The Long Journey Home

Sam slowly paddled the canoe down the river, carefully negotiating the rocks that were dotted along the way. Mosquitoes nipped at his neck and face with such regularity that he didn’t even bother to swipe at them anymore. At least they were eating well. In this jungle food was virtually non-existent. He wondered how the local tribes managed to survive out here. The plant life was mainly poisonous and what was edible had little to no nutritional value. The wildlife mainly consisted of snakes and spiders, all highly venomous, any monkeys that he occasionally saw jumping from tree to tree were impossible to catch without the use of a firearm and he had long since run out of powder and shot.

It was 1748 and Sam’s second attempt to reach the San Quito outpost deep within the Amazon rain forest. His first attempt ended in failure due to bad weather. This time he had succeeded and was trying to return to where he called home, a small village populated by traders and explorers. His canoe was packed with rare plants. They were completely inedible, but in the right hands they could be turned into medicine. In the wrong hands they became the basis for a very powerful narcotic. He could make decent money selling to those with the right hands, but even more selling to those with the wrong ones. His haul was worth its weight in gold and had cost him very little. 

It was now a race against time to get back down the river, a race that he was losing. If disease didn’t get him then starvation certainly would. He was weeks away from his destination and weeks since his last good meal. He had lost what meagre rations he had whilst negotiating some rapids. His stomach was empty and rumbled continuously. He wretched over the side of the boat. Stomach acid burned his throat as it poured from his mouth into the river. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water from his canteen. 

A few days later he heard a voice calling. At first he thought he had imagined it. But then he heard it again.

“Hello, friend.”

Sam could see a man on the riverbank waving to him. He paddled over and they exchanged greetings. 

The stranger’s name was Nathaniel. He had also intended to trade at San Quito, but his canoe had been dashed against the rocks during a sudden surge in the river due to heavy rains a few weeks back. He had lost everything to the river and looked in even worse shape than Sam. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and his skin had a sickly grey hue to it. 

“I had given up hope of finding anyone,” he blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

“Calm yourself sir,” Sam replied. “If we reorganise my cargo I’m sure I have room for you.”

With the sacks of medicinal plants moved to the centre of the canoe, Nathaniel sat himself at the front with Sam seated at its rear. 

“I must admit, walking through that cursed jungle I’ve lost all track of time and no idea how far we are from civilisation. How long will it take to make it down river?” Nathaniel asked. 

“At least three weeks by my reckoning.” Sam replied. 

“My god, that long? I had hoped I’d made more progress on foot, but it was heavy going. I’m starving, I don’t suppose you have any food?”

“I do now,” Sam said, picking up the machete from the floor of the canoe.

∼ Ian Sputnik

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