Chapter 5
They didn't make it out of the ravine alive because of gunpowder.
It was because the old man cut his own palm.
When the blood flowed, he didn't let it spill onto the ground.
Instead, he smeared it on a flat stone and spoke a short phrase in the island's tongue.
Martin didn't understand.
But the laughter in the canopy suddenly stopped.
The harpies stopped diving.
They began moving slowly high above, their claws scraping over the bark with a sound that set everyone's teeth on edge.
The old man told everyone to lower their heads.
The old man said, "Don't look at their faces.
"Don't look at their shadows.
"Just keep your eyes on your own feet."
They retreated down the stream like that.
The branches behind them kept drooping lower and lower.
Sometimes, Martin could feel a strand of hair graze the back of his neck.
Sometimes, he caught a whiff of a woman's fragrance.
It didn't smell like flowers.
It was more like the iron tang of dried blood mingled with the musty scent of wet feathers.
The young interpreter walked at the back.
He was trembling the whole way.
Just as they were about to reach the mouth of the ravine, he suddenly froze in place.
Martin didn't turn around.
He only heard the young interpreter whisper softly.
The young interpreter whispered, "My mother is calling me."
The old man rushed over to grab him.
But the young interpreter's hand had already reached toward the shadows beneath the trees.
A pale woman's hand slipped out from the leaves and met his fingers.
In the next instant, the young interpreter was snatched up into the branches.
His body snapped two branches as he was dragged up into the trees.
Then there was silence.
Martin wrote that it was then he first understood: it wasn't the claws that truly took people away.
It was the place their hearts longed to return to most.
By the time they returned to camp, it was already pitch black.
The fire was still burning.
The tents were still standing.
But everyone who had stayed behind was gone.
Only Pedro's body remained in the center.
The ropes on his hands and feet had been untied.
The cloth in his mouth had been spat aside.
The two small holes in his neck had split open again, as if someone had just fed on him.
What was truly horrifying was that his eyes were wide open.
His eyes were staring up at the top of the tent.
Martin followed his gaze.
Inside the tent, a dozen small black bats hung upside down.
Each one was only about the size of a hand.
Every single one had a shriveled human face.
They didn't immediately take flight.
They fixed their gaze on Martin, as though committing his face to memory.
The priest screamed and hurled a torch at them.
The flames set the tent on fire.
Shadows shot out through the flames.
As they passed through the smoke, they didn't fly all over the place.
Instead, they snaked in a winding line, making their way back toward the ravine.
The old man knelt, pressing his forehead to the muddy ground.
Martin asked him, "Are the Nightbloods and those women in the trees on the same side?"
The old man shook his head. "No, they're not together.
"They're just different teeth of the same night.
"The small ones drink blood.
"The bigger ones eat flesh.
"And there are even bigger things that don't even spit out the bones."
Martin stopped writing for a long while, the ink pooling on the page.
There was a patch where the paper had swollen and wrinkled from moisture.
It looked like a tear.
Or maybe wine.
At dawn the next morning, the camp decided to retreat to the shore.
They burned the tents, cut the ropes from the horses, and grabbed all the fresh water and salted meat they could carry, stuffing it into their packs.
The priest insisted on taking Pedro's body with them.
The old man was dead set against it.
He said, "Anyone who's been fed on by the Nightbloods three times is no longer truly among the dead.
"He's just a signpost now.
"If you bring that signpost back to the ship, the sea will become just like the forest."
No one listened to him.
Pedro was wrapped in canvas and lashed to two poles.
Before they set out, Martin noticed something shift under the canvas.
He figured it was just his imagination.
But when the porters hoisted the poles, a soft, almost inaudible inhale came from inside the canvas.
It was like someone in the darkness had caught the scent of blood from far away.
As I read this, the oil lamp in my hand suddenly dimmed.
There was no wind in the underground vault.
But the wick leaned toward the parchment.
It was as if something was breathing right there on the page.
The archivist whispered behind me, "Don't turn the page."
I ignored him.
In the corner of the next page, a gray-black feather was stuck to the parchment.
Beneath the feather, a line was written in Castilian.
"They only sing in the trees. The one in the marsh never sings."