— Watch this! he said as he began his crossing. I’m going to show you how it’s done in the circus. Check out the elegance of my form.
He set off along the board, one hand on his hip and the other holding an invisible parasol. As he advanced, he sang a famous tango in a hoarse faux-soprano voice:
I’m the circus girl,
for a penny I give…49
Suddenly, when he was almost there, Franky Amundsen lost his balance, swatted desperately at the air, and plopped into the pit, making such a commotion that the batrachian singers went silent.
Immense laughter resounded on the bank.
— Pride goeth before a fall! exclaimed Tesler. The best-shod dude in Buenos Aires!
Del Solar wasn’t laughing. He peered over the bank and asked anxiously:
— Franky, are you there?
From the deep a whiny voice cursed in response:
— Nice question! Where the Sam Hill do you think I am?
— Is it very deep? asked Del Solar.
— Don’t think so, said Franky. I’m getting out now.
A moment later Franky Amundsen’s head poked up over the dark bank, and his comrades reached to take him by the armpits and hoist him ashore like some monstrous fish.
— Are you hurt? asked Luis Pereda, palming his back and chest.
— Not even a scratch, said Franky dolefully. But covered in mud from head to toe.
For the third time on that memorable night, Samuel Tesler got out his lighter. By its light, it was obvious that Franky was exaggerating: his feet and trousers were muddied not quite up to the knees. On the other hand, the whole of him reeked of putrefaction. The astrologer took a swipe of mud from Franky’s clothes onto his fingers and commented on its interesting origin.
— Mm-hmm, said Schultz, smelling the mire with relish. It’s putrimuck.
— Putri-bullshit! roared Franky, losing his temper. I’m in no mood for cute little terms from your neo-idiom. Why don’t you give me something to wipe this crud off with, instead!
His plea did not fall on deaf ears. His comrades, in a fit of generosity, offered him handkerchiefs, pages from notepads, personal letters, brilliant jottings, strange manuscripts. Adam Buenosayres, no less generous, was tempted to do his part by donating a certain ineffable Blue-Bound Notebook which he’d liberated that evening from an ingrate; but his infinite modesty stayed the gesture, reminding him that those pages belonged not to him but to posterity. In any case, Franky Amundsen managed to repair his misfortune at least partially. And the explorers, having regrouped, set off into the new territory before them.
Now, the dubious guide named Del Solar had promised that once across the ditch they’d be able to see the lights of the Dead Man’s House. But as it turned out, all they could see in every direction was universal darkness. Worse, the ground was getting rough and unpredictable. Sometimes they would climb a hill only to find that on the other side it fell away in a nearly sheer cliff. Having no idea of their elevation, they had to feel their way dangerously down, gingerly seeking toe-holds on the mysteriously steep slope. Other times, going downhill, they would come up against a wall of earth impossible to scale; then they would have to circle round until they found a way past the obstacle. All this increased the expeditionaries’ ill humour, and they advanced in a silence disturbed only by sounds of their laboured breathing.
Just as they were getting round one those inaccessible hills, the heroes stopped short in surprise at the scene before them. Twenty paces ahead, they beheld a man seated by a campfire, its flames darting in the wind. With a stick he was stirring a makeshift pot, its contents bubbling over onto the fire. Around him, seven incredibly emaciated dogs lay stretched out on the ground, snouts resting between paws, staring in rapt contemplation at the dance of the fire.
— A linyera, whispered Adam as he stared at the stranger.
But Schultz was sure the man was an authentic magus, and he based his observation on proofs he would provide forthwith, if the group was so willing. Since no one made any objection, the astrologer pointed to an ombú not far from the bonfire; its deformed trunk grew from roots twisting and turning like knotted serpents in the nervous glare of the flames.
— From here we’ll be able to observe him without being seen, he sensibly pointed out.
The explorers approached the ombú by way of vast circular detour around the luminous zone. But suddenly the dogs pricked up their ears, got up, and started barking furiously.
— Not to worry, Schultz told his companions. I’ve got my canido-blade on me.
Sure enough, he pulled out a regular-sized jackknife, opened the longer of its blades, and confidently continued forward, followed by the others. The man by the bonfire, perhaps still unaware of the intruders nearby, whistled softly. The dogs instantly quieted down, their bony frames slinking back to the fire to lie down. Gaining the foot of the ombú, the adventurers climbed onto its tortuous spurs and attentively observed the details of the scene. The fire illuminated the man entirely; they could see his tattered clothes, feet wrapped in rags, and bearded face. Ruddy with firelight, his face nevertheless gave the impression that an inner spark had gone out or died. The man kept on stirring the pot, all the while reciting an unintelligible monologue between his teeth.
Franky asked in a whisper what the strange man was muttering about. Schultz said it was probably a magic spell. And that in the pot he was probably brewing a philtre which, when applied to his head, would turn him into a cat or a lion or any other creature. Not hiding his apprehension, the astrologer said he wouldn’t be surprised if the dogs surrounding the magus were the human victims of some metamorphosis. As he talked, Schultz got himself so worked up that not even the incredulous snickers of his companions could dampen his exultation.
— I’m going to ask the man a few questions, he said at last, throwing caution to the winds.
— What if he throws the pot at us? objected Franky.
— Look here, Adam announced solemnly. You don’t play around with stuff like that.
Heedless of any warning, the excursionists left the safety of the ombú and headed for the fire. The sorcerer’s dogs came at them, ominously baring their teeth or snapping at the heels of the intruders. But the man by the fire didn’t even look up from his boiling pot.
— Good evening! Schultz said to him.
— Good evening! echoed the group in chorus.
A most worrisome silence was the only response. And so the astrologer, hoping to break it, pelted the wizard with questions about the dark art he surely professed, including its ritual formulas and magical ingredients. But the bonfire man, as if in another world, didn’t answer.