Journey to the River Sea

Then he released her and pointed. They had passed underneath a wicked-looking branch with spikes the size of knives. If he hadn’t forced her down Maia would have been knocked unconscious or even blinded. As he clambered back and picked up the paddle, he was still muttering furiously in his own language and glaring at her. Without deciphering a single word, she knew he was scolding her for her carelessness, trying to explain that one had to be alert the whole time in the jungle.

‘Idiota!’ he said finally, and though Senhor and Senhora Olvidares in the phrase book had not used the word, Maia understood it well enough.

She was very careful after that, keeping a proper look-out, but nothing could quite quell her delight in the beauty she saw about her. It was as though she was taking the journey she had imagined on top of the library ladder the day she heard about her new life.

Then the stream became wider, the current stronger, and she caught a glimpse of low, colour-washed houses and heard a dog bark.

‘Manaus,’ he said. He drew up to the bank and helped her out. She took out her purse but he wouldn’t take her money, nor would he listen to her thanks. ‘Teatra Amazonas,’ he said, pointing straight ahead.

He would go no further towards civilization.

The boy watched her as she ran off. She looked back once and waved but he had already turned the boat.

He poled swiftly back through the maze of waterways. When he reached the place where he had found Maia, he smiled and half shook his head. Then he set the canoe hard at the curtain of green and vanished into his secret world.

Chapter Six

The police chief was in a bad temper. He had hoped to go to the matinée of Little Lord Fauntleroy. Colonel da Silva was in his fifties, a crack shot, and a man of steel with an amazing moustache, but he loved the theatre. Opera, ballet, stories about little boys melting the heart of ancient earls, it was all the same to him.

But he had had a cable from police headquarters in London asking him to give help to Mr Low and Mr Trapwood, who had come to the Amazon to find a missing boy and bring him back to England. The detectives were acting for an Important Person in Britain, the message had said, and he was to do everything he could to make their search easier.

It wasn’t the first time that the unpleasant Englishmen had been to see him. They had asked him to put up notices in the police station, and on hoardings in the city, asking for news of the son of Bernard Taverner, and they had made him put the amount of the reward on the notice. Not that he expected anyone to come forward.

‘I am not prepared to go on like this any longer,’ said Mr Trapwood, whose face had turned a livid puce in the heat. ‘We’ve talked to a hundred people and no one knows about the boy. It’s ridiculous! It’s a conspiracy!’

‘We have to get back to England,’ croaked Mr Low in a hoarse voice. He had swallowed the backbone of a spiny fish in his breakfast stew and it had scratched his throat. ‘The boy must be brought to Westwood. There’s no time to be lost.’

Both men glared at Colonel da Silva who looked at the clock and realized that he was going to miss the play.

‘I tell you, no one knows of such a boy. Unless... perhaps – ah yes ... wait ... I think I heard something; I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure ... There is a boy living with the Ombuda Indians. Some say he is Mr Taverner’s son and he left him there to be looked after.’

‘To be looked after by Indians!’ Both men stared at him, outraged. ‘Let me tell you, sir, that Taverner may have been a wastrel, but he was born a British gentleman.’

The Colonel opened his mouth and shut it again. The less the crows knew the better. Then: ‘I too am a gentleman, senhors, and I have an Indian grandmother; a woman of great wisdom who brought me up. There are many mixed marriages here and we are proud of all our ancestors.’

Mr Low and Mr Trapwood put their heads together. ‘You have good evidence that the boy might be Taverner’s son?’

Colonel da Silva shrugged. ‘It is rumoured. He is said to be a handsome boy, and fair. I will show you the place on the map. It is only two days on the riverboat, it will not take you long to find out. And the Ombuda people are very gentle,’ he said, producing a crumpled chart and wondering why he hadn’t sent them to the Curacara who had been cannibals for generations. ‘The boat goes at nine in the morning,’ he said. ‘I will send an interpreter with you and I hope your journey will be a success.’