“What’s that?” Dalton demanded sharply as a particularly hideous squawk floated across the water.
“Nao é nada. A bicharia agitase.” Joao shrugged. “The menagerie agitates itself.” His manner indicated that some bichinho beneath notice had made the noise.
But moments later the little brown man became rigid. He half rose to his feet in the boat’s stern, then stooped and shut off the popping motor. In the relative silence the other heard what he had—far off and indistinct, muttering deep in the black mato, a voice that croaked of ravenous hunger in accents abominably known to him.
“Currupira,” said Joao tensely. “Currupira sai á caçada da noite.” He watched the foreigner with eyes that gleamed in the fading light like polished onyx.
“Avante!” snapped Dalton. “See if it comes closer to the river this time.”
It was not the first time they had heard that voice calling since they had ventured deep into the unpeopled swampland about which the downriver settlements had fearful stories to whisper.
Silently the guide spun the engine. The boat sputtered on. Dalton strained his eyes, watching the darkening shore as he had watched fruitlessly for so many miles.
But now, as they rounded a gentle bend, he glimpsed a small reddish spark near the bank. Then, by the last glimmer of the swiftly fading twilight, he made out a boat pulled up under gnarled tree-roots. That was all he could see but the movement of the red spark told him a man was sitting in the boat, smoking a cigarette.
“In there,” he ordered in a low voice but Joao had seen already and was steering toward the shore.
The cigarette arched into the water and hissed out and they heard a scuffling and lap of water as the other boat swayed, which meant that the man in it had stood up.