Seas of Fortune(3)

“Are we there yet?” Maurício asked.

“Almost. Yes. Pull in over there.” It was a short walk to the trail.

Maurício stood quietly, studying the man-high herringbone pattern carved on the nearest rubber tree.

Henrique joined him. “Something wrong?”

“I was just thinking, it’s like the Amazon writ small.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look. You have the diagonal cuts. Those are like the tributaries. And they feed into the vertical channel, the main river. First on one side, then on the other.”

Henrique considered Maurício’s metaphor. “And the cup at the bottom, where the latex collects, that’s the ocean.” He walked over to the trunk, and felt the cuts. “We have a good tapper, here. He’s getting flow, but the cuts are still pretty shallow. We won’t know for sure until next year, but I don’t think he’s harmed the tree significantly.”

“We really need something better than knives and hatchets for making the cuts the right depth.”

“I agree. In fact I said so in the letter that went home with the last shipment. But I have no idea what sort of tool would do the job.”

“Are we done here?”

“Well . . . I want to talk to this seringueiro. Perhaps give him a little bonus. Word will get around, and the other tappers will try to emulate him.”

They waited for the tapper assigned to this route to appear. Even though they knew the direction from which he would be coming, and were watching and listening for him, they had little warning. One moment, there was nothing but the green of the forest, and the next, he was standing ten feet away, appraising them.

They greeted him, and he relaxed. They offered the Indian some water, and he took a quick swig and set to work. He deftly cut a new set of diagonal grooves, slightly below the ones cut the time before, and rubbed his finger over them.

Henrique complimented him on his work, and handed him a string of glass beads. The seringueiro held them up in the sunlight, laughed, and fastened them around his upper arm. He gave the two Belémistas a wave and headed on to the next tree on his route.

The visitors returned to their canoe and paddled on. That evening, they were able to witness the climax of the seringueiros’ daily routine.

“Here, look,” one said, handing them a large gourd. He had made a second round of his trees in the afternoon, collecting the latex from the cups. Henrique dipped his finger in the milk to test its consistency, and passed it on to Maurício. Maurício rolled his eyes, but dutifully accepted the vessel. He made a pretense of drinking from it, which greatly amused the Indian.

It was time for the next step. The Indian dipped a wooden paddle inside, coating it with the “milk.” He then held it in the smoke of a fire.

“This is exciting,” Maurício said. “Like watching paint dry.”

The first coat of latex slowly hardened into rubber, and the tapper put the rubber-coated paddle back in the gourd. He repeated the process, building up the mass, until it had reached the desired thickness for a rubber “biscuit.”

He then pried it off the paddle, and handed it to Henrique. Henrique nodded to Maurício, who handed the Indian some brightly dyed cloth.

“Time to call it a night,” Henrique said. Maurício agreed.

Henrique pointed. “There’s a good place for you to hang up your bed.” Maurício walked over, hammock in hand, to the trees that Henrique had marked out. He tied it to one trunk, and was ready to fasten it to the other, when he suddenly stopped short. A moment later, he was hurriedly untying the hammock.

Henrique was laughing.

“Very funny,” Maurício commented. “I haven’t been in the rainforest as often as you, but I don’t fall for the same trick twice.” One of the trees in question was notorious because it often served as a nest for a breed of ants of malignant disposition. It was commonly used in practical jokes on greenhorns.

Maurício sniffed haughtily. “As punishment for your crime, I am going to read you the poem I wrote last night.”

* * *

The men were getting bored. And irritable. There had been two knife fights a day for the past week. Bento Maciel Parente, the Younger, knew something had to be done.

“Time for a coreira,” he announced. His people were delighted. They so enjoyed hunting. As they readied their canoes, one man accidentally knocked down another. What a few hours earlier would have led to another duel, was laughed off. Clearly, Bento had made the right decision.

Bento had scarred himself like a native warrior, but he was no friend to the Indians. Like his father and his brother, he was a slaver.