Shadow Play

Shadow Play

Katherine Sutcliffe

Prologue

1875, Somewhere on the Amazon

The driftwood plunged into the swell of the bore tide, writhing and flailing like an animal snared in an inescapable trap.

Morgan Kane clutched at the tree limb in desperation as water filled his nose and mouth and eyes, choking the breath from his lungs and rushing to his brain like fire. He was beyond caring that his life was about to end. He would die here and now, be murdered by a bullet from Rodolfo King's expert gunmen, or perhaps skewered by an arrow from the fierce Xavante Indians who had been chasing him for the past hour.

The bore wave rose to Goliath heights, hurling man and tree back up the river he had tried so frantically to escape. Then it crashed downward, sucking everything in its path into the undertow, plunging Kane into a rushing, thundering world of blackness and sound. A shadow shot before his eyes, then another and another, until there seemed to be a thousand shapes and forms swarming around him.

Piranhas!

With a kick he surged away, clawing at the wall of water. As his head broke the surface his lungs drank in the heavenly air. Then the splintered trunk of a kapok tree dragged him under again. He grabbed for the gnarled branch that clawed at his face. Even a minute portion of blood would send those piranhas into a feeding frenzy.

He heaved himself upon the tree, which spurt round and round beneath him like a leaf caught in a whirlpool. Animals floated by, many struggling to hang on to whatever flotsam drifted within their grasp. Others were thrashing as helplessly as he had been moments before, some disappearing completely into the storm of water and mud.

He never heard the gunshot, only felt the blow of the bullet as it glanced off his brow. He grabbed his head as the tree slid from beneath him, and he tumbled back into the water. The river swallowed him, sucked him deep until the world was a gentle, quiet place of suspended emptiness. Images of his past flashed before him, childhood memories he had long since buried, recollections of pain and heartache, a child's disappointments and shattered innocence—oh, God, so much grief. Then nothing...

A woman's laughter echoed in his mind like bells and he imagined she was wrapping her arms around him, floating him toward the beacon of light in the sky. Her skin was smooth and iridescent, but then the image vanished, and he wondered who she had been.

No one would miss him when he was gone... no one...

The blow on his chest drove water up his throat in a bitter rush. He groaned, gasped, and choked as each rebelling muscle contracted violently. Perhaps he'd died and gone to hell. This agony was punishment for all the lies he'd told throughout the years, all the
anger he'd unleashed upon the world ...

"Easy," came a congenial voice. "I say, old man, but

I thought you were a goner for certain. Could you possibly open your eyes?"

Morgan vomited on the ground.

"Jolly good! One more heave for good measure."

He complied with little effort, rolled, and clutched his ribs, then his head.

"Careful," came the voice. "You've a nasty cut on your forehead.''

"Bullet." The word burned his raw throat, and he groaned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Son... of... a... bitch... shot... me ..."

"You don't say! Who shot you, sir?"

"King ..." He heard the lapping of water and chattering of monkeys from somewhere nearby. Morgan did his best to relax, but his body hurt too much. He tried to open his eyes. Impossible. They were full of river water and dirt. He rolled his head, disoriented by the quiet.' 'Who's there?'' he demanded.

"A friend," the man said kindly.

"I ain't got any friends. Especially any English friends, and especially none out here." He thought he might throw up again, and turned on his side.

A hand touched his shoulder. "You should rest. You've had a horrifying experience."

The earth felt cool against his cheek, the moss soft. He was glad no sunlight could pierce the canopy of trees. Only quiet and darkness could alleviate the crucifying pain in his head. "How did you find me?" he managed.

The other man laughed gently. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." He winced.

"I was standing just yonder. Having witnessed that nasty bore tide tear up the river, I was about to return to my camp when, by chance, I noticed a movement in the water. At that precise moment a pink dolphin rose to the surface. When I stepped closer it disappeared. The next moment I

was gazing down on your face as you floated up from the very depths of the
River Sea."

"Are you telling me I was rescued by a pink dolphin?"

The man chuckled again. "One might come to that conclusion. The Indians talk about such things. Usually children are rescued by the dolphin, but there are stories of adults being saved. Were I inclined to believe myths—which I am upon occasion—I would vow that what I saw first was actually the
boto
—the dolphin—which, transformed into a woman or man, brings great luck, and love, to its worshippers."

Morgan managed to pry open one eyelid. The world looked green and blurry.

"Are
you the
boto?"
came the pleasant, amused query.

"Do I look like a goddamn fish?" Rolling onto his hands and knees, he did his best to steady himself. The wound on his head had begun to bleed again. Blood ran down his face and formed tears on his lashes. He was sick and hurt, all right. But he was no longer so stunned that he didn't realize the danger of remaining here. The men who were after him wouldn't give up and return to King's Japura plantation until they could offer Morgan's body as proof that they'd killed him.

Strong hands steadied him from behind as he swayed to his feet. He forced open his bleary, burning eyes and gazed at the tangled overgrowth surrounding him. A sloth crept along a tree limb overhead. On another a bird drew itself up on its perch, spread the umbrella-shaped crest on its head, and vented its piping call. The sound crashed against Morgan's temples like the bullet that had almost killed him. He collapsed to his knees. Then there was blackness.

Without opening his eyes he knew it was dawn. The air was cool and clean. The whirring of night creatures had been replaced by the symphony of morning birds, the raucous cry of monkeys, and the occasional
clang clang clang
of the
curupira
—the wild spirit of the forest which produces all the noises man is unable to explain.

Where the blazes was he?

The smell of coffee teased his nostrils, and little by little his memory returned. He had escaped Rodolfo King and run for the past two days from the rubber baron's hired killers. Then somewhere near the Rio das Mortes he'd plowed smack into Xavante savages. Just when it looked as if they would end his life with a poisoned arrow, the bore tide had swept him up river. He'd been rescued by a pink dolphin and cared for by an Englishman.

"Ah, you're finally awake," came the Englishman's voice.

Morgan eased open his eyes. He touched the cloth strips binding his head. Then he realized that the bandage was all that was left of his shirt.

"The clothing was ripped to shreds anyway, and your head needed attention. I hope you don't mind."

Morgan did his best to focus, but couldn't. There was nothing so black as the rain forest

before the sun filtered through the trees. Finally, the pale yellow glow of firelight materialized somewhere in the near distance, and he began to relax.

"Feel free to tell me that this is none of my business, old man, but I couldn't help noticing the lacerations on your back. Did you, perchance, get them from King?"

Morgan closed his eyes. His head was beginning to throb.

' 'What were you doing in Japura?" the man asked.”’ How did you manage to get caught up with a devil like that?''

Growing annoyed with the stranger's persistence, Morgan replied, "I hired on with King a year ago in Belem. He told me I'd get a share of the rubber profits. That after one season I could return to Belem and live like a lord on the proceeds."

"But no one leaves King's Japura compound alive. Tell me, how did you manage to escape him? The only way in or out is by river, and it is heavily guarded."

Morgan thought a moment. "I struck out on foot."

Silence.

He opened one eye, then the other, waiting for some response. There was no sound or movement other than the dancing light of the fire upon the trees. Finally his companion spoke from somewhere behind him.

"That makes you quite the hero, sir. No white man has ever ventured into the heart of Japura on foot and come out alive. Are you certain you didn't sneak out on a supply boat?"

Morgan frowned, disconcerted that the man had guessed the truth so easily.

"Tell me," the Englishman continued, "why is King so determined to kill you?"

"He doesn't want the world to know what a murdering bastard he is."

"But the world is already aware of that. King is not the only cruel
patrao
in Brazil. The beating and killing of slaves is hardly a rarity in Amazonia. No, there must be some other reason."

"Why are you so interested?" Morgan demanded.

"Because I have a score to settle with King myself and I do not wish to join up with someone who might get me killed."

"Who the hell said anything about our 'joining up'? Anyway, what sort of ties could you have with Rodolfo King?"

"Upon my return to Brazil from England, I learned he enslaved and murdered my family some years ago. I intend to go to Japurie and end King's tyranny of terror once and for all."

Morgan tried to sit up, but the world began a slow undulation around him, driving him to shut his eyes and force down the sickness in his stomach. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Surely he hadn't heard the man right. "And how do you intend to get into Japurie without King butchering you first?"

"You'll help me, of course."

Morgan almost choked.

"I did save your life," the Englishman said.

"I'll be certain to write a proper thank-you when I get back to Belem. As for returning to Japura—"

"Oh, but you have every intention of returning to Japura, Mr. Kane of New Orleans."

Morgan groaned but still didn't look up.

"By Jove, you needn't look so perplexed. Fear not, old chap, I don't read minds. I simply listen to the ramblings of feverish men."

There was a pause. Somehow Morgan knew what would come next. He waited in dread, unable to breath.

"You mentioned something about King finding gold on his plantation. He hasn't reported the fact to the Brazilian officials, which is understandable. The government has the nasty habit of seizing control of mining properties and allowing the landowner only a pittance of the ore's worth. Naturally, if the officials were to get wind of such a discovery, the King empire would cease to exist. You, of course, know about the gold; therefore, he is out to silence you."

Holding his head, Morgan pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes in hopes of alleviating the pressure pounding in his brain. He tried to focus on his surroundings while his thoughts scrambled for some way out of his predicament.

Dim rays of sun had broken through the mists and trees high overhead, setting the dew that clung to the leaves aglitter. The intense colors of the forest—greens, browns, reds, and orchids—made him shield his eyes for a moment. When he looked again, it was toward the fire. What he saw made his heart freeze.

A savage stooped there, with dark, piercing eyes. His black hair had been shaved close to his skull, except at the crown, where it grew in a half-moon from his left ear to his right. There was a tattoo of an anaconda running down the entirety of his torso, disappearing into a loincloth of
j
aguar hide. He wore bones in his nose and held a gleaming machete.

Morgan leapt to his feet, stumbling while doing his best to back away. His eyes searched everywhere for the Englishman who had saved him. Then it occurred to him that the heathen had killed his companion and intended to decapitate him as well, before shrinking his head to the size of a pomegranate. But that wasn't possible. He'd just spoken to the Englishman and—

The savage moved toward him and Morgan realized that the man hadn't been stooping after all. He was short. Very short. In fact, he was a frigging pygmy!

Extending his hand and smiling, the pygmy said, "How do you do, Mr. Kane. The name is Henry, my good man. Henry Sebastian Longfellow ... Esquire, of course. I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Chapter One

1876, Georgetown, British Guiana

The mourners moved by the coffin where the late Governor of British Guiana lay in state. The catafalque was dressed in fine black cloth and illuminated by eight candles in gold-plated sconces. Servants—Indians of the Caribbee tribe—dressed in black livery, stood guard at each corner of the coffin.

As the procession of mourners passed by the bier, their eyes turned toward the delicate figure of Chester St. James's only daughter. How small she seemed. How alone and heart- broken and desperately trying to control her emotions. Just then the grief welled up in her throat and she cried aloud. ' 'Not dead. Please, please don't die and leave me, Papa.'' Onlookers gasped as she ran to the bier and fell to her knees. The veil which hung from her bonnet's brim to her feet obscured her features, yet there was not a soul in attendance who would not have recognized the Governor's daughter, Sarah. She had been a breathtaking beauty before going to London to attend school four years ago, and though few people had seen her since her return to Georgetown two days before, when she had been greeted with the tragic news of her father's death, word of her extraordinary loveliness had already spread throughout Guiana.

Still, there were those among the mourners in the church that day who strained for a closer look, hoping for a glimpse of the tantalizing blue-green eyes that had fired rumors across the Atlantic. It was said that her resplendent gold hair had caught the attention of someone of great importance in Her Majesty's court, not to mention an Arabian prince who had promised her the wealth of his kingdom—had even vowed to divorce his eight wives—if she would join his harem. Gossip had it that she had turned him down in order to accept the proposal of one of her father's dearest and most trusted