The Laughing Falcon (21 page)

Eventually, they climbed above a sea of cloud stretching to the far horizons and felt the warm relief of sunshine reflecting from the clouds below them. But the terrain was steeper here and the flora scrubbier; dense ferns and thick-stemmed shrubs challenged the machetes stubbornly. Their clothing, tattered and shredded by the unyielding foliage, was coated with prickly
burrs. This was the
páramo
, the shrubby barrens of the Central American highlands — Maggie found it the cruellest test yet of her four days in the wilderness. Ahead, dominating the view, was a mountain of almost twenty-six hundred metres. She overheard someone mutter,
“Cerro de la Muerte.”
She shivered: the mountain of death.

After another hour, they were merely inching along, Coyote near collapse. Buho finally fell under Gordo’s weight, and pleaded for a rest. Halcón checked his compass, then his watch, then the lowering sun. Maggie sat beside Glo on a rock and they numbly watched a trail of leaf-eater ants toiling up the hill, as if showing them the way, demonstrating grit, carrying burdens four times their size.

“Fat boy needs a doctor,” Glo said loudly, “so why don’t y’all take us to town.”

No one responded, but uncomfortable looks were exchanged. Tayra began bickering with Zorro, who turned from her and spoke a few bitter words to Halcón; others joined in. Even dour Coyote, as he sharpened his machete, was looking at their leader in a displeased way. Glo lowered her voice: “I think the masses are rebelling.”

Halcón said nothing, just looked penetratingly at each in turn. Most dropped their eyes. He rose, took the machete from Coyote, and began hacking an uphill path with long, sweeping strokes. The rest of his ragged company remained seated, their heads low, staring at the earth, panting in the thin air. There was no sound but the swack-swack of the machete.

Maggie was not sure why she decided to follow him, but when she did so, the others, to her surprise, staggered up, one by one, adjusting their packs. Gordo, with unexpected pluck, pulled himself up with his crutch. They silently tagged along, higher into the
páramo
, where evening mists had begun to form ghosts in the air.

Halcón stopped only once to catch his breath and trade machetes, then powered his way up yet another steep rise. He
led them finally to a less forbidding terrain, topped by great clumps of bracken, the fronds fluttering in a breeze that fragmented the thickening mist. From the distance came a low, sullen roar, increasing in intensity as they slashed their way through the ferns. Maggie thought at first they were approaching another waterfall – but they were in the high country where streams were only trickles.

Halcón suddenly halted, and the others gathered beside them. The roar had taken on a metallic grinding sound. He waved everyone to the ground. Into a gap in the fog, just above the foliage, a large rectangular shape appeared from the left, a semi, she realized, moving slowly uphill. “Transportes de Centroamerica S.A.,” read the painted letters at the top. Now came a sound of shifting gears, the truck accelerating, then swallowed by the mist.

It was followed by several wooden chairs that were roped together and seemed to float through the air. In close order came two men sitting on sacks of coffee beans, a fluttering flag on a car aerial, and a row of faces behind the windows of a bus. Maggie realized they had reached the continental divide: this was the Pan-American Highway, which ran up the spine of Costa Rica.

She heard another vehicle, a small car from the sound of it, race by in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, Glo flashed past Maggie, vaulting over the bracken, racing for the road, the rope dangling behind her – she had jerked it free from Tayra. Halcón sped off in pursuit and stepped on the rope, causing her to tumble. She sprang up, but he leaped, tackling her, the momentum carrying them into a tangled bush of lavender roadside flowers.

Halcón, his hand over Glo’s mouth, raised his head, then ducked quickly as a truck came from the right, down the hill, air brakes hissing.

Crouched behind a gnarled tree, Zorro appeared agitated, waving his automatic pistol. A flycatcher above him emitted a
sudden loud “Seek-a-ski-er,” and as it dove for an insect, Zorro whirled and fired a shot into the air, an ear-splitting crack that echoed down the hillside. Maggie could see Halcón’s startled face rise and turn in their direction. Zorro, frantic now, waved to the others to retreat.

Maggie was not about to defy the rattled Zorro, so she retreated down the hill, quickly overtaking Gordo and those assisting him. After a few minutes, she stopped at a level, well-protected area; the others scurried to join her.

Gordo fell, grabbing at his foot in pain. Coyote slashed down some bracken clumps to widen the clearing and they all dropped their packs; they were out of breath, gasping, tense.

As several minutes passed in silence, worry gnawed at Maggie. Glo could well have been injured when brought down so heavily by Halcón. Had the two of them been detected? That shot had been incredibly loud.

Finally, down the path came Halcón, Glo over his shoulder, her ankles and wrists tied, his blue kerchief gagging her mouth — it seemed painfully tight. Zorro followed, watching their rear, trembling, clearly in an anxious state.

Glo’s eyes were sparking angrily as Halcón knelt and laid her on the ground. He expelled a deep breath and looked wearily at Maggie. “How far are we from the road – two hundred metres?” His handsome features were marred by scratches and the welts of digging fingernails.

“Even farther.”

He checked his watch: five-thirty. “We must hope that shot wasn’t heard. I think we should take our chances here until the night.”

“Then what? Over the road?”

“That was the idea.”

“What’s out there?”

“Nothing and no one. Beyond that, only the mountains of Chirripó and the Talamanca.”

Was the plan to continue even higher? That would be almost impossibly taxing – how would they survive the cold? “We didn’t come out where we were supposed to, did we?”

“A small miscalculation.”

Here was the captain of the Comando Cinco de Mayo engaging his prisoner in a casual conversation while the troops politely stood by. Maybe Halcón had lost faith in his revolutionary soldiers.

Glo was still lying next to them, squirming. “What are we going to do with this one?” Halcón asked.

Maggie thought it odd that he was openly consulting her; the relationship of captor and captive seemed to have perceptibly shifted. “Let me untie her, Halcón. That gag is too tight, it’s hurting her.”

He touched his hand to his face. “This woman has claws like a tiger. Leave her hands tied. Since she is not sharing our work, she will not share our food.”

As he strode off to give directions to the others, Maggie leaned down to Glo and began undoing the kerchief. Glo’s cheekbone was red, deeply bruised. “Are you okay? That was foolish, Glo. Don’t tempt danger. You could have been shot.”

Glo’s first words were obscenities, but softly muttered. Then she spat. “The pig. He hit me.”

“You got your digs in.”

“Oh, shit, she’s sorry for him. Whose side are you on?”

“Our side.” A fierce whisper: “Dammit, if we’re going to do anything, we need them relaxed, and now you pull this stupid stunt.”

Maggie ceased her whispering because Halcón was looking at them. She freed Glo’s ankles.

Halcón gazed about the clearing. “Zorro,
venga,”
he called.

Zorro emerged from behind a wind-clipped shrub. Halcón extended his hand, palm up. Zorro shrugged, working up a wan, penitent smile. Halcón’s index finger wiggled: come here.
The rest of the crew stepped back, creating a path as Zorro, the smile breaking down, came forward, then placed his automatic on the palm of the outstretched hand.

Halcón hefted the gun, and for a moment seemed tempted to strike Zorro with it. But he kept his temper, saying not a word, stuffing the automatic in a side pocket of his pack, then pulling out a map.

The silence as he studied it was broken by a soft taunt by Tayra at her chastened partner. That prompted others to join in on a condemnation of Zorro and his itchy trigger finger. Tayra, guarding her role as Zorro’s chief scold, then began disputing with the others.
“Silencio!”
Halcón ordered, glaring them into stillness.

Night was quickly falling. No tents had been erected, nor had they dared light the stoves, but along the way Coyote had collected some pejibaye and heart of palm that sufficed for a light meal. They would need what was left of their strength for the night; Halcón had told them to prepare for a long but not difficult march – they would be proceeding for some distance along the highway.

Maggie drew him aside. “Come on, Halcón, Geneva Convention, you have to let Glo eat.”

“I agree only if her mouth is used for nothing else.”

Glo heard this. “I don’t plan to use it to kiss your ass either. Don’t you ever try to hit me again, pal.” She seemed about to pursue the point, then suddenly sagged. “Oh, fuck it …” She raised her hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay,
capitán
, I’m sorry. I just reacted. I’ve been scared out of my goddamn britches. I promise to be a good little girl from now on.” She reached out to touch the scratches on his face. “Did I do
that?”
Halcón jerked his head back.

He gave Maggie an inquiring look, as if seeking confirmation that Glo had entered some less dangerous phase.
He then bowed slightly to Glo. “I regret having struck you, señora. It was not something I enjoyed.” He left them to tend to Gordo.

“Now you’re coming on just a little strong. Work up to it.” Maggie felt like a stage director.

“What are they going to do with that fat little varmint? They can’t just keep dragging him along. Those wounds will fester.”

Gordo was nodding as if receiving instructions; a pat on the head from Halcón elicited a brave smile. Halcón seemed born to lead; somehow he had whipped this ragtag band into a bumbling version of the merry men of Sherwood Forest.

Glo wriggled into her sleeping bag. “Christ, it’s freezing.”

Maggie had endured worse; she was from Saskatchewan. What were they making of this in Saskatoon?
Coming up, the latest developments in the desperate search for CSKN’s own Margaret Schneider, but first a word from our friends down at Koroluk’s Implement Mart
. She must try to persuade Halcón to send word that she and Gloria-May were safe.

As Halcón went off to listen to his radio, Maggie settled beside Buho, who was picking out a tune on his guitar and singing softly in his croaking voice. “This is a song I wrote,” he told her. “A hymn to Benito Madrigal. We are blood; he is my uncle, but more father to me than my true one, who is a capitalist running dog.”

Maggie was astonished at his harshness of tone toward his father. She sought to find out why he had rejected him, but Buho preferred to talk of the teachings of his favoured uncle.

“In this song, he is reminding us that throughout history a small minority was always called upon to show the way. Benito has taught us that a fighting group can only come into being through struggle. That is how we write history — by shedding our blood for others.” He was like a talking manifesto.

“Buho, what’s the history of your
comando?”

“We are named the Movement of May Fifth in honour of Benito. Before, we were something else.”

He seemed hesitant to continue, as if fearing he might betray secrets; he rose to confer with Halcón, who removed his radio from his ear. Buho’s petition was greeted with a nod. When he again sat beside her, he seemed more relaxed.

“Once we were the People’s Popular Vanguard. You have heard of it?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“We were ignored by the press, of course. That is how they isolate people with progressive views. The Vanguard was a legitimate political party. Benito Madrigal, he was our candidate for president — this was six years ago. We were fools; we tried it their way. But the two parties of the oligarchy had all the money. They made sure we didn’t win a seat. After, we were bitter and divided; there were factions among us and our followers dwindled. And then my uncle brought us together with a desperate, brave action, striking at the heart of our unjust, decaying system.”

As he told a tangled story – a libel action and a hostage crisis at a courthouse – Maggie dimly remembered an item on Channel Ten’s
Eye to the Universe:
several Costa Rican judges held hostage by a former presidential candidate. He was ultimately disarmed and arrested without bloodshed.

“Now they have created a lie that he is insane. They have tortured him, wired him to machines – this was in the newspapers. After his brave act, we were united again in our determination, but we were drifting in the wilderness, without a plan. Then
he
came along. Halcón.” He pointed at the saviour, who was now conversing earnestly with Romeo and Juliet as well as Gordo.

And where had Halcón come from? Everywhere, it seemed. He had been in Peru with the Shining Path. He had been in Colombia, organizing bands of the rebel left. It was said he had been in Africa: in Libya, the Congo.

One day, he made contact with the remnants of the People’s Vanguard, arriving unannounced, “encouraging us, firing us up, speaking the true language of revolution. A brilliant new leader.” Buho’s voice dropped. “A man of better tactics than Don Benito, I admit. He has a clearer vision. He holds the traditional ways in scorn, the old politics. He has moulded us into a fighting revolutionary force.”

The hours passed with growing tension as they listened to a distant rumble of traffic from the road. Halcón was offering no indication when they might venture onto it.

It was about midnight, and the sky was as clear and massed with brittle stars as on a cloudless winter night on the prairies. A crescent moon yielded a startling light, revealing forms around Maggie, huddled or lying in sleeping bags. In one of them, Perezoso was moaning with the pain of his spider bite and Quetzal was whispering words of comfort. Maggie was concerned for them: they were far too young to be involved in this hazardous intrigue.