What chords of memory did that face stir in Bomba’s heart? What recollections, faint and dim as some far off strains of music, were tugging at his consciousness? What vague memory told that desolate lad that he was looking at the pictured face of his mother?
His mother! The mother who perhaps had sung to him the lullaby that Sobrinini had crooned, who once perhaps had caressed him, kissed him, called him Bonny, her Bonny!
A passion of tears welled to the boy’s eyes. His heart was stirred to its depths.
But he dashed the tears away. A native might enter at any minute and might attribute them to weakness, to fear at the situation in which he found himself. Above everything, he must remain master of himself.
How came that picture in the dwelling of Japazy, the half-breed? Why had a similar picture been in the hut of Sobrinini? What mysterious link was there between the lovely original of that picture and Sobrinini, the witch woman, Japazy, the master of Jaguar Island, Jojasta, the medicine man of the Moving Mountain, and Casson, his friend and former protector? Somewhere, some time, those residents of the Amazonian jungle had known the mysterious Bartow, his wife, Laura, and perhaps the little child named Bonny. How had fate brought them together? And how had fate torn them apart?
The door of his room opened, and a boy appeared, bringing a tray of food. It was savory and abundant, and Bomba ate it with a relish.
The boy, who seemed to be about twelve years old, stood by, watching him with black, beadlike eyes. Curiosity was in the eyes and awe, awe of this bold stranger, only a little older than himself in years, but vastly older in strength and experience, who had dared to take his life in his hands and come to ask questions of the dreaded Japazy, the lord of life and death on Jaguar Island.
“What is your name?” asked Bomba, who took a liking to the youngster.
“Thy servant’s name is Solani,” answered the boy. “He is the son of Abino.”
“Solani has a good father,” said Bomba diplomatically.