THE JUNGLE OPENS ITS ARMS
“Waiting for something to happen is the hardest thing in the world,” Tom
declared. He, and Nicky and Cliff sat in the shade of a small awning on
the forward deck.
“Especially waiting when nothing does happen,” Nicky put in.
“I don’t think anything will happen unless we make it happen,” he added.
“The Indians didn’t pay the least bit of attention to us all day
yesterday.”
“Well,” Cliff argued. “The day before, when Tom won the chief’s interest
with the cigar lighter, the big man told him that the Indians don’t want
to have anything to do with us.”
“I suppose he thinks he has done all that he needs to,” Tom said,
dejectedly. “They are just waiting for us to go away.”
“I hope Bill and Jack get some results,” Nicky said. The two he
mentioned had carried gifts to shore early in the morning of this, the
second day following the audience with the chief; they hoped to win him
over, to get his confidence. But while they tried they felt, from the
start, that it was a hopeless attempt.
“If only we had something to do!” Nicky argued.
“Don’t you suppose we could row to the mainland?” Cliff suggested.
“Let’s ask,” Nicky cried, jumping up.
“We could find out what all the women do after they paddle over,” Tom
said. “If we report their customs, Mr. Gray ought to be willing to let
us go.”
They asked, and pleaded when Mr. Gray hesitated. They promised to be
careful; they urged their case, agreeing to report customs and
everything they saw. The elderly scholar did not feel like accompanying
them himself, for he hated the humidity and the sun’s terrific heat; he
told them that if Andy would go along—Bob had taken the two white men in
the boat, and had brought it back—they might row a ways up the river and
they could see across the wide expanse of the inner lagoon.
“I can’t go,” Andy told them. “I’ve got to tinker with my motor—there’s
one spark plug that misses, and I want to clean the whole set and adjust
the timing of my motor.”
The trio showed disappointment.
“Take the spare rifle and get Bob to row you over,” suggested the
engineer; but they demurred among themselves. Bob, not because he was
colored, but because he had a gruff, rather surly disposition, was not a
pleasant companion on an exploring trip.
“I can’t see any harm in rowing up the river,” Andy said. “Don’t get out
of the boat and you’ll be all right.”
They promised with the utmost sincerity and meant fully to obey the
order. The pull across the hot lagoon taxed them, for the sun was hot
and even though they took turns rowing the boat was slow and they were
quite wearied when, early in the afternoon, they came to a place
opposite the spot where the women had beached their canoes.
“We can just draw up on the sand and eat our lunch,” Nicky suggested.
“It’s shady under those mangroves.”
Tom and Cliff conceded that no harm could come of that. As they watched
the women they saw that the washing for the various families was being
done. It was conducted in a way quite like that they had seen in
Jamaica, and among other tribes: the women, standing knee deep in the
river, beat and pounded the clothes in the water.
“That’s pretty hard on clothing,” Cliff said.
“The clothes they have aren’t in such good condition that they could
stand any sort of scrubbing, anyhow,” Tom agreed. “It certainly is a
primitive sight—but look! They’re running and hiding!”
As they approached the women, the latter dropped what they had, leaving
the things to drift in the slow current, and raced across the beach and
into the heavy jungle. The jungle came close to the water and was as
thick and seemingly impenetrable as any tropical growth could be; yet
the women disappeared into it.
“That’s a shame,” Cliff cried. “Their things will all be lost—row over
faster, Nicky. We’ll save the clothes.”
They spent a busy half hour recovering the pieces of cloth from the
water and piling them on shore. Though they called and tried to make the
hidden watchers understand that they meant them no harm, the boys got no
response. Rather disgusted with the Indians, they sat under a shady
clump of brush, surrounded by vividly colored birds and butterflies and
ate their lunch of sweet yams, a tin of meat and a thermos bottle of
warm cocoa. Not a very appetizing lunch to one accustomed to
refrigerators and well-stocked markets, but, to tropical appetites,
after a long row, a meal which was eaten with gusto.
“Did you ever see butterflies like these?” asked Nicky, pointing to a
bluish-silver beauty whose wings seemed iridescent in the sunlight.
“I know that father would love to have some of them,” Cliff said. “He
hasn’t any of these great silvery ones, or the deep, blue-winged kind,
in his collection.”
“Neither have I!” declared Nicky. “Let’s catch some!”
“Take the rifle along, if you go into the brush,” warned Tom. “We might
meet a jaguar or a tapir or some old thing—or snakes!—watch out for
snakes!”
Cliff put the rifle under his arm, and the trio, darting after the
bright-winged insects, raced up the beach, and into the heavy fringe of
brush.
They kept quite close together, at first, but when they had thrust a
little way into the dense growth they saw that they came out into a
fairy-land, and, forgetting all caution in the thrill of the beautiful
sight, they paused for a moment and then pressed forward.
They saw none of the Indian women; indeed, they had forgotten all about
them. The dense growth of brush, matted vines, tangled creepers, which
fringed the river, gave place to great, lofty open glades of forest
grandeur. Trees like great columns, reared their tall forms upward from
every point, making vast aisles of gloom between their huge trunks.
Overhead their leaves met and tangled, twined and held by giant
creepers, so that only a dim, softly diffused light came down to light
the magical scene.
There was, at first, a seeming silence, an awesomely deep silence; it
made the boys stop talking, or converse in a whisper, feeling some
inward tendency to be still. Gradually, however, the forest took up its
solemn conversation; the hum of insects became noticeable, the faint
crackle of twigs as some soft-footed denizen of the deep gloom made wary
way along some hidden trail; the soft plash of a fish in the hidden,
distant river; the twitter of several birds, and the soft, incessant
flutter of bright—gaudily colored wings. Most of the tropical birds are
vivid in color but have no song.
A flock of gaily plumed birds whirred by among the silences above their
heads. Cliff half-automatically lifted the rifle and then let its barrel
drop; they were too beautiful to be killed, to be dragged down, inert,
lifeless, by a cruel and senseless use of lead. Cliff was a very humane
youth and he destroyed animal life only for real needs at any time.
Came a glitter and glow before their eyes; a very battalion of gay
butterflies flitted here and there. Forgetting the silence, with a whoop
they were in pursuit. Cliff dropped the rifle.
Here and there, afar and then close, through the great boles of
century-old trees, the pursuit led them.
Sometimes in eyeshot of one another, oftener not, they caught the gay
little insects.
Finally, with whoop and call, the trio managed to locate one another and
to gather to compare their catches.
“I have twelve of the blue ones, two silver ones, six yellow ones, and
this burnished gold one.”
“Give me one of your silver ones for this red one.”
“If I had six of your blue ones I’d trade two of these golden sunshine
ones,” Nicky completed the trio of voices.
The trade was made and they rose to return to the river.
And then three faces turned to a common center in dismay.
Cliff looked at Tom and Nicky and they, in turn, regarded each the
other.
“Which way?” asked Nicky.
“You’ve got your compass, haven’t you?” asked Tom.
Nicky pulled out the little round case.
“Good gravy!” he exclaimed. “The needle is stuck. See—it doesn’t turn!”
“Well, that’s no good, then,” Cliff said, hiding his own misgivings. “We
mustn’t get frightened and lose all our good sense. Let’s sit down and
think how to go about finding our way out.”
“The sun won’t help—we can’t see where it is,” Nicky declared.
“But it’s getting dimmer,” Tom stated. “We won’t have too much time
before night—let’s see if we can’t find where I dropped the rifle. Each
one go in a different direction, and nick the trees with your knives so
you can get back.”
They started off, and, after awhile, a hail from Tom showed that he had
discovered the previous weapon. But then they all had to return to the
common center and from there, after meeting, had to go back to the spot
where the rifle lay.
“But are we any better off?” Nicky wondered. “Which way is ‘out’?”
“Let’s see if we can make the Indian women hear.”
“That won’t do. They ran before—they won’t come here.”
“I guess we’re lost,” said Tom, in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Isn’t there any woods’ sign in the tropics to show which is North, or
some direction?” demanded Nicky. “Doesn’t moss grow mostly on one side
of a tree?”
“In temperate climates I know some signs, but I don’t see any here,”
Cliff acknowledged, spying about him carefully.
“Well,” Nicky declared, “we can shout, in turn, every half minute, and
fire the rifle once in awhile.”
“We can’t waste shots,” objected Cliff. “We may need—” he broke off, not
wishing them to picture the dangers he began to foresee.
But their minds were quick; however, each hid his growing uneasiness
from his companions as well as he could.
“We’ve got a rifle with a full magazine,” Tom said stoutly. “That will
protect us and give us food until we get out—and we’ve got the lighter
of Bill’s to make a fire to cook it on. We’re not so badly off.”
“If we get excited and start planning and running around,” Cliff
suggested, “we will wear ourselves out and get nowhere. Let’s sit here
in this open glade and think. When anybody has an idea that is good
sense, we can try it.”
“I see what looks like a trail yonder,” Tom had used his eyes and he
pointed to the near end of the glade. “Let’s try it a ways—it ought to
lead toward the river.”
“Which way?” asked Nicky. “From that end of the glade or this end?”
“That’s so—it is at both sides,” conceded Tom. “Let’s try one way for an
hour and see what we see!”
At the end of that time by Nicky’s wrist watch they retraced their
way—and when darkness came on, they were still on the other trail, and
weary and excited; but no sight of the river rewarded their eager gaze,
no sound of a response came back to their loud hallos.
“That didn’t work,” said Cliff. “Maybe we’d better pick out trees and
get ourselves off the ground while its light enough to see——”
“But jaguars—cats can climb trees,” Nicky objected.
“We’re as safe on the ground,” Tom urged. “We can gather wood and make a
big bonfire and that will be better.”
In the rapidly waning light, gloomy at the best, they managed to gather
broken, half-rotted twigs, branches, small strips of bark and dead vines
and several logs, back in the glade.
They made a good pile of them, keeping together, Cliff with the rifle
always at his elbow.
“It’s watch-and-watch,” he said when they sat down to stare at the
leaping flare of their fire, keeping quite close to its cheering blaze,
“Nicky watches until nine, then Tom, then I will watch—two hours for
each, unless we all have to wake up.”
Thus, as the day’s quiet gave place to the growing bedlam of the
darkness, with hoots and wails, the strident sounds made by night
insects making an undertone to the occasional weird voice of a wild
beast, the three adventurous youths made the best of a bad situation and
sat, supperless, by the one bright spot of safety in that wild place.
The jungle had opened its arms and had folded them upon its prey.