Roosevelt's Beast by Louis Bayard

Author:Louis Bayard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

14

“Why, Kermit,” said the old man. “You’re shivering.”

Of course I’m shivering, Kermit wanted to say. It’s freakishly cold. He was actually following the trajectory of the breath from his mouth, expecting it to freeze in the air above him. But when he looked around at the others, he realized he was the only one trembling. Even Thiago was as still as a barber.

“And how is our brave lad?” asked the Colonel, lowering himself to the ground until he was looking directly into the boy’s face. “All well?” he asked.

Thiago, without even quite knowing what was being asked of him, nodded.

“Little titan,” said the Colonel, jabbing him lightly on the jaw. “Let us speak not of Gunga Din, let us speak of Horatius at the bridge, yes! I do not traffic in hyperbole. And the doughty Miss Luz!” He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket. “The Fearless, the Indomitable. I hereby proffer you a means of cleaning your person. Para lavar, my dear Luz.”

She, too, nodded her thanks and began to wipe her face. The blood came off in thick daubs, like grease from a griddle.

“Obrigada,” she said.

The sun had shut itself behind a cloud, and in the melt of afternoon, the clearing seemed to be liquefying and evaporating around them. From every precinct of the jungle, insects swarmed forth, gossiping over their newest feast.

And yet how strangely that feast now loomed. No matter what angle Kermit came at the carcass from, no matter how much he pored over it, he couldn’t put his finger on the part that didn’t work. Then he heard Thiago murmur:

“Pequeno.”

That was it exactly. Small. Ludicrously small. As though some prankster had crept up behind them, stolen away the Beast, and substituted this … tiny changeling, a fraction of the original’s size.

“Why, it’s no more than three feet,” whispered Kermit, kneeling by the creature. “Head to toe.”

“Most curious,” agreed the old man.

“More than curious, Father, we were—we were helpless before this thing. Utterly captive. Are we to believe this … this little thing created all this havoc?”

Kermit sat back on his haunches, squeezed his lids down to half-mast. “Luz,” he said. “Give me the handkerchief.”

Feeling a bit like a sculptor, he began to gouge away the layers of mud and blood from the creature’s head. With each stroke, more and more features revealed themselves: a short snout; a scraggly beard; a pair of wide-set nostrils; two rows of humanoid teeth.

It was Luz, peering over Kermit’s shoulder, who delivered the first verdict.

“Bugio.”

“What’s that she said?”

“A howler monkey, Father.”

“Howler? Are you certain?”

It was the eyes that gave it away finally. Solemn, dignified, ineffably wounded. It was a look no other monkey had.

“I don’t understand,” said the old man. “I’ve heard a howler before.”

All these weeks in the jungle had made the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition well acquainted with the cry. That shriek, fierce and guttural, penetrated for miles. Unmistakable, yes, and nothing like the unholy noise that still rang in Kermit’s ears.

“Well,” said the Colonel with an abbreviated sigh. “At least we know why it didn’t leave tracks.

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