Story: "West of the River of Doubt"

From the diary of Kermit Roosevelt, the second son of Theodore Roosevelt, found in the estate of his younger sister, Esther Roosevelt.

Sunday, February 27, 1927, Rondônia, Brazil

Thirteen years the nightmare has haunted me. 

I have blamed myself, pushed everyone away — everyone except Esther and Archie and mother. I ended it with Belle, nearly ended myself many, many times. And here I am, back on this ink-black river. Back to search for him, what remains of him, if anything remains after thirteen years, but how can there not be something remaining of him, as vital as he was — father?

The forest on either side of the river is a green wall. I already feel the eyes on me, the natives hiding among the trees, watching, as they did thirteen years ago.

The sun is rising. We are off at midday.

* * *

Friday, March 4, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle

When father was feverish, in delirium, he kept repeating these lines of Coleridge over and over:

"In Xanadu did Kublah Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree."

Over and over. Hours on end. The same words, repeated, repeated. They run on in my mind. 

I should not have come here. I am no longer a young man. 

What do I hope to achieve by this?

 The black water of this river rushes, rushes, turbulent and black like my mind.

* * *

Friday, March 11, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle

Insects everywhere, a black, buzzing, biting cloud.

"This is my last chance to be a boy." That's what father said to me as we set out on the expedition, thirteen years ago. Maybe he died a boy. 

 How odd, for a son to hear his father wishing to be forever a boy, a Peter Pan, but that was him, wasn't it, the forever boy?

Get action! 

How many times we heard him say that: 

"Get action!" 

As if constant 'action' would chase away the black moods, the despair. Yes, that is what I need. I realize this is why I am here now. It's the only way to keep from eating the barrel of a gun. 

Get action!

* * *

Thursday, March 17, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle

We woke this morning to find the dog at the stern of the canoe, shot full of arrows.

It was the same as thirteen years ago. A message from the natives following us, watching us from the jungle on either side of the river. They could do this to us at any time. Why do they refrain? Do they want us to turn back? Do they want to egg us onward?

* * *

Friday, March 18, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle

We took him for a native. He came out of the jungle, jumped into the river, swam towards my canoe. 

When he pulled himself out of the water into the canoe, I recognized him. It was Julio de Lima, the camarada porter who had snapped and killed a man during the prior expedition, then disappeared into the jungle.

Thirteen years later, here he was, back again. He did not look a day older. 

"Ajude-me!" he cried out. That is 'Help me!' Then: "Chefe do pau grande — "

A single arrow flew from the jungle and pierced Julio through the throat, cutting off his words. 

The arrow must have been dipped in some terrible poison, because Julio withered before my eyes, his skin wrinkling so that he took on the appearance of an old man, his hair turned from black to gray then white, his lips drew back from long yellow teeth, and he fell dead on the spot.

We buried Julio under a tree. 

This is the place. The spot where I last saw father. 

This was where father told me he had determined that he would end his life with the small of bottle of lethal morphine he always carried with him, so that he would no longer be a burden for the expedition. By then, the infection in his leg was so bad that he had to be carried.  

“Boys, I realize that some of us are not going to finish this journey," father said. "I want you to go on. You can get out. I will stop here.”

But I refused. I would carry him out, I said, even if it was his dead body I carried on my back. So he might as well come along alive.

And I would have. I swear I would have brought him out alive. But it wasn't to be.

That night, the malaria fever took me. By the time I recovered, it was days later, we were down river, and father was gone, left, as he wished, in this forsaken spot to die.

* * *

Sunday, March 20, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle

Now I understand Julio's last words:

Chefe do pau grande.

But first, let me describe this place.

Here, in the middle of the hot, humid, insect-infested, rotting jungle — Paradise!

As in the literal meaning of the word 'Paradise' - from the 'walled gardens' in the Persian Empire. I have found Eden, here in the Amazon, west of the headwaters of the River of Doubt.

The air is perfectly temperate, the trees bear fruit that taste of all the best foods my palate can imagine, animals of all kinds roam free, the lion next to the lamb, and a tribe of innocent and peaceful people live in this walled garden, eating the fruit, enjoying a perfect, simple life.

And here I found him, 'Chefe do pau grande': The 'Chief of the Big Stick', elected by the tribe to be their leader:

Father.

He is alive.

Alive and a young man again. 

To see my father again, to clasp his hand, to speak to him, is beyond what I could have imagined.  

More incredible still, to see him as a man now several years my junior, in the prime of his life.

In the middle of the walled garden is a fountain, a wellspring. Those who drink from it will have their youth and vigor restored and live forever.

But there is a price to pay, and I am not yet certain I can pay it.

Father has lost all memory of his former life. That is the first price to pay for those who drink from the fountain of youth: your past life forgotten.

The second price: never to leave the pleasure-dome of this walled garden. 

Julio left — and paid the price.

* * *

Friday, March 25, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle

If I drink from the wellspring, will I know father as father, or will even that memory be lost to me, as it appears to be for him? Will he simply be a friend? So be it.

I swore I would not leave him. I will keep my promise.

Four of our number have decided they must return, must leave Xanadu. I will give them this diary to take to you, Esther. 

I will drink from the fountain. I will give up my memories. I will remain in the pleasure-dome. I will stay with father.

Smile when you think of me and of father. Here there are no black moods. Here there are no dark memories.

Smile, and remember me.

— THE END —

The story was inspired by this Reedsy.com writing prompt:

Write a story in the form of diary entries, written by an explorer as they make their way through what they thought was an untouched location.

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts