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Stretching Out, Part Two, Amazon Adventure

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Belém do Pará, Estado do Maranhão (northern Brazil), Late 1632

Like an arrow falling from heaven, the cormorant plunged into the waters of the Pará. For a few seconds it was lost from sight. Then it emerged triumphantly, a fish in its mouth. Two gulls spotted the capture and winged over, no doubt hoping to snatch the meal away. Before they could carry out their designs, the cormorant gave the fish a little toss in the air, and swallowed it. The would-be hijackers swerved, and headed out toward the sea.

Henrique Pereira da Costa, watching this drama from the docks of Belém do Pará, hoped that his own dive into the unknown would be as successful.

He heard a cough, and turned. It was his servant, Maurício. "We're packed and ready to go."

"May I see the fabulous map again?" Maurício asked. "Wordlessly, Henrique passed it over.

Maurício studied it carefully, then handed it back. "It's got to be a fake, boss. I asked around, and no one has explored beyond where this river"—he pointed to the Rio Negro—"comes into the Amazon."

"M-m-my family has assured me that I can stake my v-v-very life upon its accuracy." Henrique had an unfortunate tendency to stammer under stress. It had been mild at first, but had worsened after his parents' deaths.

"Trouble is, you will be staking your life on it . . . while they're home, safe and sound in Lisbon." Henrique was the Da Costa family's factor in the town, which lay near the mouth of the Pará, the river forming the southern edge of the Amazon Delta.

"Bu-, um, -bu-. . . ." Henrique's stammer was one of the reasons he was stuck here in Belém, rather than enjoying the high life of a successful plutocrat in the capital. Instead of collecting expensive artwork and mistresses, he was looking for drogas do sertão—products of the hinterland—that might one day have a market in Europe. Most recently, pursuing a strange material which his relatives called "rubber."

"Speak English, or Dutch, boss, no one here will care." Henrique's stutter disappeared when he spoke a foreign language. Even one of the Indian jawbreakers.

Henrique nodded. "But there are those rumors . . ."

"Right. Like the Seven Cities of Cibola. Or El Dorado and the Lake of Manoa. Or the Kingdom of Prester John. Or . . ."

Henrique made a fist, and shook it. "Will you let me finish?" Maurício subsided. "Rumors of a town called Grantville, which has visited us from the future."

"If true, showing poor judgment on their part."

"Well, even if the story is false, I have my orders. Find the rubber trees, teach the natives how to tap it."

"And your family knows how to tap it, even though they don't know where the trees are?" Maurício's eyebrows flickered.

"Perhaps they found the trees in the Indies already? Or perhaps it's more knowledge from the future."

****

"Coming aboard, Maurício?"

Maurício jumped into the canoe. The boat rocked for a moment, then steadied. Maurício nervously checked to make sure that his neck pouch hadn't slipped off in mid-leap. What it held was more precious than gold: his letter of manumission, signed years ago by Henrique.

Maurício had been born into slavery. His mother had been one of the housemaids employed by Henrique's parents, in Bahia. In his childhood, he had been one of Henrique's playmates. Henrique's handwriting was a disaster—sometimes, even Henrique couldn't read it—and Maurício had been trained to be his scribe.

Henrique's father, Sérgio, was a physician, the usual choice of occupation for a Da Costa who was temperamentally unsuited for the business world. He had one of the largest libraries in Bahia, and it was Maurício's second home. Maurício mastered Latin, and Greek, and even Hebrew. Not that there was much need for any of those languages in the rough-hewn society of Brazil.

Sérgio's will had instructed Henrique to make Maurício a curtado, a slave who had the right to earn his freedom by paying a set price. Henrique instead freed Maurício outright. "I hope you can now be my friend, instead of my slave," he had said. The words were burnt into Maurício's memory, as deeply as a slaver's brand had bitten into his mother's skin.

****

The canoe, perhaps forty feet long, had eight Indian rowers and a "bowman." The middle of the boat was roofed over with palm fronds to provide a somewhat flimsy shelter. Henrique was glad to be on his way. In town, his stuttering was a recurring source of embarrassment. In the wilderness, he could relax.

Henrique knew the Amazon about as well as a white man could. He was a criollo, a man born in Brazil but of European descent, and he had been among the first settlers in Belém. Henrique had frequently canoed up or down the main river and its tributaries, and he had lived in some of the native villages for months at a time. Maurício occasionally joined Henrique, but mostly remained in Belém to look after Henrique's interests there.

It started to drizzle. Maurício held out his hand. "I thought you said it was the dry season." It was an old joke between them.

Henrique delivered the customary punchline. "The difference is, in the dry season it rains every day, and in the wet season, all day."

Whether in appreciation or mockery of the witticism, the drizzle became a shower. Henrique dived for the shelter, Maurício following.

****

"I don't understand," Henrique muttered.

"Huh?" Maurício had been watching a giant river otter playing in the water. He looked up. "Don't understand what?"

"Why none of the Indians we have questioned have heard of the rubber tree. I would have sworn that they knew every tree within ten miles of their villages." Henrique and Maurício had visited the tribes of the lower Xingu River: the Tacunyape, the Shipaya, the Juruna. The explorers had been shown some trees which produced sap of one kind of another, but none of them matched the description of the rubber trees.

"So it doesn't grow on the Xingu. Perhaps we'll have better luck on the Tapajós."

"We're in the shaded area of the map, where the tree is supposed to be found."

"Perhaps we don't know what to ask for."

"We asked them to show us a tree which weeps when it is cut. Because, uh . . ."

"I know. Because the first letter from Lisbon said that rubber is also known as caoutchouc. From the Quechua words caa 'wood,' and ochue 'tears,' that is. . . ."

Henrique finished the thought. "The 'weeping tree.'"

A lot of good a Quechua name does you," Maurício said. "It's the language of the Incas, who are, what, two thousand miles west of here?"

"Even if it's a rare tree, you would think that some Indian would try cutting it down," Henrique said. "See if it was good for building a dugout canoe, or at least for firewood. And then see it bleed."

Maurício brushed an inquisitive fly off the document. "Sure, but that might have happened a century ago. And they don't remember it, because they don't use its, what's that word . . . latex . . . for anything. The latex is old news."

His expression brightened. "Of course, they might still know of the tree. Maybe they use its leaves to thatch their huts. Or—"

"Um . . ."

"Or, they eat its seeds. Or—"

"Uh-uummm . . ."

"I know, it's sacred to their Jaguar God, so it's forbidden to speak to strangers about it."

"Maurício!"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Henrique brooded. Clearly, he thought, merely asking for a "weeping tree" wasn't good enough. But Henrique's superiors, or the mysterious up-timers, had provided more than just the map. He also had received drawings of the rubber tree, and its leaves and seeds. And even a sample of rubber. So he had thought he had some chance of success.

"Shit!"

Maurício gave him a wary look. "What's wrong."

"I have been going about this all wrong. The drawings are meaningless to the Indians we've been talking to, their artwork is too different.

"What we need to do is make a model of the leaves and seeds. Out of clay, or mud, or something. Life size, if possible."

Maurício waited for Henrique to continue.

Henrique crossed his arms.

"Oh," said Maurício. "'We' means 'me.'"

****

It had taken months, but they found the trees, trained and recruited rubber tappers, and went to work. The rubber tapping operation was nothing like a sugar plantation. The rubber trees were widely separated, perhaps one or two in an acre, and paths, often circuitous, had to be hacked out to connect them. Each tapper—seringueiro—developed several routes, and walked one route each day. A route might connect fifty to a hundred trees.

Henrique and Maurício made periodic trips to collect the rubber, and bring the seringueiros their pay, usually in the form of trade goods. And they also took advantage of the opportunity to spot-check that they were following instructions.

"Are we there yet?" Maurício asked.

"Almost. Yes. Pull in over there." It was a short walk to the trail.

Maurício stood quietly, studying the man-high herringbone pattern carved on the nearest rubber tree.

Henrique joined him. "Something wrong?"

"I was just thinking, it's like the Amazon writ small."

"What do you mean?"

"Look. You have the diagonal cuts. Those are like the tributaries. And they feed into the vertical channel, the main river. First on one side, then on the other."

Henrique considered Maurício's metaphor. "And the cup at the bottom, where the latex collects, that's the ocean." He walked over to the trunk, and felt the cuts. "We have a good tapper, here. He's getting flow, but the cuts are still pretty shallow. We won't know for sure until next year, but I don't think he's harmed the tree significantly."

"We really need something better than knives and hatchets for making the cuts the right depth."

"I agree. In fact I said so in the letter that went home with the last shipment. But I have no idea what sort of tool would do the job."

"Are we done here?"

"Well . . . I want to talk to this seringueiro. Perhaps give him a little bonus. Word will get around, and the other tappers will try to emulate him."

They waited for the tapper assigned to this route to appear. Even though they knew the direction from which he would be coming, and were watching and listening for him, they had little warning. One moment, there was nothing but the green of the forest, and the next, he was standing ten feet away, appraising them.

They greeted him, and he relaxed. They offered the Indian some water, and he took a quick swig and set to work. He deftly cut a new set of diagonal grooves, slightly below the ones cut the time before, and rubbed his finger over them.

Henrique complimented him on his work, and handed him a string of glass beads. The seringueiro held them up in the sunlight, laughed, and fastened them around his upper arm. He gave the two Belémistas a wave and headed on to the next tree on his route.

The visitors returned to their canoe and paddled on. That evening, they were able to witness the climax of the seringueiros' daily routine.

"Here, look," one said, handing them a large gourd. He had made a second round of his trees in the afternoon, collecting the latex from the cups. Henrique dipped his finger in the milk to test its consistency, and passed it on to Maurício. Maurício rolled his eyes, but dutifully accepted the vessel. He made a pretense of drinking from it, which greatly amused the Indian.

It was time for the next step. The Indian dipped a wooden paddle inside, coating it with the "milk." He then held in the smoke of a fire.

"This is exciting," Maurício said. "Like watching paint dry."

The first coat of latex slowly hardened into rubber, and the tapper put the rubber-coated paddle back in the gourd. He repeated the process, building up the mass, until it had reached the desired thickness for a rubber "biscuit."

He then pried it off the paddle, and handed it to Henrique. Henrique nodded to Maurício, who handed the Indian some brightly dyed cloth.

"Time to call it a night," Henrique said. Maurício agreed.

Henrique pointed. "There's a good place for you to hang up your bed." Maurício walked over, hammock in hand, to the trees which Henrique had marked out. He tied it to one trunk, and was ready to fasten it to the other, when he suddenly stopped short. A moment later, he was hurriedly untying the hammock.

Henrique was laughing.

"Very funny," Maurício commented. "I haven't been in the rainforest as often as you, but I don't fall for the same trick twice." One of the trees in question was notorious because it often served as a nest for a breed of ants of malignant disposition. It was commonly used in practical jokes on greenhorns.

Maurício sniffed haughtily. "As punishment for your crime, I am going to read you the poem I wrote last night."

****

The men were getting bored. And irritable. There had been two knife fights a day for the past week. Benito Maciel Parente knew something had to be done.

"Time for a coreira," he announced. His people were delighted. They so enjoyed hunting. As they readied their canoes, one man accidentally knocked down another. What a few hours earlier would have led to another duel, was laughed off. Clearly, Benito had made the right decision.

It took a bit of time to find a suitable village. At last they found one which, according to his scouts, was in the throes of a festival. The kind that involved imbibing large quantities of fermented drink laced with hallucinogens.

Benito watched as one villager after another collapsed to the ground. At last he waved his men forward. Their first target was the place where the Indians had stacked their bows. They cut the bow strings and threw the weapons into the fire. Then they started shooting. The snores were replaced by screams.

Benito nodded approvingly. "Kill the fathers first, enjoy the virgins afterward," he reminded his band. They didn't need the reminder; and half their work was done already. They laughed as they chased down the women.

****

The Da Costa family had helped finance some of the sugar mills in Bahia, and it made arrangements for the sugar boats, en route to Lisbon, to stop in Belém and see if Henrique had any rubber for pickup. Those ships came up the coast monthly . . . assuming they weren't picked off by Dutch privateers near Recife. And the captains didn't mind the stopover too much; it wasn't out of their way and they could take on food and water.

The visits had increased Henrique's popularity in Belém. The town mostly exported tobacco, cotton, and dye wood, but not enough to warrant regular contact. There was some sugarcane grown in the area, but it was used locally to make liquor. So Belém was a backwater compared to Recife. Before rubber tapping began, a whole year could go by without a vessel coming into port.

Henrique was under orders to expand production, but to do that he needed to find more rubber trees, and more Indians to milk them. He hoped that the town leaders, who were mostly plantation owners, would help him now. They had looked down on him for years as a mateiro, a woodsman, and a small-time merchant. The stuttering hadn't helped, either.

****

"Henrique, I am astonished," said Francisco de Sousa. He was the President of the Municipal Chamber of Belém. "I never would have expected a bachelor, in Belém no less, to have such an elegant dinner presentation."

"Th-th-thank you, Cavaleiro Francisco. It is in large part my late m-m-mother's legacy."

"I particularly like your centerpiece," his wife added.

"It is a family . . . heirloom." The piece in question was a massive flowerpot.

Henrique had hired extra servants for the occasion. They brought in one serving after another. First came a mingau porridge, followed by a farinha-sprinkled pirarucu, caught earlier that day. There were Brazil nuts, palm hearts, and mangoes, too. The meal ended with a sweet tapioca tortilha.

"So what are you doing with those Indians?"

Henrique had known this question would come, and had rehearsed his answer with Maurício, to make sure he could deliver it smoothly.

"There is a tree which produces a milky sap. They tap the tree, a bit as you would a pine tree to collect turpentine. The sap hardens into a substance which is waterproof, and can stretch and . . . bounce." Grrr, Henrique thought. I almost made it through my spiel I hate B's.

"Bounce?"

"Wait." He left, and returned with a rubber ball. He dropped it, and it returned to his waiting hand, much to their amazement.

"So, there's a market for this?"

"Somewhat. The rubber can be used to make hats and b-b-boots to protect you from the rain. And I understand that it can be applied in some way to ordinary cloth so that the fabric stays dry, but I don't how that's done.

"I could produce and sell more, if only I had enough tappers."

"Perhaps I can help you there. I can demand labor from the Indians at the aldeia of Cameta. We just need to agree on a price."

****

"What are you doing here, B-B-Benito?" Henrique had seen Benito Maciel Parente junior, followed by several of his buddies, saunter into the village clearing. Henrique kept his hand near the hilt of his facão.

"Just paying a friendly visit to these Indian friends of yours, H-H-Henrique," Benito sniggered. He had scarred himself like a native warrior, but he was no friend to the Indians. Like his father and his brother, he was a slaver.

"You've been making life difficult for folks, Henrique. I hear you're paying your tappers ten varas of cloth a month. It's making it tough to get Indians to do real work."

"Ten varas isn't much, Benito." A vara was about thirty-three inches. The largesse had not entirely been of Henrique's choosing, although he was known to be sympathetic to the Indians; he had specific instructions about wages from Lisbon.

"It is when the Indians are accustomed to working for four. Or three. Or two."

"Or none, in your case."

"Yes, well, it's my natural charisma. Anyway, dear Henrique, you want to watch you don't end up like Friar Cristovão." Cristovão had preached a sermon against settlers who abused the Indians, and he had been shot afterward.

"I assure you, that I am extremely careful." Henrique's own men had in the meantime flanked Benito's party. Benito affected not to notice, but several of his men were shifting their eyes back and forth, trying to keep track of Henrique's allies.

"So I thought I'd have a palaver with the big chief here. Mebbe he's got some enemies he'd like to ransom." If a Portuguese bought a prisoner condemned to ritual execution, he was entitled to the former captive's life; that is, he had acquired a slave. An "Indian of the cord."

"You know the Tapajós don't ransom. How many times have you tried this?"

"Aw, can't hurt to ask. And look at this bee-yoo-tiful cross I brought the chief, as a present. Hey chief, you want this? It would look real sweet right in the center of your village."

The chief gave Henrique a questioning look. Henrique shook his head, fractionally.

"Sorry, no," said the chief. "It is too beautiful for our poor village, it would make everything else look drab."

Henrique thought, Good for you. The cross was a scam. If the cross fell, or was allowed to fall into disrepair, then it was evidence that the tribe opposed the Catholic Church, and war upon it would be just. Leading, of course, to the enslavement of the survivors. The Tapajós were a strong tribe, and the slavers so far had been leery of attacking them, but that could change.

"Well, I can see I'm not welcome here today," said Benito. "I'll go make my own camp. But remember, Henrique, there's always tomorrow."

****

"Whump!" Henrique ducked, just in time, and took cover. He looked around, trying to spot the shooter. As he did so, one part of his mind wondered what had been shot at him. The sound hadn't been quite that of a bullet, or an arrow, or even a slingshot. More like a grenade exploding, although that made no sense at all.

It happened again. "Whump!" Suddenly, he realized that the Indian tappers were completely ignoring the sound. With the exception of one, who was laughing his head off.

Henrique rose cautiously. "What's making that sound?" Laughing Boy pointed upward at the fruits hanging from the rubber tree, and then down at the ground. It was thus that Henrique discovered just how the rubber tree spreads its seeds.

His superiors in Lisbon would be very pleased. Henrique had received precise instructions to collect seeds, if he found them, to pack them in a very particular way, and to ship them by the fastest possible means. And they had sent him the packing materials, and a special elixir to put on the seeds to protect them.

Henrique set the Indians to work collecting the seeds. He didn't dare wait for the monthly Pernambuco sugar boat run up the coast; he would have to hire a fishing boat to take his perishable cargo to Lisbon immediately.

Belém do Para, Early 1634 (Rainy Season)

Henrique fumbled with the door, and stepped into his home. He stumbled. Looking down, he saw that he had tripped over a cracked vase.

It was no ordinary vase. It was Henrique's magnificent flower pot. When it wasn't gracing his dining room, it reposed in a case in his foyer. His housekeeper, apparently, had taken it out to clean it, dropped it, and then fled the house.

Henrique blanched. His reaction had nothing to do with the cost of the piece, or even its sentimental value.

Did she see the secret compartment? he wondered.

He was hopeful that she hadn't. He studied it carefully. What he found wasn't good. The vase wasn't merely cracked; a piece had broken off and been reset. Lifting it off again, he could see into the compartment. Unless the woman were completely devoid of curiosity, she would have looked inside. And what she would have seen would have been far too revealing. A b'samin spice box. A small goblet. And, most damning of all, a miniature hanukkiya. The housekeeper was a caboclo, a half-Indian, and had certainly received enough religious instruction at an aldeia to know what that signified.

It was the hanukkiya, a silver candelabra, which was missing. And that led to some fevered speculations. Had she taken it as evidence, to show to the authorities? If so, his hours were numbered.

Henrique thrust his facão into his belt sheath, and barred the door. He loaded a musket, and set it close by.

The soldiers would be sent to arrest him. There was no inquisitor in Belém, but an inspector would be sent from Lisbon. Henrique would be questioned, tortured. He would be called upon to repent his heresy, and he would refuse. Eventually they would classify him as a recalcitrant, and the Inquisition would recommend his execution. He would don the black sanbenito, tastefully decorated with pictures of flames and devils, and be paraded to the place of execution. He would be tied to the stake and—

Wait a moment. Perhaps she was she planning to melt it down, knowing that he wouldn't dare report a theft?

Of course, even if cupidity had triumphed over piety, he was in trouble. Unless she could convert it to an innocuous ingot herself, she would have to recruit an assistant, who might alert the Church. And even if she didn't arouse any suspicion, life wouldn't be the same. She might blackmail him, or denounce him if he did something to displease her.

As a secret Jew, Henrique had known that his life might come to this turning point. It was time to get moving.

There was a knock at the door. Henrique put the musket on full cock. "Who's there?"

"Maurício."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes." His voice sounded puzzled, not nervous or fearful.

"Bide a moment." Henrique uncocked the weapon, and set it down again. He unbarred the door, took a quick look at the street past Maurício, and pulled his servant into the room.

"What—"

"Bar the door, again," Henrique said. "I am glad you returned in time." Maurício had been off on an errand to Cameta.

Maurício fiddled with the door. "I hope you have a good explanation."

Henrique started throwing provisions into a sack. Cassava bread. Beef jerky. Acai fruit. "I have to flee for my life. Actually, we both do."

"What's wrong?" Maurício asked. Henrique told him.

Maurício raised his eyebrows. "I certainly don't want to see you get burned as a heretic. But why exactly do I have to flee? Can't you just, oh, tie me up so I can swear that I wasn't complicit in your crimes?"

"Sure. But they would probably put you to the torture anyway, you being my long-faithful servant and all.

"Even if they didn't, the Church will seize my assets. And where would that put you?"

Maurício blanched. Under Portuguese law, an ex-slave could be re-enslaved by the creditors if his former master went into debt.

"Is there a ship about to leave for Lisbon?" Maurício asked. "We could board it, and outrun the bad news. Once in the city, we could lose ourselves in the crowd, perhaps sail someplace outside the reach of the Inquisition. France, perhaps."

Henrique shook his head. "A sugar boat came through two weeks ago." They didn't have a regular schedule, but they came up the coast once a month, on average. There was no reason for another to appear within the next week.

Henrique pried up a floor board, probed underneath with a stick. In Amazonia, you didn't search a dark opening with your hand. Not unless you were fond of snakes. He pulled out a pouch, which held money and jewels. He might need to bribe someone to make good his escape.

"Could we reach Pernambuco? Or Palmares?" There was a Dutch enclave in Pernambuco. And, further south, in Palmares, there was a mocambo of runaway slaves.

"We'd never make it by sea, both the wind and the current would be against us." That was, in fact, why Maranhão had been made a separate state, reporting directly to Lisbon, in 1621; it was too difficult to communicate with Salvador do Bahia in the south. Coasters did go as far south as São Luis, the capital of Maranhão, but taking one would just delay the inevitable. The authorities in Belém would send word to São Luis, and the latter was too small a place to hide for long.

"And the overland route is completely unexplored. Nor would the map from the future aid us there."

Maurício had started collecting his own possessions. Mostly books. "Then why not sail north? There are English, and Dutch and French, in Guyana and the Caribbean. We might even get picked up enroute by a Dutch cruiser. "

Henrique was sure he was forgetting something important. Ah, yes, a hammock. You didn't want to sleep on the ground in the rainforest. Not if you didn't like things crawling over your skin. Or burrowing into it. Hammocks were a native invention, which the Portuguese had adopted. And that reminded Henrique of a few other native items he needed. He gathered those up, too.

"Henrique, are you going to answer me?"

"Going north is what the garrison would expect us to do. And before you ask, they would be equally on guard against the possibility that friends would hide us, and smuggle us onto the next sugar boat to Lisbon."

"So, what are we going to do? Did the people from the future teach your family how we might turn ourselves invisible?"

"In a way. We will flee into the Amazon, lose ourselves among the trees of the vast rainforest. Go native. At least for a time."

Maurício wailed. "But I'll run out of reading matter!"

****

Captain Diogo Soares shook his head. His good friend, Henrique Pereira da Costa, a Judaizer! He could scarcely credit it. Perhaps it was a mistake, a dreadful mistake. Although Henrique's flight was certainly evidence of guilt.

Diogo leaned back in his chair. Even an innocent man, if he thought he was to be the target of an accusation of heresy, might flee. Especially one with enemies, who might try to influence the inquisitors. Everyone knew that Henrique had enemies. The younger Benito Maciel Parente, for example.

The captain's superiors thought that Henrique had boarded a southbound coaster. A fishing boat had been commandeered, and was heading down to Sao Luis already, to stop what boats it found, and also warn the authorities. The Governor of Maranhão could also send a guarda costa back up the coast, and make sure that Henrique hadn't tried sailing north, to Guyana.

Nonetheless, Diogo's sense of duty demanded that he consider other possibilities. Such as Henrique taking refuge with one of the Indian tribes. One of the Tapajós tribes, perhaps. It was fortunate for Henrique that Benito was off on a slaving expedition, as Benito would be delighted to bring Henrique out of the rainforest, dead or alive. Probably the former.

But Diogo was obligated to cover that avenue of escape. Exercising appropriate discretion as to who he sent, of course. "Sergeant, call in all the soldiers who are on punishment detail."

In due course, the sergeant returned, followed by six soldiers whose principal point of similarity was a hangdog expression.

"Ah, yes, I recognize all of you. And remember your records. Which of you degredados is senior?"

One of them slowly raised his hand. The others edged away from him.

"You are Bernaldo, right? I remember you, now." Bernaldo winced. "You will be in command of this little patrol. You are hereby promoted to corporal in token of your good fortune. You are to go out into the Amazon and arrest Henrique Pereira da Costa, who has been accused of heresy."

"But how will we find him, sir?"

"Did your mother drop you on your head when you were an infant? You are looking for a lone white man in a canoe. Or perhaps in one of the Indian villages. Or wandering a trail. It shouldn't take long to locate him. Sail to Forte do Gurupa first, put them on alert." The fort , which guarded the south channel of the Amazon Delta, had been captured from the Dutch in 1623.

"How long should we look for him?"

"If you come back in less than six months, you better have him with you. Or you will be on your way to where Brazil and Maranhãos send their undesirables. Angola."

They slowly filed out. "Good," said Diogo to the sergeant. "That solves more problems than one."

****

"I still think we should make a sail," Maurício said. '"It's not easy for the two of us to row upstream. With a sail, we can take advantage of the trade wind." He let go of the paddle for a moment, opened and closed his hands a few times to limber them up, and took hold of the wood once again.

"And you brought the cloth after all. You can cut some branches and vines for the mast and stays."

Henrique shook his head. "A sail will be visible from a great distance. And the natives don't use sails."

"Not before Europeans came. But a few do."

"Not enough, just those who are in service. It would still draw attention. Even if the searchers didn't think it was our sail, they would approach the canoe, to ask if we had been seen, or perhaps to recruit more rowers. If they got close enough—" Henrique drew his finger across his neck.

"Then why don't we just head upriver with the tide, and lie doggo in a cove the rest of the time. We need to conserve our strength."

"It will be easier soon. We'll leave this channel, then cut across the varzea, the flooded forest."

Henrique wiped his forehead. "We're lucky that we had to make our escape during the rainy season. If this had happened a few months later, we would have been limited to the regular channels, they could catch us more easily.

"And there's less of a current in the várzea, too."

"Also, less in the way of anything to eat. The land animals have fled to high ground, and the fish are hiding in the deep water."

"We have enough food to get us to a friendly village."

"And another thing. It's easier to get lost in the várzea."

"I never get lost."

****

"Okay, we're lost."

****

The good news was that Henrique and Maurício had made it back to the main channel of the Amazon. Hard to get lost; you always knew which direction was upstream.

The bad news was that they had emerged, closer than Henrique had planned, to the fort at Gurupa. They had to worry about being spotted, not just by Portuguese troops, but also by the Indians who traded with the fort. They might pass the word on. And they would be a lot harder to avoid.

****

"You, there!" shouted Corporal Bernaldo. He was addressing a lanky Indian, sitting in a small canoe, and holding a fishing rod. His companion seemed to be asleep. "Speak-ee Portuguese? Have you seen a white man? About so tall?" He stood up, and gestured, almost losing his balance. The Indian shook his head.

"Ask him if he has any fish to sell?" one of his fellow soldiers prompted.

"You have fish?"

The Indian pulled up the line, showing an empty fishhook.

"Ah, let's stop wasting time, we've got plenty of rowing to do." They continued upstream, and rowed out of sight.

The apparent sleeper opened his eyes. "I thought they'd never leave," Maurício said.

Henrique smiled. "Well, you were a cool one."

"Cool? I'd have shit in my pants . . . if you had let me wear my pants, that is."

Henrique and Maurício had hidden their European clothes, and Henrique had painted himself with black genipapo. The vegetable dye not only made him look like a native, at least from a distance, but also protected him from insects. Both wore loincloths, which observers would assume was a concession to European morality, but which would in fact conceal that they didn't follow the native custom of having their pubic hair plucked.

Now that the pursuit was in front of them, they could take it easy for a while. But not too easy. There were other soldiers, after all.

****

Corporal Bernaldo and his men, with six impressed Indian rowers, strained at the oars of their longboat, fighting against the current. They had set aside their helmets and cuirasses, so their heads were bare, and their torsos protected only by leather vests. These exposed the sleeves of their shirts, cotton dyed with red urucum.

As the western sky darkened, they beached their craft and wandered inland, looking for a suitable campsite. They couldn't see more than fifteen feet or so in front of them, so it wasn't an easy task.

They gradually became aware of a rumbling sound.

"Sounds like rapids," João suggested.

"Perhaps it's an elephant," said Antonio.

"There are no elephants in the Amazon."

"That's what you think."

The Indians became agitated. Bernaldo tried to figure out what they were talking about, but their excitement made them more difficult to understand, and Bernaldo was the sort ...