In the Gardens of the Enchanter

By Frank Sherry

When Cyril Hadrian still considered truth knowable and virtue measurable, he had charge of a great fortress of learning and scholarship called the Lord Institute. Those within the fortresss thick walls had gathered together to battle common enemiesignorance, illness, and poverty. Hadrian, a man committed to rationality and to the notion that science in the service of humanity could accomplish at least a limited happiness on earth, did not then concern himself with philosophical questions or with those seemingly unanswerable questions regarding God, time, and purpose until his wife, Melanie, took her life.

After Melanies suicide, Hadrian found his old life of power repugnant, and it gave him a glimpse of the underside of nature. For the first time in his life, Hadrian allowed himself to admit the possible existence of forces, relationships, and complexities that he had never before even considered, like the utter, stark certitude of death. Forced to resign as director of the Lord Institute, betrayed by trusted and esteemed colleagues, and abandoned by the woman he thought loved him, Hadrian set out with his infant daughter, Mica Stella, on a quest to find and experience what he calls sigmathe ultimate sense of connectedness between God, himself, and the universe.

Hadrian hopes that even a pale facsimile of the symmetry glimpsed by saints and magi would in that instant of insight free him from his dread of death and that he would achieve the serenity that some men seemed to possess by nature. But the ultimate moment that Hadrian dubs the sigma experience from the mathematical sign meaning a sum or a total, this elemental flash eludes him. He wanders for years in search of sigma, ending up among a tribe of Indians called the Gigantes, where he transforms himself into their enchanter. One day Hadrians old enemies from the Lord Institute find themselves in the gardens of the enchanter. Hadrian, seeking revenge, puts them on trial for judgment and sentencing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491794500

Frank Sherry

Frank Sherry is a former journalist whose non-fiction work includes Pacific Passions: The European Struggle for Power in the Great Ocean in the Age of Exploration. He lives in Missouri.

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Copyright © 2016 Frank Sherry.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-9449-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9450-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016906246

iUniverse rev. date: 07/07/2016

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The Devil’s Captain

Eternity Falls

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The Pucka-man’s Odyssey

Mysteriad

Lust, Loathing, Lunacy

Arkadia

For Lael and Sarah—the next generation of hope.

Contents

Part One: The River

The Ramona

Part Two: A Meeting with Magic

In the Gardens

Part Three: The Trial

Where Lies Innocence?

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Part One

The River

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The Ramona

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If you listen, God will speak.

So, the ancient Indian helmsman, Old Puleo, informed Francis Stagg when the Ramona first embarked on her journey up the Rio Negro.

During many velvet nights Francis sprawled with Puleo on the humid deck of the steamer while the old man recited the secrets of the river. Old Puleo spoke to Francis in the coarse English that he picked up over many years ferrying tourists and others to their various esoteric destinations along the river.

"God speak in black water beneath Ramona, Puleo had whispered. Listen with heart. You hear voice. Only listen." So Puleo had admonished Francis. So far Francis had not heard God’s voice.

On this particular day Francis lay on deck with his eyes closed against the blazing daylight. He tried once again to detect the voice of God in the water but the laboring of the Ramona’s engines lulled his concentration as the heat of the day penetrated his skin. He imagined his internal organs melting like molten gold bubbling in a crucible. Nevertheless, he was intensely aware of the glorious proximity of Mrs. Sebastian at his side. He inhaled her scent. He pictured her long sleek body and he knew that there would be no voice of God today.

Francis opened his eyes to look at Mrs. Sebastian. She lay on her back apparently asleep. Her blue-black hair cushioned her head. Her skin glistened with oil. She wore only the bottom of her scarlet bikini. The sunlight sparkled on her glossy belly. The nipples of her breasts had risen as if in response to the sun’s touch. Her sex, taut like an exotic fruit under the red bathing suit, swelled between her thighs. Fronds of silky down had escaped their scarlet covering. A shudder of desire surged through Francis. He continued to stare at her.

She was a marvel, a glorious gift, a goddess. She excited him as no other woman ever had. Francis wondered how old she was. Forty? No. A goddess had no age. A goddess merely was and Isabel Sebastian was definitely a goddess. Francis recalled the night she had first come to his cabin. She had simply captured him when she arranged herself close beside him. He inhaled the perfume of her skin mixed with the jungle night-smells. He felt her smooth, cool, body next to him. His heart thudded like the Ramona’s engines. He trembled with terror—and hunger—for her. You beautiful young creature, she had whispered to him. You’re golden all over, do you know that? He had not been able to speak. Touch me, she had urged. Here. There. Her desire had thrilled him, had made him her prisoner from that moment on. I take pleasure in displaying myself, she had murmured, her black hair falling over his chest. I like coming to you and moving naked and sinuously in front of you until I feel your excitement come at me in waves, and then, dear Francis, slowly, slowly. Enthralled, Francis had finally managed to speak. Please, don’t call me beautiful boy. But, sweet one, she had said putting her lips on his belly, you are a beauty. Now as he lay with her on the deck in the blast of sunlight Francis leaned over and pressed his lips against Isabel Sebastian’s warm shoulder. She gave a little groan as his lips touched her but she remained immobile. Francis watched a rivulet of sweat roll from her breast.

Francis knew almost nothing about Mrs. Sebastian. Was she married? Perhaps divorced? Did she have children, maybe as old as he was? That thought seemed sacrilegious and so he pushed it from his mind. He also knew he must stop calling her Mrs. Sebastian. From now on he would call her by her name, Isabel. To Francis even her name sounded exotic, the name of a woman who pursued her own private goals and lived her life free as she chose and so it was that Isabel Sebastian had chosen to join the Stagg Expedition to experience another adventure and to make a film about Francis’ father. Why? Francis had asked. Because your father is the great, knighted, Oswald Stagg, she replied. And I want to find out why a great mathematician, a man of 80, would break his heart for a handful of Indians. My father loves justice, Francis had simply answered. Isabel Sebastian had merely smiled and had kissed Francis lightly as one kisses a clever child. Still eyeing the woman as she dozed at his side, Francis pulsated with desire. Tonight, he thought, tonight.

All of a sudden a dozen Indians emerged onto the deck from the forward hatch. Francis recognized them as part of the engine-room crew who had come up to the light to eat their ration of beans. The Indians gathered together at the bow speaking softly to one another. They scrupulously avoided looking at Isabel and Francis as if to notice the white passengers would be an offense. Or maybe, thinking of Isabel’s bare breasts, we offend them, Francis thought. He sighed and stared up into the endless sapphire sky.

Although it was already January and the rainy season was only two or three weeks away the vivid canopy above displayed not a shred of cloud. Only the dank air hinted at the rains gathering in the emptiness. Soon the annual torrent would burst over the entire basin. Another mystery, Francis thought, out of nothing will come the pouring rain. At least I have experienced this sun and this sky this day, Francis said to himself, even if I haven’t heard the Voice of God. Francis turned and looked out across the river. The bank opposite glided past like a vivid tapestry that would unroll forever. The river, sluggish and brown and not black at all despite its name, thrust against the boat. It carried in its deceptively forceful current floating islands of logs, lumps of gouged river bank, and occasional carcasses of tapir and forest deer. The Ramona, straining, steered around these obstacles. In the remote distance, far beyond the tapestry of forest, a jagged line of snow-capped mountains showed against the azure like a rent in the sky. In those far off mountains the Indians claimed that all the rivers of their world began their journey to the sea only to return once again beneath the earth to these same mountains. With that thought Francis closed his eyes to dream of the fervid night ahead. As he did so he felt the water beneath him breathing as he drifted along with the river’s rhythm. Suddenly, a babble of sharp cries shattered the serenity. Francis leaped awake. Isabel, too, started up, her eyes wide with astonishment as though jolted from voluptuous dreams. The Indian crewmen had crowded together at the rail. They were pointing to the jungle and howling excitedly as if they had just spied a dinosaur among the palms of the riverbank.

What’s the matter? Isabel demanded. What’s going on?

Francis got to his feet and joined the Indians. He shaded his eyes and peered where the brown fingers pointed to a break in the jungle tapestry. Slowly, he understood. Ahead, just off the port beam, a new tributary poured into the river. The waters of the unknown stream boiled like a tawny broth into the Rio Negro’s current. What did it mean and why did this new stream seem to agitate the crew so?

Puleo, now standing at Francis’ side, studied the tributary silently. He clicked his filed teeth, a sign of unhappiness with him. Giants’ River, muttered Puleo. The name seemed inappropriate to Francis. This unexpected watercourse appeared much smaller than the Negro.

Bad Giants’ River, repeated Puleo.

Why bad? Francis asked.

Bad, Puleo said shaking his head and clicking his teeth.

Other members of the expedition now began to arrive on deck in response to the hubbub. Francis’ father, tall, lean, white-haired, wearing a bush-jacket and carrying binoculars, stood next to Francis at the rail. Francis gripped his father’s elbow to steady him against the swaying of the Ramona as his father studied the Giants’ River through his glasses. The moon-faced priest, Father Antonio Goncalves, whom everyone called the Indian Priest because of his dedication to the riverine tribes, also arrived on deck. Obviously amazed to find this new stream in an area he thought he knew well, Goncalves gaped in astonishment. Then excitedly he began to question Puleo and the other Indians in their own dialect. Much shouting and gesturing ensued. The Indians vied with one another to explain the meaning of their discovery to the priest.

During the uproar Dr. Richard Bogarde came out on deck. Bogarde, a lean and fastidious man in his early forties, was the current Director of the Lord Institute, sponsor of the Stagg expedition. Bogarde stood listening with a sardonic smile on his thin lips as the Indians shouted their information to Father Goncalves. He then turned and gave Francis a look of utter contempt. Francis simply shrugged and looked away.

Colonel Getulio Lobos, the local government’s representative on the journey, now joined the group. The Colonel, who made it clear from the outset that he regarded the Stagg expedition as an unconscionable intrusion in his country’s affairs, sauntered to the rail where he planted himself with arms folded and mustache aquiver. The sun gleamed off the Colonel’s polished boots. Patches of sweat stained his tan uniform. The Colonel kept his eyes fixed on the leader of the expedition as though surveying a dangerous, erratic animal.

Even the paunchy little Captain, who hardly ever spoke and who seemed to leave the running of the Ramona to Puleo and his crew, showed himself on deck. The Captain stood indifferently at the rail as he puffed his cigar and, as always, said nothing.

Mrs. Trinian, too, emerged from her quarters. The timid little research assistant from the Institute usually kept to the cabin that she shared with Isabel Sebastian. Mrs. Trinian squinted in the sunlight as though half-asleep. Her reddish hair seemed to stand on end.

What’s going on? Mrs. Trinian whispered to Francis.

We’ve found a new stream, a tributary, Francis replied. Father Goncalves is asking the crew about it.

Bad place, muttered Puleo.

Isabel Sebastian now joined them all at the rail. She had slipped a towel over her shoulders to cover her breasts. She pointed toward the gap in the jungle where the new river poured forth. Look how clearly you can see the mountains up that river, she exclaimed. Francis saw that the mountains, barely visible till now, did seem much closer. A clear white line of snow-caps gleamed against the sky.

Father Goncalves had now finished his palaver with the Indians. He patted his bulging belly as though satisfied with the information he had ingested.

Well? asked Stagg, his gray eyes glittering in his hawk-face.

The Indians say that this river flows through a special land under the protection of God. They say those who venture on it risk terrible punishments.

Well, we’ve all heard that sort of thing before, Stagg replied. Do they know anything specific?

Probably not.

Well what about you, Goncalves? What have you heard of this river in your travels?

One hears many stories, of course, said Goncalves. I have indeed heard of this River of Giants. Frankly, I did not think it existed.

Bad, broke in Puleo in a loud voice, bad, bad, river. Then, as if he had delivered a final verdict Puleo marched to the wheelhouse where he took the helm from another crewman. He kept muttering and rolling his eyes behind the glass.

Father Goncalves gave a nervous laugh. Well, he resumed, Puleo has just about summed up what the Indians claim to know of this river, namely, that it is a very bad place. They say God lives on those peaks. This river, they also claim, leads directly to God’s home up there.

What a beautiful idea, Isabel Sebastian commented.

Francis saw his father glare at the woman with open distaste and he realized at once that his father knew about their liaison. Francis experienced a pang of shame wondering if he had somehow dishonored his father by loving the Sebastian woman.

What else did the Indians tell you, Stagg asked.

They say they call this the River of Giants" because God has created a special race of tall and fierce warriors called Gigantes to guard this land against intrusion. They claim that a white enchanter, a magician with the powers of the devil, leads this tribe of giants."

How appropriate, remarked Dr. Bogarde with a dry laugh, God has set the devil to guard his special territory.

Goncalves ignored Bogarde’s remark. I think we may discount the idea of a white witchdoctor, Goncalves continued. It is most likely an exaggeration of some old story. Perhaps some poor wanderer, or a missionary, came to this region fifty years ago and perished. The Indians have transformed him in their tales into a white devil. One always hears such tales. However, there may be some truth in the notion of an unknown fierce tribe in this area. This is, after all, unknown territory.

Stagg signaled to Puleo in the wheelhouse and said, Take her up there. He pointed to the new river.

Rolling his eyes Puleo began to nose her over.

Let’s see if we can find any giants or white witchdoctors, Stagg said with a bleak smile.

The Ramona chugged toward the mouth of the River of Giants. The Indians, astounded by what seemed to them a mad challenge to God, began to protest and pray among themselves.

Oswald, Dr. Bogarde suddenly said, do you seriously intend to try this river?

I certainly do, the old man said. We’ve come to this country to investigate the conditions of the Indians along these rivers. Let’s investigate then.

Yes, said Bogarde, "but we did not come here to explore terra incognita."

Nevertheless, we shall do so, said Stagg.

The rains will come very soon, objected Colonel Lobos.

We have at least two weeks before the rains, retorted Stagg. We go. And that I think will end the discussion.

Francis glowed with admiration for his father. When the old man put on his stern face lesser men gave way.

I do not have jurisdiction in this area, Colonel Lobos persisted. My country has no clear boundaries in this territory.

We shall worry about jurisdiction and boundaries later, Stagg said with a frown. We shall try to visit the Gigantes unless your government has decimated these helpless people, too.

The Colonel bowed, executed a military about-face, and marched below.

Dr. Bogarde, his lean face a mask, followed.

The others, quiet now, stood at the railing as the Ramona with much straining of her engines pulled herself out of the grip of the Rio Negro’s current and entered the swirling waters where the two rivers came together. For a moment it seemed that the Ramona would not break free. The engines labored. Puleo blasted the steam whistle as if to put courage in the old lady. Francis found himself physically pushing against the railing, trying to assist the Ramona across the whirlpool. Then, with a shudder of release, the steamer reached the calm water and plowed into the new stream. The mountains loomed ahead. Dark jungle closed in on both sides. The Indians crossed themselves repeatedly and prayed.

Francis noted his father’s grave face and that Father Goncalves had clasped his hands in meditation. Isabel gazed out toward the mountains while Mrs. Trinian frowned as if puzzled. I don’t like this river; she muttered. Still frowning, she fled below decks. Francis now stood at the railing with his father, Isabel, and Goncalves as the Ramona chugged up the River of Giants. They spoke very little as they peered into the jungle. They saw no signs of life let alone Gigantes. For hours the green banks slid past. Francis found them indistinguishable from the forests along the Rio Negro as the brown water flowed against the prow. At dusk Stagg and Father Goncalves went below to work on their log of the journey. Isabel and Francis now stood alone at the railing. Francis slipped his arm around Isabel’s waist feeling her body automatically curve against his.

My father knows about us, Francis said.

Of course, Isabel said not looking at him. And he hates it.

Why?

You’re his golden son, that’s why, and I’m Circe turning you into a pig. Didn’t you know?

Don’t make jokes like that.

Great men, Isabel said with a tinge of acid, don’t approve of flesh and blood, not even their own.

My father’s not like that.

Isabel smiled. No. Your father is a great man. He’s going to save the Indians. She kissed Francis gently on the lips.

Tonight? Francis asked despising the imploring note in his voice. Isabel nodded. I’ll wait on deck, Francis said as he watched Isabel walk to the hatchway and descend. He then went to the wheelhouse where Puleo was guiding the Ramona into the gathering darkness.

What of these Gigantes, really, Puleo? Francis inquired, knowing the gnarled helmsman like most of the Indian crew regarded him a friend and would speak freely to him.

Maybe still here, said Puleo nodding toward the dim banks, maybe go and leave ghost. Your father, he no come here.

Have you ever seen these Gigantes yourself? asked Francis.

No see ‘em, said Puleo, but know. They do great magic. Call up spirit of jaguar and caiman to take soul of enemy. Puleo then crossed himself and said, People say Enchanter of Gigantes have big power. He make river stop in flowing. Francis said nothing. He knew it would only hurt Puleo’s feelings if he expressed doubts. Tonight we no anchor, Puleo whispered as if imparting a conspirator’s secret. Francis’ surprise must have shown on his face because while they had been on the Rio Negro they had pulled in at nightfall to avoid the flotsam in the current.

Your father say keep moving, Puleo explained. See about River of Giants your father say. So we go.

But that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Francis asked.

Puleo grunted holding up his horny hands and said, These see river better than eyes.

Francis watched as Puleo guided the vessel into the night with a just light touch of the wheel now and again and thought that his father must want desperately to explore this little river if he was willing to risk sailing the Ramona at night.

Better to move than stop on water, muttered Puleo. Better to go back.

As the dusk thickened Francis saw that someone else had come back out on the deck below the wheelhouse. Isabel? No. Father Goncalves.

Enchanter of Gigantes he catch souls, Puleo announced to Francis.

How does he do that? Francis asked as he watched Father Goncalves stare into the evening as he lit a cigar. The Priest’s face glowed in the flare of the match.

Some he take with music of flute, Puleo continued. Some he take with spell. Some he take by sending servants to steal soul as body sleep. People say Enchanter make forest empty. He make it his. Do you know what the people call forest?

No, said Francis. Tell me."

Enchanter’s Garden, said Puleo as he reached out and touched Francis tenderly on the shoulder.

With this gesture, Francis saw the barely-controlled terror in the old man’s eyes.

You father take us from here, Puleo said. You ask him.

He won’t listen to me, Puleo. There must be some important reason he wants to see this river.

Tell him of Enchanter. He listen to son.

Francis realized with a swelling of affection how much he liked these trusting, gentle Indians. It was no wonder Father Goncalves loved them, no wonder the good priest worked so bravely to save them from the government and the settlers—and no wonder his own father had become so immersed in the struggle. I will ask my father tomorrow to take us back to the Rio Negro, Francis promised. Puleo nodded. I thank you, he said.

Francis went out of the wheelhouse. Darkness was enveloping the river, the jungle, the boat itself. He joined Father Goncalves at the rail. The priest’s cigar glowed.

How uncommonly still everything is, Goncalves murmured. No birds, no calling jackals.

No Gigantes, added Francis. The fat priest smiled and puffed his cigar.

The Ramona had slowed. In the darkness she seemed to tiptoe up the river under the subtle hand of Puleo. The river oozed by like oil. Only the thumping of the engines disturbed the evening.

Goncalves took the cigar from his mouth. How quiet this night, the priest said. One might almost believe a magician has cast a spell over all the creatures.

The Enchanter of the Gigantes? asked Francis.

Perhaps he may exist after all, said Goncalves. "Perhaps he is watching us now, a wraith among the branches preparing to reach for us right out of these forests which belong to him. In any event, the terror of our Indian brothers is real enough. They, at least, know that the rivers abound with mysteries. One must respect the tales even if one does not believe. Above all, one must never decide that everything is known, eh? The children of these rivers are gentle and sometimes foolish but they know things we so-called civilizados have long forgotten."

Francis had learned early in the journey that Father Goncalves was far from the simple, sometimes clownish, figure he often pretended to be. Colonel Lobos and Dr. Bogarde might deride him as that mad priest but Francis saw Father Goncalves as a wise and cheerful companion, far more penetrating than his detractors suspected. Above all, Francis admired Goncalves’ ability to extract the good from every event. Once, on an earlier leg of the journey when the mosquitoes had become almost unbearable Goncalves had smiled at Francis and simply said, Ah, this will cut down my time in Purgatory. Francis also found engaging the candor with which Goncalves reported even the most appalling experiences. I saw a settler and his sons hang an Indian woman from a tree by her ankles, Goncalves once told him. The poor creature had stolen melons. She hung from the tree for two days. Then the settlers got drunk and fell asleep and I freed the woman. The poor farmers are cruel to the poorer Indians. And the government knows nothing, wants to know nothing. Goncalves had then flashed a smile and patted his belly. We must separate the evil from the evil-doers, eh? he said. We must cleanse ourselves. Goncalves tossed his cigar into the river. He turned to Francis with a smile. I must go to your father. You stay here and enjoy the night. You will watch for the faces of the Gigantes in the bush, eh?

Goodnight, Father, said Francis as he watched the priest waddle to the companionway and descend.

Francis now sat against the railing and stared across the river toward the silent jungle. The jungle appeared to drift by like a tangle of black lace against a purple curtain. Maybe on this river I’ll hear the voice of God, Francis thought.

Through the deck Francis felt the vibrations of the Ramona’s engines as she toiled against the current. The steamer—seventy tons of groaning decks, peeling green paint, and stinking holds—seemed to exert herself like an overloaded burro. For the past six weeks the Ramona under charter to the Lord Institute had chugged the brown waters of the river country while Stagg, the tall, the gray, the good, as Goncalves called him, had investigated charges that the road builders and settlers along the rivers were systematically exterminating the Indians with the unofficial acquiescence of the government.

Goncalves had told Francis with admiration how Francis’ father forced the Lord Institute to sponsor the expedition by threatening that if they did not, he would resign from the Board of Trustees—an unthinkable event because Francis’ father had founded the Institute and had served as its first Director. So great was Francis’ father’s prestige in certain quarters that the local government had finally granted its reluctant permission for the voyage. Colonel Lobos, himself a high-ranking official in the government’s Interior Development Program, was ordered to accompany the group supposedly as a liaison officer but really to do everything he could to frustrate the expedition. Dr. Richard Bogarde, the current Director of the Lord Institute, had also decided to make the trip not because he cared for the Indians but for reasons of his own.

This Bogarde, Father Goncalves had muttered to Francis one day, he has no heart. In the end he will try to discredit your father’s work. You will see. He will take the government’s side against the Indians. He will have fine sounding arguments. He will give good reasons for why the government must destroy the poor people of the forests. Men like Bogarde think, you see, they don’t feel. He is your father’s enemy.

Sometimes, when Bogarde looked at him with peculiar venom, Francis suspected that Bogarde hated him and not his father. It puzzled him throughout the voyage this gratuitous animosity of Bogarde’s and Francis often pondered what he had ever done to warrant such revulsion.

However, Francis had not had much time to dwell on Dr. Bogarde’s strange behavior even though he had no specific post aboard the Ramona. Francis’ father had simply taken him along because he had graduated the year before from Harvard and had not yet committed himself to any specific career. Francis’ father thought the expedition might prove instructive so Francis made himself generally useful. He helped the crew load stores. He washed down the decks. He made it part of his duty to see to the laundry and the kitchen sanitation. He also became a friend to the crew and over time learned some basics of their language.

And then there was Isabel.

Even that joy, however, had not obscured for Francis the horrors that the Ramona uncovered along the riverbanks and at the numerous Indian Parks where relocated tribes huddled half-starved and naked in their squalid huts. Bewildered, fear-ridden, these forest folk had nothing to do but hang around the shacks of their camps and beg the white man’s alcohol. Nearby the white newcomers called Brancos were clearing the forests, building roads, and ploughing the naked earth. The Indians seemed to watch the destruction of their world in a stupor. Their women, small creatures with solemn faces, often became prostitutes giving their bodies to the settlers for a few cents.

Despite their alcoholic lethargy and their perpetual grins the Indians appeared hurt beyond expression, their souls wounded by the changes that had come over them with the arrival of the Brancos. However, Colonel Lobos had insisted that neither he nor his countrymen hated the Indians, instead he had argued that the Indians lacked human qualities.

They eat snake meat, Colonel Lobos told Francis. They stink. Do you deny they stink? They will stab you in the back. You will see. Your father will see. Someday they will stab him. The Colonel had also boasted incessantly about the destiny of his country. One day this land will be great, he had fumed at Francis. Surely you Americans know the need of a nation to move westward. Do not you Americans still celebrate the winning of your West? Who are you to preach of love and humanity? The Colonel had then stomped away in his shiny boots. Francis, however, had learned the most about the Indians and their country from Old Puleo when they had listened together in the nights for the Voice of God. Puleo told Francis that the Indian crew of the Ramona believed in Jesus and the government yet they refused to disembark when the Ramona pulled into any of the riverbank settlements because they feared humiliation.

During the long, dark nights on deck, the Indians talked among themselves of their homes now gone and of their people all dead or gone into the back country. Francis, listening to them, felt their inexpressible pain. Francis also sensed the mounting rage of his father as the Ramona neared the end of her journey. He witnessed the growing apprehension of Colonel Lobos and Dr. Bogarde as they anticipated exposure of the Indian horror to the world in the report that Francis’ father had already begun to compose. Almost nightly for the past week Francis had heard both Bogarde and Colonel Lobos plead for a moderate account.

I only ask that you give the government time to correct conditions, Colonel Lobos had argued.

You have had time, his father had shouted. It’s time the world knew of the viciousness here.

Bogarde had argued for reason.

Oswald, he had said evenly, if you really want to help these people, you can accomplish more by helping the Government than by raising a public protest.

It’s time for action, Francis’ father had replied.

Can’t you understand, Oswald, Bogarde had said, the Institute has deep commitments in this country. Would you jeopardize all our work here for the sake of a gesture?

I’ll do as my heart tells me, Stagg had shouted.

And what will you gain in the end? Bogarde had asked softly. Nothing. These poor Indians will perish anyway and the Institute with them.

So be it, Francis had heard his father murmur.

Francis agreed entirely with his father’s position. To him it seemed a clear moral issue. The Brancos, brutal, evil, and disgusting, had stolen the land of the Indians. They had corrupted the men with drink. They had debauched the women. They had spread disease. They had brought violence and fear to the jungles along with their roadbuilding equipment, their cattle, and their farm implements. Any man, Francis had told himself, must try to serve the poor and save the weak given the chance. Affection for his indomitable old father welled up in him.

Now, as he sat alone on deck in this quiet night on the mysterious River of the Giants, Francis felt an eagerness to be done with the journey, to get home, to get his father’s message to the outside world. He saw himself at his father’s side doing great acts of service. Yes, the real work is at home now he thought. And, of course, there would be Isabel at his side—openly. They would have no need then to meet clandestinely. Yes, he thought, it’s time to go home—now. Tomorrow, as he promised Puleo, he would ask his father to turn back. Surely they had compiled a sufficiently strong case against Colonel Lobos’ government. Surely this excursion up this new stream could add nothing new to their knowledge of conditions in this agonized country.

Francis yawned. Puleo, rigid at his post at the wheel, looked like an old ghost as the pale, night light of the wheelhouse reflected on his face. I’ll save you from the Enchanter, old man, Francis vowed.

The engines droned on. Francis felt himself begin to nod. All of a sudden the staccato voice of a jaguar resounded across the river. Francis jerked awake. Again the savage call reverberated. Francis tensed staring into the darkness. He saw Puleo cross himself. Other members of the crew began to creep up on deck. They whispered together and pointed to the black forest. Did they think the cat was hunting their souls? Again the jaguar’s chuff chuff sounded from the darkness. Francis felt the hairs on his scalp rise. The crewmen began to whimper.

Francis stared into the darkness scarcely breathing. He sensed some new menace out there across the narrow river. The jaguar did not call again. The silence seemed to close in once more. This silence, this unnatural quiet, seemed odd and threatening. Francis strained hoping to catch the cries of night birds. He heard nothing. I’m spooking myself he thought. He told himself not to let his mind deceive him. There was, no doubt, a logical explanation for the unusual silence of this forest. He was no Indian to fear magic spells and stolen souls so Francis stretched full-length upon the deck where he would sleep for a while until Isabel joined him.

The Indian crewmen fled to the stern where they huddled together in silence.

Francis heard the slow pumping of his heart in his ears. Soon the sound mixed with the beat of the engines. He sighed. Home, he thought. It’s time. The moist air enfolded him and Francis fell asleep where he lay.

Francis woke at sunrise. A milky mist hung over the forest. Only the tops of the tallest trees showed above the whiteness. Fog lay on the water as well so that the Ramona seemed to float among clouds on a dream river in a timeless place. Francis sat up. An inexplicable sense of well-being pervaded him. He found it thrilling this feeling of floating bodiless in a void. He drank from the water barrel. He felt no hunger. Suddenly Puleo was standing at his side. He took Francis’ hand. I fear Enchanter, he whispered.

Francis squeezed the old man’s paw. I haven’t forgotten, Francis said. I’ll ask my father to turn about when the time is right.

Later, sitting alone at the bow, Francis watched as the sun slowly burned the mist away and as the morning wore on he saw that they had come to a country far different from that of the Rio Negro. Far up the river the snow-capped mountains now became clearly visible. The banks of the tributary, this River of Giants, became much steeper. Hills rose on either side of them so that the jungle seemed to loom above them, seemed, in fact, to hover over them. Giants might truly have lived in such a land Francis reflected but on this day the jungle seemed empty, dark, and still—as silent as death.

Nevertheless, Francis’ feeling of well-being persisted. He let the sun beat upon him as he studied the distant mountains against the sky and as the sun filled the world with light. Everything seemed to fit together perfectly at this very moment as it might never fit so perfectly ever again. He experienced a pure, reasonless, happiness. Maybe, he thought, all the rivers of creation did come from up there as the Indians believed.

After a while, Isabel, lustrous, gleaming as usual in her scarlet bikini, joined him. As always, Francis thrilled at her beauty. Isabel took his hand and pulled him down to the deck. The hot boards seemed to radiate-heat through his body.

Why are you smiling so, she asked.

I’m happy, he said.

‘Why?"

I just am that’s all.

I’m sorry I didn’t come to you last night, she said. I had to work. Did you miss me?

Yes, of course I did. I spent the night here on deck. We heard a jaguar. At least I think it was a jaguar.

But no Gigantes?

Not yet but the crew is very nervous. I promised them I’d ask my father to turn back.

Isabel said nothing. She lay on her back with her eyes closed. Francis longed to stroke the curve of her belly but he didn’t dare with Puleo watching.

Of course, he thought, everyone must know about him and Isabel if even his father knew. How could he have imagined otherwise? Didn’t everyone aboard know that crafty Colonel Lobos secretly lusted after Mrs. Trinian the research assistant from the Institute who spent most of the voyage uncomfortably tucked in her cabin? Didn’t everyone chuckle with superior amusement at the Colonel’s rapture during those rare moments when skinny, frizzy-haired, Mrs. Trinian appeared on deck? Of course they knew he lusted for Isabel and, of course, they must laugh at him behind his back as they laughed at the Colonel. However, on this day of light and beauty, Francis didn’t care. He turned on his stomach and pressed his warm loins against the deck. Heat and incandescence seemed to enclose him. He drifted agreeably in his nameless state of bliss.

Suddenly, an unexpected chill breeze passed across the sun-warmed deck. Francis shivered. A moment later a second cool breath passed. Francis sat up puzzled. Another breeze sprang up. Then almost immediately a sturdy wind began to blow. The foliage on the hills of the far bank began to show its undersides. The jungle waved like a shallow sea as the wind passed. Isabel sat up and hugged herself. Is it chilly, or am I dreaming?

The wind had shifted, gusting now from the east, from the territory they had left behind. The temperature had definitely fallen. Francis immediately sensed that some unusual occurrence was about to overtake them. He made his way to the wheelhouse where he found Puleo with a worried frown on his face. Puleo rolled his eyes in consternation.

What’s happening? Francis asked.

Wind blow wrong way, the helmsman answered. Wind blow from far away. No good. Wind should be from mountain.

Puleo pointed up the river to the distant whitecaps where towers of clouds began to build up overhead.

The wind heightened as the minutes passed. The trees bent. Chopping wavelets formed on the river as the wind worked against the current. The Ramona, lashed by the wind, leaped ahead. Some of the other members of the expedition began to come up on deck as the temperature continued to drop. The crewmembers began to chatter among themselves in obvious fear. Father Goncalves tried to calm them. Be at peace, my children.

Why are they all so scared? Isabel shouted above the wind.

They say the Enchanter of the Gigantes has conjured a storm to trap us in the river, Goncalves shouted back.

Stagg appeared on deck. The wind blew his hair like cotton threads. The rains aren’t due for another two weeks, he bawled. This wind is a phenomenon.

The sky darkened more every second. The wind rose higher even as the old man studied the chop on the river. The Ramona began to buck on the roughening water. Francis shivered again as he and the others watched his father deliberating their course. Suddenly the old man seemed to make up his mind. He strode to the wheelhouse where Puleo was trembling at the wheel. Turn her around, Stagg cried. Do it. Quickly! Come about and head downstream. Puleo pressed the wheel with all his strength.

Sluggishly, careening against the wind, the Ramona turned. She heeled precipitously as the wind blasted her amidships. She strained against a current that seemed to have reversed itself under the push of the wind. Slowly, painfully, she came about. Finally she headed into the cold breath of the gale.

We must try to get back to the main channel, Stagg shouted above the wind. The rains may have come early but I don’t think that’s the explanation. I think we have run into a prodigious storm. We can’t remain on this river. We must get out of this country as soon as we can.

The wind rose to an even higher pitch. The Ramona plunged. The towering clouds opened. Rain, in amounts that Francis had never imagined, began to drench the world. Everyone scurried below.

The storm fascinated Francis. He watched it through the portholes of the salon and from his cabin. He went up to the wheelhouse to observe it more closely. The torrents bucketed down. The Ramona moaned for headway. Francis tried to imagine the effect of this devastating watery assault on the grasslands and countryside beyond the jungly hills. In his mind’s eye he pictured the terror of the wild animals as the small backwater streams flooded under the downpour. He imagined the swamps turning into lakes, growing deeper every hour.

If the rain defied imagination, the wind seemed beyond all comprehension. The gale keened horizontally like a scythe out of the east. It bowed the trees on the banks until they began to seem permanently bent into arches. It tore away all other sound. Speech became inaudible unless shouted directly into the ear. The wind churned the river into froth. It reversed the normal course of the waters so that the river appeared to flow backwards. Against this wind-driven unnatural current the Ramona struggled trying to reach the main channel. She had to thrash mightily just to keep the storm from blowing her into one of the numerous side-channels. The idea that human beings, even giants, could survive the storm’s onslaught seemed impossible to Francis. He thought that the Ramona must capsize at any moment. Despite the calamity Francis’ remarkable sense of joy persisted. He laughed at everything even when pompous Dr. Bogarde tried to radio for help only to find that the radio had failed. The turmoil also stirred Isabel.

I’ve never experienced anything quite so magnificent, she exclaimed as the storm thrashed them. That night Isabel crawled into Francis’ bunk naked and shivered with sexual ferment. I want you to fuck me, she said. Francis found himself thrilled by the coarseness of her use of that word. He crushed her to him feeling powerful, his blood raging inside like the elements outside.

Meanwhile, most of the crew huddled together and hugged each other in mute anxiety in their quarters below the cabin level. A few stayed at the engines but most refused even to acknowledge Puleo’s commands. The slovenly Captain had fled to his quarters with a bottle of whisky. In the crisis, Dr. Bogarde took command of the wheelhouse with the faithful Puleo at the helm.

After spending the night with Isabel, Francis made his way to the wheelhouse through the assault of rain and wind. The inexplicable happiness still coursed through him. Dr. Bogarde glanced at him with contempt as he entered the wheelhouse dripping wet. Beyond the wheelhouse glass the deck tossed like an animal in pain. Once more Puleo rolled his eyes.

Enchanter of Gigantes make storm, Puleo moaned. Is sending for sins.

Maybe we should sacrifice someone overboard like Jonah, Francis yelled.

Puleo shook his head at the plunging world outside.

Maybe God is speaking in the storm, shouted Francis.

Francis’ heart leaped at this idea. Of course, he told himself that was the stupendous event he was expecting. The storm carried the voice of God. He would hear it at last if he dared to face the gale and absorb it with his skin, mouth, eyes, and ears, that is, if he had the courage to endure the horrendous storm.

Shaking with excitement and exuberance Francis left the wheelhouse. The wind blasted him. The rain whipped against him like liquid bullets. He fought to maintain his balance as the Ramona tilted, heaved, and shuddered against the stress. He stripped himself of his rain gear and shorts. Then, naked, on hands and knees, he crawled forward along the railing. He hauled himself half-blind from one handhold to another until he reached the bow. Clinging to the railing with one hand he wrapped the boat’s hawser around his body with the other, lashing himself to the bow. Like a ship’s figurehead Francis faced into the breath of the storm.

The Ramona tossed. Francis rose and fell with her. Spray blew across his naked skin. The waters poured unending from the sky. From his perch Francis saw the trees towering above him. He saw their agony. He heard the howling of the tempest. He shivered not only with cold but also with happiness beyond explanation. He felt alive, truly alive. It is totally right for me to do this Francis thought as he surrendered himself to the raging storm. He craned his head back toward the wheelhouse. He saw the faces of his father, Isabel, and Dr. Bogarde at the glass. Does my father understand? Francis wondered. Does he understand this need for me to do this? Even if he did not Francis knew with a rush of tenderness that his father would suffer his fears in silence. He would never interfere with his son’s seemingly holy act. Isabel, however, seemed frozen with both fear and pride. He wondered if she sensed his extraordinary exaltation. Only Dr. Bogarde tried to stop Francis from the performance of his great deed. He came out on deck slipping and sliding and called to Francis. His neat black hair dripped with spray. He yelled ordering Francis to come in. Francis only waved and grinned thinking how little the man understood, how little grandeur there was in him. Bogarde tried to inch forward toward the bow but the Ramona suddenly lurched. He fell heavily against a stanchion. Painfully, he dragged himself back toward the wheelhouse. Francis remained alone on deck with the roaring wind and the wet. The ropes bit into his skin. He pressed his lean brown belly against the slimy wood. An exquisite excitement possessed him. An absolute conviction that he would not only escape destruction but that he would also absorb some new knowledge took hold of him. He soared with jubilation. In the fury of this prodigy, in the midst of this immense, implacable power, Francis listened for the voice of God.

As Bogarde inched his way back to safety he wished fervently that a malevolent wave would arise and sweep Francis Stagg into eternity. Once inside the wheelhouse he gazed in wrathful consternation through the glass at the naked youth who clung to the prow like a posturing Narcissus. The voice of God, indeed, thought Bogarde. He hoped that the Voice of God would blow the fool right into the river. He thought that with Francis gone Isabel might return to her senses and to his bed where she belonged.

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Bogarde rubbed his weary eyes. He had gone without sleep for almost two days now—forty-two hours precisely. He held to his self-assigned station in the wheelhouse in order to furnish a reassuring example to the others not because he believed he could do anything to alleviate the crisis. He knew that the company really had no alternative but to continue to drive the Ramona into the wind and back toward the main channel of the river. As de facto master of the Ramona, Bogarde had tried to keep everyone busy. He assigned