I have asked the old and wise at all of our outposts, and they know of no such tale.”

The representatives spent a moment to talk among themselves.

“Please, fellow representatives,” Ruma said. “Let us not forget this tale was authored by a verified thief.”

There were a few murmurs and nods of agreement around the table, including Tharmstron.

“Nonetheless, we should hear the remainder of Ruppon's story before deciding its merit. Please continue, young trapper.”

“Darros searched the camp, but found nothing to give him a clue of who these men were, or what they were doing in this valley, or even where they came from. But he did tell Jarem and me that he thought these men were hunters, not trappers; although he did not give us a reason why he thought so.

“Also, Darros didn’t tell us why he left the valley and returned to Tyrie. When we asked him outright, he shrugged his shoulders or changed the subject.

“Darros stayed with Jarem and me for almost a full cycle. As the days passed, he told us more and more of his adventure, of which I told the Council just a small amount. He worked hard, helping us with the traps. He even hunted fresh game for us to eat. Day by day, he earned our trust.

“Jarem was taken by the stranger, and they talked often of adventure. Darros spoke of returning to the valley of the Great Falls, and my brother listened with great interest. One day Jarem told me that he’d decided to go with Darros into the strange lands. He asked me to return to Adair with the furs we’d trapped and place his profits aside until he came back.

“I tried, but I couldn’t talk my brother out of leaving with this man. Jarem was always interested in adventure and the unknown. So I bid him farewell and told him I’d return to Adair. Jarem promised to return before the first sign of fall.”

Ruppon glanced downward. “Honorable representatives, it is near winter and my brother hasn’t returned. Jarem is a strong man and experienced in ways of survival in the wilds, but after learning of Darros's criminal past, I fear for my brother’s life. So I now pledge, if he does not return between now and spring, I will venture forth into the wilderness to find him, alone if I must. This is the least I owe my brother. I thank you for hearing my tale.”

Ruppon bowed and returned to his seat.

“Thank you, young man,” Ruma said. “And now I must ask an important question. Do you think this man was telling the truth? Or do you think this tale was born in this criminal’s imagination? What does your heart tell you?”

“I and my brother believed the man was truthful, except for his reason for leaving Tyrie.”

The merchant Pincar asked, “Then why do you not think he might lie about finding the village of men? Perhaps he spun this tale to regain favor with the trapper communities and petition to end his banishment.”

“I can explain my feeling in no other way, honorable representatives.”

Ruma turned to the young Adairian scribe. “Master Porrias, Druiden tells me you are knowledgeable in the ways of maps and their history. Can any of this man’s stories be validated?”

Porrias stood before the Council. “Much of the story Ruppon recounted is consistent with our sparse knowledge of these lands. I have spoken to men who have heard tales of an expansive valley located over the great dividing ranges to the northeast of Norelda— although none of these men themselves have ventured through the mountains and returned.”

Pincar grunted. “Tales spun over campfires?”

“Perhaps,” Tharmstron said. “Yet the Valley of the Yaak has been a part of trapper lore for generations. I’ve heard of this vale long before Ruppon recounted Darros’s story.”

“Yaakriders too,” Carathis said, “have heard tales of a valley over the eastern ranges. These lands are said to be rich with Charkur and Waax and home to countless Yaak.”

Porrias cleared his throat. “The regions beyond the valley described by Darros cannot be substantiated by map, witness, or our many legends. Darros described a large river flowing through the valley of the waterfalls. It is quite possible this river merges with our own Great River somewhere to the southeast.” Porrias shrugged. “And to where that river flows, none can guess.”

Porrias bowed and returned to his seat.

All of the representatives sat silently, deep in thought.

Ruma raised his palm. “Unquestionably, the people of Tyrie have at times endured great hardships, yet our lands are fertile and full of game; consequentially, starvation is rare even during our harshest winters. Because we have possessed so many natural resources, we have neglected to seek new lands and explore our world. Although we have made great strides in educating our citizens, our knowledge of areas beyond this valley is sadly lacking.

“Honorable representatives, the time will come when we must seek new lands for our children and our children's children, so they may grow and flourish. I say this time is now.”

Carathis said, “We must also think of our security. If there is any truth to this criminal’s story, let us not forget there are other men occupying lands near Tyrie. We cannot judge their intentions. They may wish to harm us, man against man.”

Charon gasped. “Men killing men? Why? For what purpose?”

“The wise Carathis is correct,” the elder Dumas said. “We know nothing of these men’s culture or history. They may have values very different than ours.”

Ruma gently waved his hand. “I will now suggest that we send an envoy of our bravest and brightest citizens into the wilds to explore new lands and possibly become ambassadors to the world of men.”

Ruppon rose to his feet. “I will be the first to volunteer. I had already made up my mind to search for my brother, but I’d gladly accept the company of others.”

“And I will go with him,” Porrias said. “The chance to explore the unknown is every mapmaker and historian’s dream.”

Quintar thought for a moment and then rose slowly. “I will also volunteer my services.”

Carathis’s eyes flared. Ruppon’s face brightened.

“Any group entering the wilderness must be offered protection,” Quintar said. “And few men can match a Yaakrider with a bow. I’m certain by spring we’ll find other brave men willing to join us.” Quintar caught Barrazan’s gaze before returning to his seat.

Ruma paused for a moment. “This is a promising start, and like Quintar, I’m confident others will come forward before winter’s end.”

The wizened educator Druiden said, “I will now propose this journey be organized by the scholars of Adair. I assume this mission will be one of exploration and diplomacy.”

“If these explorers encounter hostile men,” Carathis said, “the blood spilled will be mostly Yaakrider.”

Ruma held out his hands. “Please, please.”

Carathis brushed his palm outward. “Yet I’ll defer to Master Druiden here. All men— including Yaakmen— are free to do as their conscience leads them. But, I must state before the Council that my guild will offer much yet suffer the most, if good men are lost.”

Druiden lowered his eyes. “Nobody doubts the bravery and generosity of the men of the Yaak, Master Carathis. We all acknowledge the sacrifice your guild is prepared to make.”

“Fine,” Ruma said. “Now we must turn to more tedious concerns, such as our plans for winter.” He sighed. “Let us begin by talking about the grain storehouses.”

CHAPTER  9 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

Barrazan wandered between snaking bonfires and stumbling revelers on the eve of the Council’s first day. He halted and tugged his overcoat close, awestruck by Tyrie’s expansive hillside dotted with hundreds of blazing torches. The whiff of pungent Olaf burned his nostrils, and strong Jenna clouded his thoughts.

“Barrazan.” He heard a voice from amongst the revelers. He noticed Lenna staggering through the crowd cradling a flask. “We’ve been looking for you, fisherman.”

“Who are we, my drunken friend?”

“A group of us over at Farissa's Inn.” Lenna wiped his lips. “Are you waiting for...?” He pointed up.

Barrazan gazed upward into the starry night. Ellini hung low on the northwestern horizon casting a dull red hue over the snow-capped mountains. “A moonless sky has fascinated me since I was a boy.”

“Yes, and on Council's eve...” Lenna raised his flask and gulped. “May we consider it an omen, good or bad?”

“I’ve witnessed it countless times upon Lake Adair, where the skies blaze like crystal jewels over the open water.” Barrazan paused. “And what fate awaits me at Farissa’s?”

“Quintar and the Adairian Porrias have been discussing next spring’s expedition into the wilderness. I’ve been sent out amongst the masses to find you, my friend.”

“Why seek me?”

“Quintar thought you might be interested.”

“Is that so?”

“But...” Lenna drunkenly touched his lips. “I can reveal, we’ve already decided you’re coming with us.”

“Perhaps you should have asked me first.”

“There seemed such little doubt. I told them how many times I’ve heard you speak of adventure.”

“Adventure? Me?” Barrazan laughed. “Was the trapper Ruppon with them?”

Lenna’s smile evaporated. “The trapper’s opinion is unimportant. Druiden of Adair has agreed to sponsor this mission for the glory of Tyrie. I would not risk my life searching for some trapper’s lost brother.”

“Apparently, you have already decided to go with them?”

“Indeed, nothing now prevents me…”

The two men stood in awkward silence. Finally, Lenna asked: “Are you coming with me?”

“Into the wilderness?”

“No, my slow-witted Adairian friend; are you coming with me to Farissa’s?”

“I fear the Jenna has gotten the better of you, good Yaakrider, and in the morning you’ll regret what you’ve committed to tonight.”

Lenna smirked. “A chance like this comes but once in a lifetime, my friend.”

“Have you thought this through, Lenna? What of your guild? Your duties?”

Lenna waved his hand. “Our duties will await us upon our return.”

“And perhaps, some renown?”

Lenna tipped his flask. “If that is what you seek...” He shrugged. “Come, let us go together and explore this world.”

Barrazan sighed. “I’ll decide after I listen to Quintar and Porrias.”

“That’s all we ask, good fisherman. Come with me to the Inn. I’ll buy the drinks. Maybe then, you’ll commit to ideas of grandiose adventure.” He belched.

Barrazan walked through the crowded streets with his arm over the Yaakman’s shoulder. They laughed, joked, and caught up on recent events. Barrazan told Lenna of the first day of the Council and the odd subjects discussed. Lenna recounted the events in his life following the tragic death of his young wife.

The two men stopped beneath a dangling sign: Farissa's Inn and Pub. Two burly trappers staggered out the door. One of the men stumbled, falling headfirst into the street. The other man laughed and helped his companion back up.

Barrazan and Lenna entered the pub. Barrazan noticed a man pouring spirits at the pub’s rear. The odd trio of Ruppon, Porrias, and Quintar sat in a darkened corner. Two huge pitchers of Farissa's brew sat before them.

Lenna patted Barrazan’s shoulder. “Look who I brought back with me. I told you I could snare him.”

Quintar pulled up a chair. “Good work Lenna. He’s a good catch indeed.”

Barrazan gazed at Quintar and then nodded to the others.

“Please sit, my friend,” Quintar said. “Have a cup of Farissa's brew, and tell me what you think of ominous speeches of long winters, snow-beasts, and strange men in strange lands.”

Barrazan plopped down and grabbed an empty cup. “One cannot say this Council has been boring. I feel the warnings of a harsh winter are strong and undeniable, but for the Ordai, I cannot say. Men predict the return of the snow-beasts each winter, and still the creatures have not yet reemerged. And if they did, then I guess we’d have little choice but defend ourselves.”

“I agree,” Porrias said. “We must prepare for a bitter winter, yet we mustn’t panic citizens with talk of Ordai— that is, until we have solid evidence the monsters have revisited.”

Barrazan filled his glass. “There is another thing I don’t understand. If these bad winters and roaming snow-beasts happen every so many years, then why don’t we find this written in our history? Each season we appear to guess haphazardly regarding future events. Why is this so?”

“This has also puzzled the educators of Adair for generations, good fisherman. Although our knowledge of mathematics, linguistics, and science is strong, we are weakest in knowledge of our own history. It’s as though our forefathers did not care, or a large part of our past has been erased, or—”

“For what purpose?” Quintar interrupted.

“We don’t know, but my mentor Druiden has dedicated a great deal of his life searching for a reason, if a reason exists.”

Barrazan rubbed his chin. “Still, this makes no sense. Knowledge of the past can only help us cope with present troubles, can it not?”

Porrias held out his empty mug for Lenna to fill. “Yes, my friend. I can offer you an example: if we could predict when the Ordai will return, we could better prepare for the beasts, possibly saving lives. And then, perhaps, during off-winters not waste valuable resources when it is disadvantageous to do so.”

Quintar said, “This may also explain why Druiden was so intrigued by Ruppon's story. Perhaps Druiden feels we will learn more about ourselves by encountering men who are not of Tyrie.”

“Druiden seeks knowledge as a Yaakrider seeks a fine brew,” Porrias said. “Scholars have long reasoned that we are not the only men occupying this world, but there has always been little or no support for venturing forth. Now, Ruppon’s story has given us a reason.”

Porrias took a long sip. “But exploring the wilderness will be dangerous, and we’re grateful Quintar has agreed to help us in this quest. And I hope Barrazan will, also.”

“But I’m just a fisherman,” Barrazan said. “What skills can I bring? I’m not skilled in ways of travel by land.”

“If the criminal Darros has been truthful, much of the unexplored areas can be traversed by boat. We’ll need someone skilled in raft construction and navigation, if the need arises.”

Barrazan stroked his chin. “Are you planning to travel by foot or by Yaak?”

“Possibly foot, possibly Yaak, possibly boat.” Porrias turned to the Yaakleader. “What do you think Quintar? Traveling by Yaak, at least initially, may have its advantages.”

Quintar nodded slightly. “Yes, the Yaak have no equal for speed, strength, and mobility.”

Barrazan gave each man a fleeting look. “And who will lead our little group? Has this already been decided?”

Porrias and Ruppon glanced toward Quintar.

Finally, Porrias spoke: “We have plenty of time to determine our leader. Maybe this question can best be resolved after our party has been assembled.”

Barrazan eyed Porrias and then Quintar. The Yaakleader appeared spellbound by the fire’s sparkling reflection in his mug’s crystal.

“This trip will be dangerous,” Quintar said finally. “And there’s a fair chance some, or all of us, may not return. None can say what we’ll find in the far wilderness, away from our comfortable valley.”

Lenna said, “We all know the risks, Quintar, but our chances of survival will improve tenfold with you and Barrazan along.”

The trapper Ruppon filled his own mug and then the mugs of his four companions. He held his mug high, firelight dancing in his eyes. “May we all return here... to Farissa’s Inn... one year from today, and tell our tale at a council held in our honor.”

The five mugs clinked together. Lenna’s eyes narrowed.

“And to my brother, Jarem... may he be here with us drinking some of Farissa’s fine brew.”

Ruppon, Quintar, Porrias, and Barrazan took a long drink while Lenna hesitated. Barrazan watched as Lenna glared at the trapper and then caught Quintar’s steely eye.

Finally, Lenna raised his mug and gulped.

**********

“Look what I have, great-great-grandfather,” the boy said, holding forth a necklace of multi-colored beads.

Dumas lifted the trinket into the Tyrinian Square’s flickering light. “A fine piece of jewelry… It may make you rich.”

The boy smiled.

“It’s getting late, young man. We should find your grandmother. She will take you home.”

The boy's smile faded.

A woman wearing matching Mathran slacks and coat pushed her way through the crowd. Her gray-streaked hair was braided and tucked beneath a round green cap. She smiled, taking the youngster’s hand. “Did you have fun with your great-pa? Now it’s time to come home and out of the cold.”

The boy looked up at his grandmother, pouting.

“And what of you, grandfather?”

Dumas’s eyes danced. “I’ll be home shortly, darling Zahra. I only wish to see people I’ve known in happy times. You know how I enjoy watching people in celebration. And this fall, will be my last.”

“Hush, grandfather, you know I don’t like such talk.”

“Don’t feel sad for me, granddaughter. I’ve lived a life fuller than most. It’s the way of all things. We all face death.”

Zahra lifted her head, smiling sadly. “Just don’t be too late, or we’ll come out after you.” She turned toward her home while the boy waved goodbye.

The evening deepened, and the citizens gathered in the streets awaiting Ellini’s disappearance. Some huddled close to the fires to keep warm, while others seemed content to watch, away from the bonfire’s glow. Still, some citizens sought out neighbors and friends to exchange pleasantries and to offer congratulations for an abundant and successful season.

Dumas ordered another twenty barrels of ale, and the people in the street whooped and cheered, praising him for his kindness and generosity. “If one takes, one must give back in kind,” he said in a soft voice.

Dumas strolled through the marketplace, his withered hand leaning on a cane fashioned of Sohla, its handle carved into the likeness of a Sequippa plant, a symbol of prosperity and wealth. The robe of councilman flowed gracefully beneath his Alem-skin jacket.

Dumas greeted many acquaintances in the square. He stopped and spoke with Ruma and Ruma's son Hayden. Ruma discussed the Council and how grateful he was for Dumas’s contribution. And he met his business rival, Pincar, who hugged the old merchant like a long-time friend.

He noticed the trapper Tharmstron and the rugged Noreldan Balyar sitting at a darkened table near the square. They appeared to be having a serious conversation, and their faces bore deep concern. Dumas chose not to interrupt them. The concerns of today are for young leaders, he thought. I have given my advice and warnings to the Council. My mission is now complete.

He turned away from the crowds, walking into a narrow alley between the settlement’s lowest tiers. Closed shops and foundries lined each side of the deserted street. He stopped, lifted a torch from its holder, and held it aloft.

Dumas continued along the swerving road and up the valley’s basin. He stopped to catch his breath. He turned and saw Ellini hovering just over the western ridge. The marketplace of Tyrie, speckled by dozens of fires, sprawled outward below him.

Dumas marveled how the markets had grown during his long lifetime. He recalled a time when merchants were selfish and unorganized and when some goods were not traded in many parts of the lands. He beamed proud, knowing it was he, Dumas, who foresaw the need to sign treaties with Adair and Norelda; it was he who assured commodities from all three settlements are available to all citizens; it was he who….

Dumas’s head dropped in disgust and disappointment.

He ambled up the winding road, passing the last scattered homesteads. The darkness engulfed him as he turned from the road and onto a worn pathway. He hobbled up the path, emerging amid a clearing. He turned and beheld the settlement bathed in soft starlight.

Tyrie is a city now, he thought, not just a settlement. Tyrie is a place of culture and history, a place where my great-grandchildren and their great-grandchildren will live, grow, and educate their young, to advance Tyrie to even greater heights, beyond even my greatest dreams or expectations.

Suddenly, a cool breeze whipped through the trees, catching him unprepared. His torch sputtered in his wrinkled hand, and the chill paralyzed him. Dumas pulled his jacket close.

In an instant, long suppressed memories flooded back to him. He fought his thoughts, his emotions, yet he couldn’t halt the emptiness and isolation rushing through his core. He clutched his breast.

But it has been a heavy burden that I’ve carried— almost too much for a mortal man. And I bore it my entire life, and now I bear it alone....

The truth....

He staggered along a narrow stone walkway and then across a shadowy meadow. A stone monument, overlooking the cliff, towered before him. He stopped.

His aged mind spun with memories from his young adulthood: the clandestine councils, the elitist scholars holding to themselves the secrets of their ancient history that—

Dumas remembered the first time they’d told him and his complete disbelief. It was too terrible to be true; it couldn’t be true. Yet was it too terrible to keep from future generations? Did future Tyrinians not have a birthright to know? He shook his head.

And he remembered when they voted... when they debated for days, and cycles and years, whether to abandon the truth.

They did have their rationale, Dumas thought. They did present their case with great care, and many were swayed by their… reasoning.

Dumas brushed his graying brow and covered his ears, desperate to muffle the voices screaming in his head. He looked upward at a staircase, spiraling from the monument’s base to a platform twelve or thirteen meters above his head.

Dumas leaned on his cane, breathing easier. The voices quieted to a whisper.

He remembered there were scholars of conscience. There were those who pleaded that the truth must be preserved— those who preached that the truth would someday be revealed anyway.

And then, he recalled sadly, how they were silenced. A mockery.…

He felt proud of these men in later years, but inwardly, he felt painful guilt— for he, Dumas, was not one of them; he had voted with the majority to bury the truth with his generation.

And now, he was an old man— the last of the spineless. And he was sworn to uphold the oath of his predecessors. And he knew he would take his oath to his death; he could do little else. Could the elders have been right all along? Are we better off in darkness? Dumas shook his head.

Now, nearing the end of his life's journey, he realized his grave mistake. He would have voted differently, if only he had a second chance. But that was what all men say, who lack the necessary courage to follow their own convictions.

His frail legs carried him up the spiral staircase. He ambled forward then stopped. The voices disappeared, and an eerie calm settled over him. He thought of the young scribe Porrias and the new generation of scholars who occupied the academies of learning in Tyrie and Adair. He grinned— a pained expression mixed with remorse and joy. The young will lead us where the old have failed. Dumas could only hope.

He crept upward, emerging atop The Pinnacle of Time: a monument built by his ancestors to observe the skies above the lands of Tyrie. He ran his aged hands over the stone-etched symbols representing Ellini, Alberon, and the tiny winter moon Thermegan— an eternal testament glowing in radiant starlight.

His thoughts turned to the men that occupied the lands the criminal Darros had described. The scholars had always known other groups of men roamed this world, yet none knew if these men had access to the truth, or if they would share this knowledge with the people of the Great Confluence. Perhaps this young Porrias will find out.

He exhaled. But, as for me, I will never live to know.

Dumas buttoned his coat and lifted his head toward the expanding heavens. Ellini had now disappeared behind the western ridge, and the clear sky gleamed with a thousand thousand stars.

His gray eyes strained, searching all too familiar patterns. And he could not help but wonder....

### End of Part 1### (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

To purchase and download the complete novel (the remaining 4 parts from my 5 part novel): The Yaakmen of Tyrie Amazon (Kindle) or at Smashwords (all formats)

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32