Two Graves

Mendonca, in a foul mood and nursing a hangover, guided the boat upriver. The naturalist, Fawcett, resumed his seat in the bow, no longer reading his book but keeping a lookout for butterflies. Once in a while he would shout for Mendonca to slow down when he spotted a butterfly fluttering along the river’s edge, and once he demanded that they actually chase a butterfly with the boat, with him leaning over the bow, swiping at the thing with his net until he caught it.

The last town on the river had been a sad, dirty, horrible little place called Colonia Marimbondo. While there, Mendonca had made careful inquiries about Nova Godoi: where it was, how to recognize the landing place along the river. He had gathered most of his information at the local cervejaria, the central beer hall in the town, where he had been forced to spend his hard-earned money buying endless rounds to encourage the uncommunicative villagers to talk. What he had finally managed to squeeze out of them had unsettled him greatly. Most of it was no doubt superstition and sheer ignorance, but it badly unnerved him nonetheless.

They had set off early, just at dawn, the sound of the engine echoing off the wall of araucaria trees, dripping after a night of rain. Mendonca could feel the wetness gathering in his hair and beard and creeping through his shirt.

God in heaven, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.

Around noon, they came around a broad bend in the river, and there, on the right-hand bank, stood a floating dock with a ramp leading up to a rickety wooden quay. Beyond the high riverbank lay a partially overgrown clearing in the forest, with several rusting Quonset huts and a ramshackle wooden warehouse. It was exactly as the villagers had described it.

“We have arrived,” said Mendonca, eyeing the quay for signs of life. To his great relief, it looked abandoned.

He slowed the engine and angled the boat in, easing up to the dock, hopping out and tying it off. He stood on the dock as the naturalist, awkward as usual, hauled his pack out and transferred it to the dock, then got out himself, standing unsteadily and peering about.

“We have arrived,” Mendonca repeated, mustering a smile. He held out his hand. “The rest of the money, please, o senhor?”

A pause. “Now, wait just a minute,” Fawcett said, his beard wagging in sudden irritation. “We agreed: two thousand up front, and—”

“And one thousand on arrival,” Mendonca finished for him. “Surely you remember?”

“Oh.” The naturalist screwed up his face. “Is that what we agreed?”

“Yes, it is.”

More grumbling. “You have to wait here until I come back. We agreed on a round trip, six days total.”

“No problem,” said Mendonca. “I wait. But you pay me now.”

“How do I know you won’t take off?”

Mendonca gathered himself up. “Because I am a man of honor.”

This seemed to satisfy Fawcett, and he delved into his pack, fished around, extracted the wad of cash, and peeled off two five-hundred-real notes. Mendonca snatched them and stuffed them in his pocket.

The naturalist picked up his pack. “So where’s the town?”

Mendonca pointed toward a four-wheel-drive track that crossed the clearing, passed by the huts, and disappeared into the forest. Beyond, the green canopy rose in hills, one after another, culminating in a volcanic caldera that disappeared into the low-lying clouds. “Up that road. About three miles. There’s only one way to go.”

“Three miles?” Fawcett frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I thought you already knew.” Mendonca shrugged.

Fawcett fixed him with a scowling eye. “You wait for me. I’ll be back in three days—seventy-two hours—by noon.”

“I will stay with the boat, sleep in the boat. I have all I need.” He grinned, lit a cigar.

“Very well.” The naturalist struggled to get the pack on, adjusted the straps, and then began doddering up the muddy track, his figure appearing and disappearing in the drifting mists. As soon as he had finally vanished into the forest, Mendonca hurried down to the boat, fired up the engine, and cast off, heading back down the river toward Alsdorf as fast as he could go.

58

PENDERGAST HEARD, AT THE EDGE OF AUDIBILITY, THE sound of the boat engine as it moved down the river, soon fading away. The trace of a smile crossed his lips as he continued on. The jeep road wound its way through the endlessly dripping forest, the strange spiky branches of the araucaria pines heavy with droplets. He trudged along, occasionally stopping to pursue a butterfly, as the road wound upward through the dense forest in a series of broad switchbacks, mounting higher and higher until it eventually reached into the low-hanging clouds.

Half an hour later, the track leveled out as it arrived at the top of a low ridge—the rim of an ancient volcanic crater. From there it descended into the mist, the visibility now only a few hundred yards.

Pendergast peered closely at the crater. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper: the picture Tristram had drawn of a mountain—the feature of Nova Godoi he’d been unable to describe in words. It perfectly matched the crater that now rose up before him.

He made his way down, and as the trail once again leveled out he came to two pillars of dressed lava rock on either side of the road, with a chain-link gate across and a rock wall extending on both sides out into the forest. Behind the gate stood a guardhouse. As he approached, two guards came tumbling out, rifles in hand. They cried out at him in German, pointing their rifles.

“I only speak English!” Pendergast cried, raising his hands. “I’m a naturalist! I’m here to look for butterflies!”

One of the soldiers, apparently the man in charge, stepped forward and switched into excellent English. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“My name is Percival Fawcett,” Pendergast said, delving into his pack and pulling out a UK passport. “Fellow of the Royal Society. I came here by boat up the river, I can tell you it was no easy trip!”

The guards seemed to relax somewhat, both putting up their rifles. “This is private property,” the commander said. “You can’t come in here.”

“I’ve come halfway around the world,” said Pendergast in a voice that combined a shrill pleading with a certain truculence, “to find the Queen Beatrice butterfly. And I will not be turned away.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “I have letters of introduction from the provincial governor and another from Santa Catarina.” He proffered the papers, which had been duly stamped, embossed, and notarized. “And I have a letter here from the Royal Society, urging cooperation with my important mission, and another from the Lepidoptery Department of the British Museum, endorsed by the Sociedade Entomologica do Brasil.” More papers came out. “As you can see, mine is a mission of the utmost scientific importance!” His voice climbed in volume.

The commander took the sheaf of papers and rifled through them, a frown disfiguring his keen, Nordic features. “We don’t allow visitors for any reason whatsoever,” he said. “As I told you, this is private property.”

“If you refuse me entry,” said Pendergast shrilly, “there will be a scandal. I will make sure of it. A scandal!”

This created a certain uneasiness in the guard’s expression. He moved back and conferred with his subordinate. Then the commander went into the guardhouse and could be seen making a call on a radio. He spoke for some time, and then returned to the gate. “Wait here,” he said.

A few minutes later a jeep came down the road, driven by a man in olive drab, with another man, in a uniform of solid gray, sitting in the backseat. The jeep stopped, and the man in the rear got out and stepped forward. Even though he wasn’t exactly in a military uniform, he carried himself like a soldier.