(You are currently visiting Pete's Place)
(This Page was last revised: September 28, 2001)
Jacques Cartier awoke to the familiar chilling sense of terror. Icy fingers crawling up his spine made him shiver involuntarily as the last remnants of the nightmare slithered from his mind. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. Slowly he forced himself to unclench his fists and relax. He sat up.
Ignoring the rough canvas of the tent's sloping roof which brushed uncomfortably against his forehead, he pushed strands of damp brown hair from his eyes. In an attempt to dispel the lingering threads of fear from his mind he took a deep shuddering breath. The mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat filled his distended nostrils. With a hungry grin he licked his lips.
As he dressed he mused over his nightmare. He could never remember the details, but he was mildly surprised at the intensity of his fear in the morning. The fact that he experienced nightmares did not, in itself, disturb him. He had seen too much, done too much, and killed too many people to expect peaceful nights. Never before, though, had his nocturnal images been so life-like or grotesque.
Pulling his battered hat low over his forehead, he walked from the darkness of the tent's interior to the eerie half-light of dawn. Four men were grouped around a small fire, joking amongst themselves as they ate. One of them looked up as he approached.
"Sleep well, Senor? I hope these bugs have finally tired of French blood." He spoke in heavily accented English. He was only a short man, but strongly built. The swarthy colouring of his face and hands indicated years of hard work in the sun.
"Not yet, Manuel," replied Jacques. "I envy you that Spanish blood of yours." He nodded briefly to the other three men around the fire. Carlos nodded back. Pedro and Juan replied "Senor" in unison. Jacques turned back to Manuel, who was grinning at him.
"It is not the Spanish blood that the insects dislike, Senor, but rather the alcohol. In my veins flows five percent blood and ninety-five percent tequila."
The men around the fire laughed, and Jacques joined in. When the laughter had metamorphosed into silent grins, Jacques spoke again, changing the subject.
"What's on the menu today?"
"Anaconda steak," replied Manuel, handing the Frenchman a chipped enamel plate on which rested a thick slice of steaming meat.
"Sounds delicious." Jacques took the proffered plate and drew a large knife from its sheath high on his thigh. He carved a section off and picked it up, impaled on the point. No sooner had it been placed in his mouth than it was spat out again.
"It is still hot, Senor," Manuel warned belatedly. Jacques took a swig from a nearby canteen to soothe his seared tongue. Then he continued eating, more carefully this time. He watched the flickering flames of the dying fire as he ate, only partially aware that he had been left alone. The other men were breaking camp.
Manuel stood to one side watching Jacques as he threw the clean-picked vertebrae into the jungle and wiped his plate clean. It was the Frenchman's prerogative to rise late and eat while the other members of the group prepared to leave. He was the Senor, the man who paid the bills. The three Spaniards and Carlos, the Mexican, were merely hired porters. None-the-less, all four respected the tall gringo and would be quite happy to treat him as they did if they were partners.
Jacques had earned this respect the hard way. Just before they had left the Tabatinga River, a tributary of the mighty Amazon, Pedro had been attacked by a large and hungry alligator. When three bullets through the left eye had failed to convince the reptile that it was dead, the Frenchman had dashed into the murky waters and slit the monster's throat. Manuel and Carlos had pulled Pedro to safety as convulsive spasms shook the creature. Before Jacques had been able to scramble to safety, the reptile's flailing tail had collided with his leg. Now his whole thigh was discoloured by an ugly bruise, and both men walked with a limp.
Noticing they were ready to leave, Manuel walked over and stood beside Jacques. The Frenchman was staring morosely into the smouldering embers, deep in contemplation. He could sense the presence of that for which he searched. It was close, mocking him from its hidden location. It--his goal--was an ancient Aztec idol of exquisite workmanship. Made of solid gold, it was inlaid with precious stones. On the black market it would sell for a high price. A collector would hand over several million dollars in exchange for it without thinking twice.
"Senor."
Jacques blinked and turned towards the stocky Spaniard beside him.
"Yes, Manuel. Are we ready to leave?" He seemed surprised. So deep in thought had he been that he had lost all track of time.
"Si, Senor. Whenever you are ready."
"Give me a few minutes, okay." He looked around at the small, bare clearing. The trail they had cut through the jungle only nine hours before was already being swallowed up by a proliferation of new, exotic growth.
"Si, Senor," the Spaniard repeated. He watched Jacques in awe as the taller man closed his eyes and turned his back on the way they had come. The Frenchman had an uncanny ability to determine the direction of anything he had set his sights on.
Finally, Jacques opened his eyes. He slipped the rucksack Manuel handed him onto his back and hefted the heavy blade of the expedition's only machete.
"Let's go," he said.
Fingers of mist swirled ghostlike around the giant boles of ancient, ramrod straight trees. The swishing of steel through air followed by a dull, muffled thud testified to the demise of the less hardy vegetation as it gave way before the blows of the machete. It was Manuel, now, who wielded the blade, carving a path through the jungle for the rest to follow. The path, far from straight, was forced to detour around large trees.
The remainder of the party sat on their packs or squatted on their haunches, waiting for the word from Manuel that another twenty or thirty yards had been cleared. It was a slow, laborious journey.
A curse, muttered in Spanish, floated back on the still air as the machete struck a tree, too large for it to tackle, with bone-jarring force. The men grinned as they caught the gist of the imprecation. Jacques also smiled appreciatively. Most men could swear, but few with Manuel's seemingly infinite imagination.
Jacques turned to the man beside him.
"How's the leg, Pedro?" he inquired, a hint of anxiety clouding his voice.
"Fine, Senor." Pedro gingerly patted the swathe of bandages which bound his right thigh and knee. His involuntary wince was an indication of the pain the wound caused him. "And how is your leg? I hope it is more 'fine' than mine," he continued, heaping all the sarcasm he could into the word "fine."
Jacques grinned ruefully. "Couldn't be better," he lied. "Anyway, what is a bit of discomfort among friends, eh?" A lump rose into his throat as he said this. In a way, he hoped they wouldn't find the temple which housed the Golden Idol, as he had come to call it. For when they did, his four companions would have to die.
Greed is a terrible curse, he mused. Both contagious and addictive, it brought nothing but bad luck to all it touched. Men were affected by it, even pressed into killing people they once called their friends merely for the sake of a bauble, or an Idol, which they coveted.
"Senor," said Manuel. He was standing in front of Jacques, the machete hanging limply from his left hand. "Senor," he repeated in a hushed voice, "it seems as though we have discovered what you are looking for."
The Frenchman stood up, favouring his bruised leg slightly, and followed Manuel along the most recently cut section of track to where the Spaniard had been working. He pushed aside a fringe of vegetation which hung like a curtain across the path.
Before them, a narrow stretch of rocky ground led down to a swift-flowing, turbulent river. Across the river, the fiery globe of the setting sun hung suspended above a dense wall of jungle.
"Where?"
"There." The Spaniard pointed across the river to the opposite bank. Nestled snugly into the surrounding jungle, almost invisible in the fading light, was a squat, pyramidal temple. Mist-shrouded, the ancient building radiated an aura of mystery.
"Madre de Dios," muttered Carlos reverently.
Jacques searched the length of the narrow beach with his eyes. No sign of alligators, he concluded.
"We camp here," he said, a light of exultation gleaming in his eyes as he looked once more at the temple.
Bingo!
Once again, Jacques awoke with the horrific howls of tortured creatures echoing hollowly through his skull. He sat up and shook his head, trying to shrug off the sense of morbid foreboding which, cloud-like, enshrouded him. It had been lurking unobtrusively in the recesses of his mind since the moment he had laid eyes on the temple. Fueled by his nightmares, the feeling had grown; now it clung tenaciously to his very soul.
He dressed quickly, pausing only to check that both his knife and his revolver were in their proper places before leaving the tent. The knife rode sheathed, high on his thigh. The gun swung from his hip in its holster.
There was a difference in the camp this morning. The men were strangely subdued by their proximity to the temple. They sat in silence around the fire; the atmosphere was wrong for their usual jocular behaviour.
He ate his breakfast in silence. As usual the meat, cooked by Manuel over the fire, was blackened to a charcoal on the outside, and raw and bloody in the centre. On most days he would have enjoyed it, but today was different. The atmosphere which haunted the camp was not conducive to any form of enjoyment.
The Frenchman was not looking forward to entering the temple, for he knew that once he did he would be forced to kill his companions; driven by the same greed which had dragged him through the Amazonian jungle. He felt no qualms about killing the Mexican, Carlos, or the taciturn Juan, but would he be able to pull the trigger on Manuel? Or Pedro? Only God knew; and only time would tell.
"... Senor?" Manuel was saying.
"Oui, Manuel. Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he queried, lapsing into his native tongue. The turmoil in his mind made concentration difficult.
"I beg your pardon? I do not understand."
"Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"
"I asked what your plans were now, Senor." Manuel looked at Jacques expectantly. Jacques thought for a moment.
"Get me the map, please."
"Si, Senor." The Spaniard rummaged through his rucksack and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it carefully to the Frenchman.
Jacques took the paper. Unfolding it, he spread it out on the pebbled ground. The men gathered around the man and the map curiously.
Running a questing hand lightly, almost reverently, over the tattered map, Jacques glanced speculatively at the river behind him. He nodded and turned back to the map. His finger jabbed decisively at the chart.
"Okay", he said firmly, "we are here. The river behind me is the Javary River. And that," he waved his hand towards the opposite bank, "is Peru." The men nodded.
"In that temple is a find--an archaeological find--which will make history ..." He proceeded to weave a tale so fantastic, so bizarre, that it could almost be true. He appealed to their superstitions and curiosity. The only thing he neglected to tell them of the temple's contents was the truth. As he finished, they began talking furiously among themselves. After a while he stood up, forestalling further comment.
"We'll leave the tents set up here," he said. "Now then, how do we cross the river?"
They eventually decided to tether themselves to a strong rope and wade across. The river didn't seem too deep and so far they had seen no alligators. The water may have been flowing a bit too fast for comfort, but that was the reason for the rope.
The crossing was uneventful. Only Jacques seemed worried about the absence of the too-common alligators. There had to be a reason, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. They arrived, dripping and exhausted, on Peruvian soil.
The rough sloping sides of the temple towered above the small group of men. Facing them, a mere thirty feet away, a carved arch indicated the presence of an entrance.
"It seems so ... so ..." Manuel's voice trailed away. The silence which lay over the forest around the structure was too ancient, too tangible to be so casually disrupted.
Jacques nodded in agreement. He knew what the Spaniard meant. There was a stifling aura of timeless peace about the temple. Even the cacophony of birds in song seemed far away and muffled. Then he realised the reason for this--the only birds singing were those on the Brazilian side of the river. It was so quiet! Any sudden, harsh sound would seem sacrilegious.
Carlos sneezed. The spell shattered.
"Okay," said Jacques, "let's go open that door." He strode up the beach and began to study the door in question. It was a solid slab of stone which must have weighed at least a ton. Framed by close-fitting stone columns covered in intricate designs, it seemed impenetrable.
The other men gathered around him. Pedro reached out and tentatively pushed the stone. It did not move. He had not expected it to.
"Excuse me for asking such a silly question, Senor, but how do we open it?" he queried.
"Si, Senor," he added pessimistically, "it looks like it will not be easy to do."
"It won't be," replied Jacques. "We will have to resort to brute force."
"And if that doesn't work?" asked Manuel.
Jacques shrugged. "C'est la vie," he said simply.
Manuel raised his eyebrows quizzically but said nothing. He found it difficult to imagine the Senor giving up that easily. Still, they had not been defeated yet.
"Come on," Jacques called, "shoulders to the door." He positioned his own shoulder against the stone and waited for the others to do likewise. When they were all in contact beside him, he cleared his throat and spoke.
"Okay? Ready ... push."
Muscles tensed beneath sweating skin as the five men tried to move the boulder from its ancient resting place. With a groan it moved an inch. Dust showered the men but they ignored it. The door moved further; then it suddenly swung inwards. The men collapsed in a heap in the doorway.
Jacques stood up first. All that stood between him and the gold was a light timber door--and his four companions. He smiled sadly as the men moved curiously towards the wooden door. The door would have to wait! Moisture gleamed in his eyes as he removed the revolver from its holster. He raised the gun, aimed, and fired.
The first bullet struck Carlos in the back of the head. His skull disintegrated under the impact like a watermelon struck by a sledge-hammer. His lifeless torso began to topple over. The second bullet smashed through Juan's neck before he realised that Carlos was dead.
Manuel and Pedro stared at the falling corpses in horror. Pedro's jaw dropped as he realised he was being shot at, but before he could react, the third bullet impacted with his own neck. The soft-nosed projectile expanded on contact, with gruesome results. Pedro was decapitated.
Manuel was quicker, but not quick enough to survive. He dived to one side, and the bullet intended for his head whistled past his ear and ricocheted from the stone wall with a whine. Jacques altered his aim and fired again. The red hot lead tore through Manuel's rib cage and lacerated his lungs. The Spaniard refused to die. Slumped against the wall he turned to stare at the Frenchman.
"Why?" he wheezed. "I ... trusted ..." His voice trailed off into a fit of coughing. Blood dribbled from the corner of his pain-contorted mouth.
"I needed you ... to open ... the door." Jacques' voice caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak again, to explain his actions. Only a sob emerged. He took a deep breath, raised the gun again, and shot Manuel between the eyes. "Goodbye, my friend. Forgive me," he murmured.
He stood for a long moment surveying the death he had caused. Four more bodies to litter his trail--four more ghosts to haunt his nightmares. He inhaled deeply, letting the pungent odour of burnt cordite soothe his frayed, shattered nerves. Then he turned, dismissing the scene from his conscious mind, pushing it down to fester in his subconsciousness, as he had so many times before.
He strode down the corridor towards the wooden door at its end. He raised his hand to push it open. At last! he thought gleefully, nothing can stand in my way. Nothing ... He pushed the door, grinning as it swung silently open.
Then he gasped.
The floor and walls of the inner chamber were hidden beneath a seething carpet of black. Soldier ants! Millions of them milled about in seemingly random patterns. However they could quickly be unified. Sensing the opening of the long-closed portal the insects responded. They began to pour through the doorway into the corridor. He reached out to pull the door closed but more of them spilled around the rough-hewn edges.
They ranged in size from an eighth of an inch to the length of his hand. A myriad of curved pincers gleamed viciously in the dull light. Drops of acidic poison beaded on their needle-like stings. Realising the futility of staying where he was, he turned and ran.
Jacques realised he could outrun the voracious horde. He would be safe in the tepid waters of the river. He would easily escape, unless ...
He stumbled and fell. The breath exploded from his body. His head hit the gore-splattered floor with a resounding thud. He groaned hoarsely and gasped for breath. Eyes wide with fear he looked back along the corridor. The black tide of death was nearly upon him. Then he saw what he had tripped over. The death-glazed eyes glared accusingly at him from Pedro's blood-smeared head. He kicked the spherical object away in panic.
He tried to scramble to his feet, but his boots slipped on shreds of flesh. The ants swarmed over his legs. With an inhuman effort he regained his feet and continued to run. He slapped furiously at the insects clinging to him. Howling in pain he dived into the river.
Jacques sighed as the insects released their grips on his tortured flesh. Cursing the insects, he was already trying to think of a weapon he could use against them. If he couldn't gain entrance to the inner chamber, all the deaths and pain would be for nothing. Perhaps fire, he pondered.
Then he screamed.
With the sudden clarity of mind brought by the pain, he realised the reason for the absence of alligators from the river. Their first crossing had been very, very lucky.
The river was infested with piranha!
The Frenchman's agonised screams were abruptly silenced as his head sank below the surface of the water. His flailing body was hidden by a silvery school of darting, ripping, biting fish. Then he was gone. All that remained of Jacques Cartier was a spreading cloud of crimson, carried slowly North by the turbulent waters of the Javary River.
Peace settled once more over the jungle.