Boat Up the River

"One less worry," I remarked to the captain.

"Hmm," he replied.

Seven days ago, five boats started on a journey up the river from an outpost nestled at the mouth of the jungle. Just before we sailed into one of the Amazon River tributaries, the third boat turned back, reducing our competition to one.

The captain stole a glance at me, yet his focus remained on the struggling boat drifting down the river. It gradually faded into the embrace of the descending sun, as if the sun itself was devouring it. Eventually, he turned his gaze to me, his eyes searching my face, seeking to convey unspoken words. Maybe he wanted to say that it wasn't such a terrible idea to turn back, but he held his tongue. He simply walked past me. I suspect the captain's silence was merely a consequence of the money I had paid him.

Due to a series of bad investments, my father lost our family fortune. I should have been a more dutiful son, devoting my attention to the family business instead of squandering my days in slumber and my nights in gambling dens, drowning my sorrows in liquor until its effects sent me to the night houses. Perhaps then I would have seen the signs of my father's deteriorating mind.

Since the dead are free from the burdens of debt, I was left to deal with the consequences. Maybe it’s punishment for my recklessness with my own life. I had to sell everything that remained unconfiscated by the bank, including pieces from my mother's cherished jewelry collection, with the rest safeguarded by my sister.

Some of the money went towards settling my father's debts with his associates. However, for the largest debt, my sister made a promise to marry the man if he canceled the debt. It was an unfair trade. The wretch possessed the foulest breath and a repugnant character to match. I once witnessed him brutalize a maid in front of his guests for spilling his drink, telling her to clean up the mess with her tongue. Fortunately, my mother, a woman of grace, intervened and led the poor maid to the kitchen. I will forever be grateful to my sister for her sacrifice. The next day, I hastily boarded the first ship departing New York City.

It has been over two years since a carved wooden monkey adorned with gold and precious stones washed ashore near a small outpost on the outskirts of the Amazon delta. A journalist traveling with an archaeologist wrote of the golden monkey on the river, weaving within it the local legend of a lost city of gold deep within the heart of the jungle. The story captivated the minds of New Yorker's and swiftly captivated the entire nation. It quickly spread across the globe, carried by steamships. People from all corners of the earth flocked to the modest outpost, causing its population to rival that of the largest settlements on the continent.

At one point, the sheer number of boats heading up the Amazon was so overwhelming that it took an entire day just to navigate through the bustling docks. The jungle claimed most of them, and the few it spared served as a chilling reminder of the price demanded to reveal its secrets.

Fallen victims, taken by an unknown malady.

The captain, his face eternally bronzed and perpetually drenched in sweat, draped the sodden cloth he used to wipe his brow around his neck before disposing of his first mate's body in the river. The bloated corpse refused to sink, bobbing in the wake of the boat. The river vultures swiftly tore it asunder. Whatever ailment plagued us, it manifested differently in each victim. On the first boat, the entire crew turned on each other, murdering one another in a macabre frenzy. On the second vessel, I witnessed the last survivor succumb to a peculiar madness, slitting his own throat on the deck.

Against his better judgment, the captain of the Ezekiel dispatched a small contingent to investigate. Within twenty-four hours, most of his crew met their demise. The telltale yellowing of their eyes, he explained when he contacted our captain, was accompanied by boils erupting across their bodies. Their tongues swelled, but it was their minds that surrendered first, mercifully granting them ignorance of the ghastly fate that awaited them. Of the eight souls aboard, only the captain of the Ezekiel and his cook survived. The other two boats were not as fortunate.

He observes the yellow tinge in my eyes as I demand that the captain continue forging ahead up the river, for I am certain this city of gold exists; it must exist. Even if there isn’t, there must be something valuable enough to restore the life that is rightfully mine. Why else would the cost of discovery be so steep, paid in the currency of death?