The Barrier
Night turned the Burmese jungle into a frightening enemy. Towering
trees, teak, acle, ironwood, shot straight upward, so close packed and
dense that they blotted out the starlit sky.
Vines, some of them as thick as a man’s arm, were forever stretching low
across the boys’ path, as if trying to hold them back from their bold
venture.
What bothered Biff most of all was the sickening smell of the jungle.
Rotted vegetation gave off a rank, stifling odor. Biff had been in the
jungles of Brazil, but they were nothing compared to the one he and
Chuba were forcing their way through.
During the two hours they had traveled in the waning daylight, their
progress had been swift. Chuba knew the trails well. Sometimes, moving
at a trot several steps ahead of Biff, the native boy would seem to be
swallowed by hedges of low, thick brushwood. But he would reappear,
parting the thick growth so that Biff could follow.
Moving swiftly, silently, without talking, to conserve their breath,
Biff was suddenly startled. From directly overhead came a chorus of
angry screams. Biff stopped and looked up.
“Only monkeys, Biff,” Chuba called back. “We wake them from their sleep,
and they no like. Come.”
Once again Chuba took up his steady pace. Thorny bushes grabbed at
Biff’s already tattered clothes. Ugly scratches marked his legs. Most
upsetting was the unexpected change from dry land into dank, oozing
swampland. Chuba never stopped, or gave any warning of what lay ahead.
Time and again the native boy plunged into a narrow stream. Once the
water, muddy, almost hot, came up to Biff’s waist. As he neared the
opposite bank, he halted a moment to look back.
“Biff! Biff! Hurry! Out of the water!”
Biff leaped for the bank just as a partly submerged log moved swiftly
through the water to the spot where he had been standing. As it reached
the bank, the “log’s” jaws opened, and Biff heard the chilling sound of
teeth gnashing together.
“Crocodile, Biff. Never stop in stream. Old croc might be hungry.”
“If he likes mud-flavored boy, I’m his dish,” Biff thought.
[Illustration: _Biff heard the chilling sound of teeth gnashing
together_]
After traveling for six hours with only brief rest breaks, the boys were
bone weary. Biff figured it must be midnight or a little after. They had
reached a small clearing, a circle about thirty feet across. Toward one
side a single ironwood tree rose high above the surrounding underbrush.
“We stop here for the night,” Chuba said. “You ever sleep in a tree?”
“Once. Didn’t find it very comfortable though. Do we have to?”
“Is much better. This tree has nice big limbs. Find good crotch, settle
in it, and sleep real good. Too many animals on the ground. Animals and
insects. Big ants, geckos, even wild pigs. You know gecko? Is big, slimy
lizard. Wild pigs don’t care who they eat. And ants sting real bad. Much
better in tree.”
Chuba stood at the base of the tree. “You give me push up to first limb.
Then I can give you my hand to pull you up. Come on.”
Biff didn’t reply, or move. His eyes were intent on a vine that hung
down from one of the higher limbs. It seemed to sway slightly. But there
was no breeze.
“Back, Chuba! Back!” Biff shouted.
Chuba leaped backward. Biff, fascinated, watched the “vine” stretch
downward, then slither off the branch and plunge downward.
“Python!” Chuba cried out.
“Yes. Python. I’ve seen them before. Not pythons like that one, but
boas. Boa constrictors of South America. They’re of the same family.”
The boys now stood in the center of the circle. The python, nearly
twenty feet long, seemed to stare at Biff and Chuba. Then it slowly
slithered into the underbrush.
Biff looked at Chuba. The native boy lowered his head. “Is Chuba’s
mistake. Always, my father tell me to be sure and check sleeping tree
for python. Chuba forget this time. If Biff not so alert, maybe python
now be around Chuba’s neck instead of deep in forest.”
“Any chance of its coming back? If it went up that tree once, why
shouldn’t it come up again? And with us up there!”
“Oh, no. Once snake scared away, it not come back. This Chuba knows.
Python climb up tree to attack enemies by dropping down. Never climb up
to find enemies.”
“Well, I just hope you’re right. Come on, let’s hop into our upper
berths.”
“Upper berths?” Chuba asked.
Biff explained, and the two boys climbed up the tree to their sleeping
quarters. Biff watched Chuba as he nestled down on a stout limb forming
a crotch with the trunk of the tree. Chuba stretched out backward, his
legs on either side of the tree trunk. Biff did the same. At first, the
position was most uncomfortable. Biff felt he had to keep his knees
tightly pressed against the tree trunk to keep from falling. Gradually,
though, he squirmed into a position where his legs dangled down, each
touching the trunk with just enough pressure to keep him balanced.
Some bed, Biff thought. Then, his body aching from battling his way
through the jungle, Biff slept.
Early in the morning, with the sun fighting to send its rays through the
dense jungle, Biff was awakened by a call from just above him. Chuba was
about five limbs higher up.
“Good sleep, Biff?” Chuba called down.
Before answering, Biff tested his cramped arms and legs. He was stiff
all over. Sleeping in a tree might be safe, but it certainly was no
featherbed. He knew though, that after half an hour in the hot, steamy
jungle, he would sweat all the stiffness out of his body.
“Guess so. I slept, anyway,” he called up to Chuba.
“Then we go down, and be on our way. We should reach border in two more
hours.”
The sun had brightened the circular opening below, about the only spot
where the sun’s rays could get through. Biff heard Chuba scrambling down
from above him. Then he looked down and gasped. There in the center of
the circle, stretched out asleep, was the most magnificent animal he had
ever seen.
“Hold it up there, Chuba,” Biff said softly. The scrambling stopped.
“Can you see down through the leaves?”
Chuba’s answering gasp told him that he could.
The animal below, enjoying a morning snooze, was a tiger.
Both boys held their breath, afraid that even the slightest sound might
awaken the sleeping beast. Moments passed. Then, in a whisper, Biff
asked, “What do we do now?”
Chuba’s answering whisper came down through the leaves. “We wait, Biff.
All we can do. If we try to scare him away, he get mad, wait for us to
fall out of tree and eat us.”
Chuba’s knowledge, Biff realized, was mixed up with superstition and
tales handed down from one generation to another. Tigers, Biff knew,
were man-eaters only in certain circumstances. A wounded tiger would
attack a man. So would one so old that it could no longer get its food
easily. Then, man, less quick, less nimble than the animals tigers
usually fed on, could well become the evening meal of a tiger.
Biff looked down at the sleeping animal. Its sleek, glistening fur told
him that this was a young tiger. Its white furry underbelly was puffed
out. That tiger had had a good meal, Biff knew. Probably caught his
breakfast just before daylight, and now he was having a nice nap in the
sun.
“Is he still sleeping?” Chuba whispered.
“Like a baby after its morning bottle,” Biff whispered back. Biff didn’t
think the tiger would sleep too long. Not as the morning sun rose
higher, and its fiery rays burned down on the opening. Once they hit Mr.
Tiger, the animal would move off to a shady spot and complete his rest.
As Biff watched the animal, the jungle suddenly came alive with the
screeching, cawing, and screaming of hundreds of birds and animals.
The tiger sat up quickly. It rose to its feet, its long tail switching
back and forth. Then it opened its mouth in a gaping yawn, showing
glistening white teeth and fangs. It turned its head from side to side,
looking to spot any danger.
“That noise from the monkeys,” Chuba called down. “Or maybe wildcats.
They chasing the parrots. All very much mad at each other.”
“Good for them,” Biff called back. “They woke up our friend down there.
I think old tiger’s going to move along.”
Biff watched the tiger. He saw it stretch, arching its back very much
like any tomcat. It slowly trotted out of the clearing into the dense
undergrowth.
“Tiger’s gone, Chuba. We’ll wait awhile, then let’s take off from here
fast.”
Biff had no way of counting the passing minutes. He had left his watch
back at Unhao. It would be a fatal error, he knew, if a Chinese beggar
boy were spotted wearing a wrist watch. He forced himself to wait. He
wanted to be sure that the tiger was long gone to another sleeping spot.
The minutes went by as the sounds of the jungle grew louder and louder.
Crows added their angry caws to the symphony of sounds coming from
herons, silver pheasants, and other birds.
“I think it’s safe now, Chuba. What do you think?”
Biff’s answer was the sound of Chuba scrambling down from his perch.
“Okay, Biff, we go.”
The boys climbed down, dropping the final ten feet to the ground. Chuba
opened his bundle and took from it two handfuls of cooked rice. They ate
as they took up their trek once again, scooping up a handful of water
from the first clear stream they came to.
After traveling an hour, by which time the sweat was pouring off Biff’s
body, soaking his ragged clothes, Chuba stopped.
“We’re not far from border now, Biff. Maybe another hour, maybe less,
until we get there.”
“And where we cross there won’t be any border guards?” Biff asked.
“Chuba doesn’t think so. Main road where guard always patrols is south
of here, almost a day’s walk. Thus path we on leads to small, narrow
river. River is boundary between Burma and China. Where we cross is a
small clearing. River not deep there. Only up to knees. Easy to get to
other side.”
The other side was China. The thought sent a thrilling chill through
Biff’s body.
“We move with much quiet now,” Chuba said. “Stay close together. Might
be others at clearing. Not guards, but maybe Chinese bandits. They use
this path too, when they fleeing Chinese soldiers.”
Biff and Chuba moved quickly but cautiously along the trail. Every few
yards, Chuba would stop, straining to catch any unusual sound that might
warn of danger ahead. At every hidden turn in the path, Chuba would
crawl forward, then signal to Biff that all was clear, to come ahead.
“We’re almost there now,” Chuba whispered. “Around next bend in path, we
come to clearing and the river. Go slow now. Most careful.”
The boys seemed to move ahead by inches. They neared the final bend. On
reaching it, Chuba slipped off the path, pressing his body behind a
large palm tree. Biff came up behind, looking over Chuba’s shoulder.
They craned their necks around the tree trunk until the edge of the
clearing came in sight.
“Looks like it’s all clear,” Biff said.
Chuba nodded his head. They left the protection of the tree. Darting
from one low bush to another, they came to the edge of the opening. All
was clear in the opening on their side of the river. Then, raising their
heads, they looked across the thirty feet of water separating them from
China.
Both drew back quickly. Two men, wearing peaked, long-billed caps sat in
the middle of the clearing on the opposite bank. Red stars on the front
of their caps told the boys who they were. Not bandits, not others
seeking a safe passage from one country to the other. These two men were
members of the border patrol. The two ugly, snub-nosed sub-machine guns
were further proof, if further proof was necessary.
Biff shot a quick look at Chuba. For the first time Biff saw fear—stark
terror—written on the native boy’s face.