Tecolutla, all he wanted to remember. But he knew
he had been brave.
*
* * *
Four days later, they headed up
into a cloud forest. It was the dry season, but dry season or not, blackish
gray clouds always shrouded these peaks. They were shot through by ugly
glimmers of lightning, making it seem that malfunctioning neon signs were
hidden beneath them, advertisements for evil. Everyone was jittery, and Jerry
LeDoux—a slim dark-haired Cajun kid—flat-out refused to go.
“It
ain’t reasonable,” he said. “Be easier to go through the passes.”
“We’re
on recon, man! You think the beaners be waitin’ in the passes, wavin’ their
white flags?” DT whipped his rifle into firing position and pointed it at
LeDoux. “C’mon, Louisiana man. Pop a few, and you feel different.”
As
LeDoux popped the ampules, DT talked to him.
“Look
at it this way, man. This is your big adventure. Up there it be like all them
animal shows on the tube. The savage kingdom, the unknown. Could be like Mars
or somethin’. Monsters and shit, with big red eyes and tentacles. You wanna
miss that, man? You wanna miss bein’ the first grunt on Mars?”
Soon
LeDoux was raring to go, giggling at DT’s rap.
Moody
kept his mouth shut, but he fingered the safety of his rifle and glared at DT’s
back. When DT turned to him, however, he relaxed. Since Tecolutla he had grown
taciturn, and there seemed to be a shifting of lights and darks in his eyes, as
if something were scurrying back and forth behind them. He had taken to wearing
banana leaves on his head, arranging them under his helmet so the frayed ends
stuck out the sides like strange green hair. He said this was camouflage, but
Dantzler was certain it bespoke some secretive irrational purpose. Of course DT
had noticed Moody’s spiritual erosion, and as they prepared to move out, he
called Dantzler aside.
“He
done found someplace inside his head that feel good to him,” said DT. “He’s
tryin’ to curl up into it, and once he do that he ain’t gon’ be responsible.
Keep an eye on him.”
Dantzler
mumbled his assent, but was not enthused.
“I
know he your fren’, man, but that don’t mean shit. Not the way things are. Now
me, I don’t give a damn ‘bout you personally. But I’m your brother-in-arms, and
thass somethin’ you can count on...y’understand.” To Dantzler’s shame, he did
understand.
They
had planned on negotiating the cloud forest by nightfall, but they had
underestimated the difficulty. The vegetation beneath the clouds was
lush—thick, juicy leaves that mashed underfoot, tangles of vines, trees with
slick, pale bark and waxy leaves—and the visibility was only about fifteen
feet. They were gray wraiths passing through gray-ness. The vague shapes of the
foliage reminded Dantzler of fancifully engraved letters, and for a while he
entertained himself with the notion that they were walking among the
half-formed phrases of a constitution not yet manifest in the land. They barged
off the trail, losing it completely, becoming veiled in spiderwebs and drenched
by spills of water; their voices were oddly muffled, the tag ends of words
swallowed up. After seven hours of this, DR reluctantly gave the order to pitch
camp. They set electric lamps around the perimeter so they could see to string
the jungle hammocks; the beam of light illuminated the moisture in the air,
piercing the murk with jeweled blades. They talked in hushed tones, alarmed by
the eerie atmosphere. When they had done with the hammocks, DT posted four
sentries—Moody, LeDoux, Dantzler, and himself. Then they switched off the
lamps.
It
grew pitch-dark, and the darkness was picked out by plips and plops, the entire
spectrum of dripping sounds. To Dantzler’s ears they blended into a gabbling
speech. He imagined tiny Santa Ana demons talking about him, and to stave off
paranoia he popped two ampules. He continued to pop them, trying to limit
he had been brave.
*
* * *
Four days later, they headed up
into a cloud forest. It was the dry season, but dry season or not, blackish
gray clouds always shrouded these peaks. They were shot through by ugly
glimmers of lightning, making it seem that malfunctioning neon signs were
hidden beneath them, advertisements for evil. Everyone was jittery, and Jerry
LeDoux—a slim dark-haired Cajun kid—flat-out refused to go.
“It
ain’t reasonable,” he said. “Be easier to go through the passes.”
“We’re
on recon, man! You think the beaners be waitin’ in the passes, wavin’ their
white flags?” DT whipped his rifle into firing position and pointed it at
LeDoux. “C’mon, Louisiana man. Pop a few, and you feel different.”
As
LeDoux popped the ampules, DT talked to him.
“Look
at it this way, man. This is your big adventure. Up there it be like all them
animal shows on the tube. The savage kingdom, the unknown. Could be like Mars
or somethin’. Monsters and shit, with big red eyes and tentacles. You wanna
miss that, man? You wanna miss bein’ the first grunt on Mars?”
Soon
LeDoux was raring to go, giggling at DT’s rap.
Moody
kept his mouth shut, but he fingered the safety of his rifle and glared at DT’s
back. When DT turned to him, however, he relaxed. Since Tecolutla he had grown
taciturn, and there seemed to be a shifting of lights and darks in his eyes, as
if something were scurrying back and forth behind them. He had taken to wearing
banana leaves on his head, arranging them under his helmet so the frayed ends
stuck out the sides like strange green hair. He said this was camouflage, but
Dantzler was certain it bespoke some secretive irrational purpose. Of course DT
had noticed Moody’s spiritual erosion, and as they prepared to move out, he
called Dantzler aside.
“He
done found someplace inside his head that feel good to him,” said DT. “He’s
tryin’ to curl up into it, and once he do that he ain’t gon’ be responsible.
Keep an eye on him.”
Dantzler
mumbled his assent, but was not enthused.
“I
know he your fren’, man, but that don’t mean shit. Not the way things are. Now
me, I don’t give a damn ‘bout you personally. But I’m your brother-in-arms, and
thass somethin’ you can count on...y’understand.” To Dantzler’s shame, he did
understand.
They
had planned on negotiating the cloud forest by nightfall, but they had
underestimated the difficulty. The vegetation beneath the clouds was
lush—thick, juicy leaves that mashed underfoot, tangles of vines, trees with
slick, pale bark and waxy leaves—and the visibility was only about fifteen
feet. They were gray wraiths passing through gray-ness. The vague shapes of the
foliage reminded Dantzler of fancifully engraved letters, and for a while he
entertained himself with the notion that they were walking among the
half-formed phrases of a constitution not yet manifest in the land. They barged
off the trail, losing it completely, becoming veiled in spiderwebs and drenched
by spills of water; their voices were oddly muffled, the tag ends of words
swallowed up. After seven hours of this, DR reluctantly gave the order to pitch
camp. They set electric lamps around the perimeter so they could see to string
the jungle hammocks; the beam of light illuminated the moisture in the air,
piercing the murk with jeweled blades. They talked in hushed tones, alarmed by
the eerie atmosphere. When they had done with the hammocks, DT posted four
sentries—Moody, LeDoux, Dantzler, and himself. Then they switched off the
lamps.
It
grew pitch-dark, and the darkness was picked out by plips and plops, the entire
spectrum of dripping sounds. To Dantzler’s ears they blended into a gabbling
speech. He imagined tiny Santa Ana demons talking about him, and to stave off
paranoia he popped two ampules. He continued to pop them, trying to limit
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