Chapter 6
Martin' third entry was written on the sixth day after they fled the camp.
By then, only twelve survivors remained.
Two soldiers.
Three sailors.
The priest.
The surgeon.
Four porters.
And the old local man who still refused to reveal his real name.
They didn't take the same path back.
Because every evening, the voices of women singing drifted from the direction of the shore.
The songs came from deep within the mangrove forest.
Sometimes it was a sailor's shanty.
Sometimes it was a church hymn.
Once, Martin even heard his mother calling out his childhood name.
The old man led them around to the southern marsh.
He told them there were no harpies there.
The soldiers breathed a sigh of relief.
But the old man didn't smile.
He explained, "Even the harpies are afraid of those waters."
The marsh didn't seem menacing at noon.
The water was still, like a dirty mirror.
Duckweed blanketed the surface, and every now and then, a white heron would land, only to get spooked and take off again.
Tree roots twisted up from the mud, like rows of ribs protruding above the surface.
The air reeked of rotten grass and sulfur.
The surgeon warned that the marsh gas could drive people mad.
The old man shook his head. "It's not the gas."
He said, "There's something sleeping down there."
They cut some light wood and lashed together two small rafts.
They placed the water barrels and gunpowder in the middle.
The priest insisted on laying Pedro's body on the first raft.
They wrapped three more loops of rope around the canvas.
But Martin noticed that the knots kept slipping loose by themselves.
It was as if someone inside were pushing the knots loose with a tongue.
When they first entered the marsh, everything was eerily quiet.
Not a single insect made a sound.
Not a single bird called.
Even the sound of water lapping against the rafts seemed unnaturally loud.
When they reached the middle of the dark water, the old man suddenly told everyone to stop paddling.
He pointed at the duckweed ahead.
There was a perfectly straight gap running through it.
It looked like an invisible spear had cut right beneath the surface, splitting the duckweed clean in two.
The soldiers said it must be a crocodile.
The old man shook his head.
He said, "Crocodiles always let their eyes peek out above the water.
"But that one never does.
"It listens for your heartbeat first."
Just then, there was a soft bump beneath the second raft.
One of the porters let out a curse.
He leaned over to get a better look.
The water suddenly bulged upward.
But it wasn't a wave.
It was an entire stretch of black back gliding past the side of the raft.
It was as wide as the bottom of a boat.
Its back was covered in thick, hard scales, each one about the size of a goblet's rim.
Before Martin could get a good look, it sank back into the depths.
The raft rocked so violently that it nearly flipped over.
The priest clutched Pedro's body, reciting prayers nonstop.
But then, a laugh echoed from beneath the canvas shroud.
It was a brittle, empty sound.
Like a bloodless throat trying to imitate the living.
Everyone heard it.
The surgeon pulled out his knife, about to slice open the canvas and find out what was lurking beneath.
The old man snatched his wrist, stopping him.
He said, "Don't let it see the water."
But it was already too late.
A pale finger slipped through the seam in the canvas.