In the Gardens of the Enchanter

The air, full of ravaging winds only an hour before now hung hot and still, like a stifling blanket over the Ramona. The steamer was now making good headway leaving a boiling wake behind in the stream. On the deck, Francis ended his ordeal by sitting against the railing. Isabel squeezed Richard’s arm against her. “We have survived,” she said. “At this moment I am terribly excited because I feel on the brink of a new adventure. Come with me, Richard.” 

“I won’t do it, Isabel” 

“We shall go exploring together, Richard.”

Francis, sitting against the rail now like an exhausted warrior, seemed to grin up at Isabel. 

“How do you feel?” Isabel called down. 

Francis waved his arm in a weary gesture of triumph. 

“We’re coming down,” she called to Francis. 

Isabel started to pull Bogarde with her down the companionway but he resisted. “I won’t go exploring, Isabel. I want you. I won’t share you.”

Suddenly Bogarde broke off. He cocked his head as though he had heard some unexpected sound. “Listen,” Bogarde said grabbing both her wrists, “Do you hear something?” 

To Isabel the river seemed eerily placid after two days of upheaval. She heard only the regular thump of the engines. The Ramona under the hand of the old helmsman had come in close to the bank. Isabel peered into the dark, soft, atmosphere of the jungle now dripping from the rain—a tangle of boles, fronds, and leaves. On both banks the jungle rose up sharply as the boat passed between the forested hills that enclosed the River of Giants. 

“Don’t you hear it,” Bogarde asked again, a puzzled frown on his face. 

Isabel shook her head. “I don’t even hear birds or monkeys.” 

The Indian crewmen who had remained below for the last few days began to appear on deck. They blinked in the sun’s glare. They whispered together their eyes bulging with trepidation. The Indian helmsman called from the wheelhouse, “Very bad. Very bad.” 

“I don’t like this,” Bogarde exclaimed. He nodded toward the jungle. “Something’s happening out there.” 

Confused, Isabel let him drag her back to the wheelhouse. 

The old helmsman was quaking with some esoteric dread. “River get big very soon,” he muttered. 

Sir Oswald, face creased with fury, came into the wheelhouse. “You should have called me,” the old man shouted to Bogarde. “I told you to call me when the wind dropped. Fool.” 

“Enchanter sends big river,” said the helmsman.

“My God, I hope it’s not too late,” Sir Oswald growled. “Ring the engine-room. Tell them to make all possible speed. Perhaps we can still find some by-water to shelter in further downstream.”

“What is it,” Bogarde asked his face red from Sir Oswald’s rebuke. 

Isabel tried to lighten the moment. “Well, we weathered the Enchanter’s storm,” she said, “I suppose we’ll come through any other punishment he sends against us.” 

 Sir Oswald gave her a look of undisguised contempt. Bogarde began ringing the mysterious engine-room far below. 

“Where’s the Captain?” Sir Oswald barked. 

“What’s going on?” Isabel demanded. 

“Be quiet,” Sir Oswald ordered. He then sent one of the natives to fetch the Captain. 

“The Captain’s not much use,” Sir Oswald muttered to Bogarde, “but he just might know of a place to take shelter. We’d better fetch Father Goncalves as well if we hope to 

get information from this crew.” 

Sir Oswald turned to Isabel. He spoke with forced courtesy. “We are, perhaps, in some danger, Mrs. Sebastian. It’s imperative that we find out exactly what these Indians know. Will you be good enough to fetch Father Goncalves from his cabin?” 

Isabel turned to carry out the errand alarmed now by the obvious apprehension she sensed around her. Hadn’t they come through all right? Wasn’t the storm ended and 

hadn’t they survived it? What caused this fear among the Indians and why had it communicated itself so easily to Richard and Sir Oswald? 

When Isabel opened the wheelhouse door she heard it. It seemed a distant roar coming rapidly closer. The Indians clung together. Francis, below at the bow, struggled to 

his feet. He seemed unable to walk or move. He stood there naked as if transfixed. He seemed to stare back up the river. Isabel’s heart ached at his vulnerability. The roaring 

noise grew to a thunder. She heard what sounded like the snapping of wood in the midst of it. 

“My God,” exclaimed Sir Oswald suddenly at her side. “It has happened. All the flood water held back by the wind has begun to flow at once. All the current that didn’t run is 

starting to run now. And we’re in the path of it.” 

“What can we do?” Isabel shouted. Her heart leaped. 

In the wheelhouse Bogarde was frantically ringing the engine-room. 

Isabel saw Colonel Lobos, Father Goncalves, and Carrie Trinian come out on deck. 

“Get below,” Sir Oswald shouted at them. “Get below!” 

The three scuttled for the hatches. 

Sir-Oswald called to his son. “Francis! Get below! Try to walk. Please!” 

Francis stood in a daze. 

“Please try, Francis,” Isabel cried. “Please, my lovely one, try to move.” 

The roar now sounded like a bellowing furnace in Isabel’s ears. Suddenly a wall of water appeared at the bend of the river. Compressed by the steep hills on either side it 

bore down on the Ramona like a moving muddy mountain. It carried with it whole trees, huts, capsized boats, and the bodies of drowned animals and men. It rolled toward 

them in a shimmering growing mass. Its sound struck terror into Isabel. “The Voice of God,” she breathed, falling to her knees. 

The Ramona rose in the water-mountain’s grasp. They careened at the crest. Isabel felt them tilt over as the wave shot them forward into the trough. The world turned 

upside down. The trees moved across the sky. The bow with Francis clinging to it dipped into the rushing waters. There came the shock of the wave’s passing. The bow 

lifted high overhead again. The muddy water washed over the deck. Again the Ramona dipped and rose. The bow shuddered. The water sheeted off. Isab