Flame Of Diablo

The next few hours in retrospect were like a nightmare. She knew that somehow they had got her out of the salón and upstairs to a bedroom. Then someone was there called Dolores, helping to remove the cream suit with warm capable hands, holding a basin while Rachel vomited until her stomach was sore and bathing her forehead with a cool damp cloth in between spasms.

Rachel wanted to tell her that she was grateful, but she was too dizzy and too weak, and every attempt to raise her head from the pillow seemed to bring on another attack of nausea. She wasn’t even aware that at last she had drifted into an exhausted sleep.

When she opened her eyes, the room was dark except for one heavily shaded lamp in the corner. She stirred and stretched cautiously, but her body seemed to respond normally to the action, and she risked sitting up. As she did so, the door opened cautiously and Isabel’s head came round it.

‘Ah, you are awake,’ she exclaimed. ‘That is good. Do you feel better now? Well enough to speak to my father?’

Rachel nodded, thankful that there was no return of that appalling dizziness as she did so. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble,’ she said contritely.

‘What trouble?’ Isabel shrugged. ‘It is the altitude which makes one suffer in this way. Many turistas are afflicted when they first arrive here, but one soon becomes acclimatised.’

She produced a large silk shawl which she proceeded to drape carefully round Rachel’s bare shoulders, then sending her a flashing smile she went back to the door and admitted her father.

Señor Arviles was a dapper man of medium height with an intelligent, humorous face. He bowed slightly over Rachel’s hand, then drew up a chair and sat down beside her bed. Rachel was amused to see that Isabel remained in the room, presumably to act as a youthful chaperone.

After an exchange of civilities, he came swiftly to the point.

‘I am grieved that we can give you no news of your brother, señorita. But we all understood that he was to return home to England. Has he not done so?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Apparently not. And I need to contact him urgently, Señor.’

‘So Isabel has told me. A family illness, is it not?’ Señor Arviles gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Believe me, I would help if it were possible, but your brother merely stayed with us for a short while, then went on his way. His visit was shorter than we would have liked,’ he added courteously, ‘because he knew Miguel was to go to Cartagena.’

‘I see.’ Rachel paused. ‘He didn’t give the impression that he intended to stay in Colombia, maybe?’

‘No, señorita.’ Señor Arviles shook his head. ‘While he stayed with us, Miguel and he made tours, and paid visits to places of interest. There would be little left for him to see, I think.’

‘No,’ Rachel said desolately. ‘I suppose he must have—moved on somewhere.’

She would have to go home and confess failure, she thought unhappily, and what would that do to Grandfather’s already precarious health? She could only be glad that it was she who had had the wasted journey to the other side of the world, and not Sir Giles.

Señor Arviles’ eyes studied her downbent head attentively.

He said, ‘In the meantime, señorita, you will spend a few days with us? We are happy to welcome the sister of Marcos to our house.’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I’ve caused quite enough disruption already. Besides …’ She broke off, stricken, suddenly remembering. ‘My God, I had a taxi waiting and …’

Señor Arviles laughed. ‘It was paid off a long time ago, señorita, and the driver told us the name of your hotel so that we could contact them also. They might have become anxious if one so young and lovely had gone out into Bogota and not returned.’

Rachel returned his smile rather wanly. ‘That’s hardly likely.’

‘You think not?’ Señor Arviles shrugged. ‘Yet you must remember, señorita, that this is Colombia, not Gran Bretaña. Our history has blood in it, and some of it is recent. You would do well to remain here with us, I think, and allow my wife and daughter to entertain you while I make what enquiries I can about Marcos.’

His tone was firm. It was the one he would use, Rachel decided, when he was giving a client some unpopular advice.

‘So it is decided, then.’ He rose briskly from the chair before she could utter a further protest. ‘Rest, señorita, and we will make all necessary arrangements. Presently Dolores will bring you some soup.’

He bowed again and walked to the door. Isabel following him, her pretty face wearing a curiously thoughtful expression.

The soup when it came was delicious, almost a meal in itself, thick with beans and spiced meat, and served with delicately flavoured corn muffins.

Recalling how ill she had been only a short time before, Rachel was amazed that she could eat anything, but she finished every mouthful. When she heard the knock on the door, she imagined it was Dolores coming to remove her tray, and was surprised when Isabel came in.

She exclaimed with pleased politeness about Rachel’s return to health, and sat down in the chair that her father had vacated, folding her hands in her lap. Watching her, Rachel thought suddenly that she looked troubled, and saw that her fingers gripped each other, tight with tension.

‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ she said, cutting across Isabel’s somewhat dutiful recital of the museums they would visit and the sights they would see while she remained in Bogota.

Isabel’s eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘Perhaps, señorita. I—I do not know.’

‘Well, tell me what it is,’ Rachel urged.

‘But first you must promise that you must not tell my father.’ Isabel’s tone was equally urgent. ‘He would be so angry—because I tell you and not him.’

‘I promise I won’t mention anything to him about this conversation.’ Rachel’s eyes never left the younger girl’s face. ‘Do you know where my brother has gone?’

Isabel lifted her shoulders in a deep shrug. ‘Maybe—that is all I can say. señorita, I must tell you something now of which I am much ashamed.’ She paused. ‘I love my brother, but sometimes he is not kind. Sometimes, when he has his friends, he tells me to go away, to leave them in peace, and this hurts me. So they go to his room and they talk, and sometimes I go to my room where there is an amario on the wall next to Miguel’s where there is also an amario.’ She paused again. ‘You know what I am trying to say?’

‘I think so,’ said Rachel. ‘There are adjoining—wardrobes, perhaps, and you can—hear what they are talking about.’

Isabel blushed unhappily ’si, it is so. I am much ashamed now, but before I used to laugh to myself because Miguel thought he had his friends to himself, and I could not share in the things they talked about.’

Her eyes gleamed for a moment and Rachel thought that the sheltered daughter of the house had probably found her eavesdropping on purely masculine conversations more than enlightening at times.

She said, ‘So you listened and you heard Mark and Miguel talking. Is that it?’

Isabel nodded. ‘It was then I knew my father would be angry because Miguel had spoken to Marcos of forbidden things.’

‘What forbidden things?’

Isabel looked down at her lap again. ‘Emeralds,’ she said in a low voice. There was a long taut silence, then she went on. ‘Our emerald mines here in Colombia, Señorita Raquel, are the most famous in the world. They make much money for our country. But not all the emeralds that leave Columbia do so with the will of our government, you understand.’

There was another pause and Rachel made herself say dry-mouthed, ‘Smuggling? You mean Miguel and Mark were talking about smuggling emeralds?’

’si, and from what Miguel is saying I know that he has done this thing, and that if my father ever finds out he will be angry, because it is so much against the law, and the law means everything to my father. He would think that Miguel had dishonoured him.’

Rachel said in a hollow voice, ‘Do you mean that Miguel was suggesting that Mark should become an emerald smuggler?’

‘No, not that. He seemed to be warning him. Many people die all the time because of emeralds. There is much danger. He says that he thinks your brother is a little mad. And then Señor Marcos says “You would not think I was so mad if I came back with the Flame of Diablo.” ‘

‘What is the Flame of Diablo?’

‘It is a legend, Señorita Raquel, a story that I heard when I was a child, as did Miguel. It is said that somewhere in the hills to the north there is a mine where one can find emeralds worth many millions of pesos. But it is also said that no one has set eyes upon this mine since the days of El Dorado, the Golden One who used emeralds from the Diablo mine to ornament himself before he made the offering in the Sacred Lake.’

‘Then Diablo is a place?’ Rachel queried.

Isabel shuddered. ‘It is truly named,’ she said in a low voice, ‘for it is a place of the devil. Many people seek the Diablo mine and the green flame which burns there, but they do not return. My father says the reason is simple. It is a dangerous place. Often there are landslides, and the rivers are deep with fierce currents and little fish that can eat a horse and rider before a man can utter a last prayer, and leave only the bones. And there is el tigre who kills, and many snakes. Also bandidos and other evil men,’ she added, crossing herself. ‘Perhaps it is all so, but there are those who say the reason why the Flame of Diablo stays hidden is that it is guarded by the old gods who were worshipped before the conquistadores came to this place, and that all who seek the Flame are accursed.’

In spite of herself, Rachel felt a long cold shiver run the length of her spine. It was all very well to tell herself robustly that only the very credulous would believe such a tale, but here in this alien land, in the very shadow of the pagan mountains, it was difficult to dismiss Isabel’s recital as nonsense.