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“I can’t say this was the top of my list of things to do in Venezuela,” said Algy, conversationally.
Biggles gave him a rare scathing look, then turned back to his current task – hacking through thick vines which blocked the safest path through the jungle. Their knives were long and sharp as razors, borrowed from the locals who made their living in the jungle, and still it took many heavy whacks before even one vine detached itself from the whole and fell to the ground, already thickly carpeted with decaying leaves and shrivelled tendrils.
Algy rolled his eyes in return, his own side finally falling beneath his attack, and crawled through the narrow gap between vines and tree trunk to the safety of the path beyond.
There was little to be said for the location of their latest venture. Having spent several months already doing various work-for-hire across the continent, it hadn’t been much of a surprise to be approached in Buenos Aires by a man with more money than sense. He had a very particular mission for them to complete, and one which Algy personally thought was something of a wild goose chase.
Not that he believed the whole tale they’d been told was a pack of lies. Certainly, the locals were only too willing to inform them of the location of the flowers they’d been contracted to collect, and to ask for delivery of any excess they found beyond what they were being paid to bring back to Argentina. Their interpreter, a young man who had lived with the tribe for some years and was on the cusp of marrying into it, had seemed somewhat amused by the whole business, although Algy would be damned if he could figure out why.
Really the whole affair had an air of irony about it which Algy didn’t appreciate. He’d always hated having the wrong end of the stick, and here it felt as if he and Biggles both were having some vital piece of information kept from them.
The man who hired them – a heavy set gentleman who had emigrated to Argentina after the war, having made his fortune in stocks and shares – had given them only a description of the flower, and not why exactly he desired to have it with such urgency.
“I hope this is a miracle cure for insect bites,” he said, swatting at an emerald green fly of alarming size. “Something beneficial to humanity.”
“I doubt that somehow,” said Biggles. He struggled to unfurl the map they’d been following, then squinted at it in the low light. Algy took out his compass and came to stand beside him, leaning over his shoulder for a better look. “I feel like a pirate with equipment like this.”
“Dread Pirate Biggles doesn’t have much of a ring to it,” said Algy.
Biggles scoffed loudly, although Algy had the distinct impression that the comment had hit home. “Unfortunately, I do think you’ve got the more piratical name. Not that you’re doing much with it.” He ruffled the map. “I think we’ve got the right bearing, anyway. Should be another hundred yards or so, then the cave will be to the west.”
“Still not sure about flowers that grow in caves,” Algy mused. “Seems unnatural.”
Biggles shrugged. “I can’t say horticulture interests me very much. I’m more intrigued by the locals - quite a lot of them seemed to know something we don’t.”
“Not unusual in these parts,” replied Algy. “And anyway, it’s not as if we asked. Seemed impolite when they’d already lent us the knives and the map.”
The map duly rolled away, Biggles led Algy along the path as it wound through the trees. It was well-trod despite the vines which covered it. Algy supposed that the vines might well grow too quickly to keep cut back in the way which hedgerows and bramble patches could be back in England.
It was a beautiful place. Algy tended to be more likely to stop and smell the roses (metaphorically in this case) than Biggles, but their current surroundings had even him pausing to take in the scenery. Algy could see a sloth high above them in the canopy, and as he paused to observe its slow progress along its branch a cloud of colourful birds rose and swept across his eyeline, bright primary colours that would make a robin cry with shame. Even with the insects and vines and irritating possibility of spiders crawling in his boots when they made camp, it was the sort of place it was difficult to dislike.
The cave, when they found it, was surprisingly easy to spot. Algy had expected that they would need to clear away some foliage as they approached but instead the cave mouth seemed very well maintained, with a rough wooden gate lashed across it and the path studded with flat rocks around the opening. A sign written in a language Algy didn’t know was affixed to the rockface beside it. He moved closer to inspect it, only somewhat reassured by the lack of large red crosses or dramatically artistic skull-and-crossbones.
“What do you make of it, Biggles?” He asked, gesturing to the sign. Besides the text, he could make out what seemed to be a flower with large blue petals.
Biggles shrugged. “I’d imagine it’s a marker for the tribesmen to find the right place to collect plants for trade. They seem to be much more closely linked with the settlers than other natives we’ve come across.”
As sensical as the explanation was, Algy still felt a trace of unease as Biggles unlatched the gate and stepped into the cave. It was dark enough that Algy felt it necessary to take out his torch, even as the sun shone through the forest canopy above them.
The roof of the cave started low, Algy having to stoop while Biggles led them into the first chamber. Their request for a map of the cave had been laughed off - apparently it was isolated from the larger cave system by a rock slide that had been there for centuries. Algy couldn’t deny some relief at that. He had never been a fan of confined spaces, and caves in particular gave him the willies.
“What do you make of that?” Biggles asked. His voice echoed slightly even at a whisper. His torch beam had struck on something a few paces ahead of them.
Algy shone his own torch in the same direction, allowing a wider beam of light to illuminate whatever it was. “Somewhere to sleep, looks like,” he offered. It was a simple setup, wide enough for several men to lie down beside each other. Instead of a mattress there was a pile of dried foliage and moss, covered by a heap of animal furs which had - at first glance - made the whole affair resemble a sleeping bear. Beside the bed was a basket containing some iron rations and a canteen of water.
“Very civilised,” he said, and sat on the pile of furs. It seemed a good moment to check his feet for blisters and his legs for ticks, which had become an unfortunately imminent threat on their South American adventures. “Comfortable too. I suppose the weather might mean anyone venturing out here would have to shelter overnight from time to time.”
He rolled up his trousers to the knee and inspected his calves. There was a spectacular bruise on his left from a disagreement with a tree root, but besides that they seemed mostly unscathed. Biggles mirrored him, still standing.
“You’ll need some iodine for that one,” said Algy. Biggles had managed, somehow, to get a still-bloody graze on one knee. Casting his mind back Algy had a faint memory of a different tree root and a minor fall, but that had been several hours ago. “Hang on, I’ll check the supplies.”
Their supplies included a robust medical kit, somewhat depleted of quinine and sticking plaster. The bottle of iodine, however, was still half full. Algy applied some to a cloth and approached Biggles, who had assumed the expression of any man confronted with the imminent presence of iodine on an open wound.
He hissed slightly as Algy dabbed at it, but bore up fairly well besides that. “Brave lad,” said Algy, with only a hint of sarcasm, before tidying away the bottle and shoving the cloth into one of his pockets.
“You should have been a nurse,” said Biggles, offering Algy a hand up off the bed. “Your bedside manner is impeccable.”
“But what a loss to aviation,” replied Algy. He grinned. “And to your own self. You’d never get out of so many scrapes without me.”
“I wouldn’t get into so many of them in the first place,” replied Biggles ironically. He turned his torch towards the darkness. “Once more unto the breach?”
“Lead on, Macduff,” said Algy. They made slow progress further into the cave, taking care over the uneven ground. The steady drip of water from the stalactites above was almost soothing despite the damp atmosphere it created. Each pass of the torch beam across the tunnel revealed patches of lichen that glistened in the dim light. It was beautiful in an earthy sort of way.
The flower they had been sent to find grew only in this region of Venezuela. In fact, so far as Algy could recall from the lecture they’d been given by their current employer, it wasn’t a flower at all. It was really a sort of lichen, one which required a seemingly unique combination of nutrients to survive that was found exclusively in the cave they were currently exploring. It was notable for its coloration, a vivid purple which their employer hoped to recreate chemically once he had a large enough sample to experiment on.
For Algy, the important thing was that once they delivered a case of the stuff back to Argentina they would be paid enough to cover half of the fuel for a return journey to England.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a wide chamber. Algy, following on Biggles’ heels, had to grab the other man’s shoulder to stop himself from falling over. As light passed over the high ceiling, studded liberally with stalactites, Algy spotted a hint of purple.
He stepped carefully over to the far wall, thankful that a small part of the ground had been worn smooth by centuries of similar travellers, and inspected the patch of lichen growing there. It was as tall as he was and about two feet wide, impressively colourful, and very much free for the taking.
“Have you got the box?” Algy asked, turning on his heel. “I’d like to be out of here before the clouds break.”
Biggles nodded, then wrestled off his pack and withdrew the provided box, a surprisingly small container. It did seem that the stuff would pack down small, though. “If you keep watch for wildlife I’ll cut off a good chunk.”
Algy inclined his head and turned back towards the cave mouth. It was just visible in the distance, a dim light shaded by vines. There was no sign of animal life in the cave, thank god, no tracks or fur shed on the hard earth floor. Algy kept his eyes trained on the entrance nonetheless, feeling that he may as well put in some effort. Behind him, Biggles made a noise of disgust.
“What is it?” Algy called.
Biggles grunted in annoyance. “The stuff’s bloomed all over me. I’ve got dust up my nose, feels like.”
“Obviously it likes you,” replied Algy with a smirk. “Have you sliced off your portion yet?”
“It’s wormed its way into the cave wall quite nicely,” said Biggles. Algy heard the scraping of blade against stone. “Oh, bugger.”
“Everything alright?”
“Cut myself,” said Biggles, his voice somewhat muffled. Algy abandoned his vigilant observation of the empty cave mouth and turned to check on him; he had his middle and ring fingers in his mouth.
“Do you need some sticking plaster and a kiss better?” Algy asked. He knelt and began rummaging in his pack once again for the first aid kit, thankful as ever that he had restocked it when they were last in a settlement larger than three wood huts and a campfire.
Biggles gave him a filthy look and jabbed a thumb at the cave wall behind him. “Get cutting,” he said, still muffled, and elbowed him out of the way to get at the first aid kit.
“Ask a silly question,” said Algy. He inspected the lichen again. It seemed to be glowing faintly, although that might have been a trick of the light. Before he could scrape any of it off, however, he was distracted by a strange roaring sound.
The cave mouth was suddenly much dimmer. With more speed than dignity Algy raced up the passage, one hand on his pistol, and looked out into the clearing.
Rain hammered down in an almost opaque sheet. The roaring sound was louder now, echoing in the cave opening. Algy shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to see through the rain to the cover of the trees, but there was nothing.
“Bad news,” he said, once he’d made his way back to Biggles’ side. “The weather’s turned. Absolutely cats and dogs out there, and I doubt it’ll let up any time soon.”
Biggles, predictably, adopted his usual expression of singular focus. Algy let him be for a little while, and went to re-inspect the bedding situation.
“It’s late enough in the day that waiting for the rain to die off will end with us trekking back through the jungle by night,” said Biggles, once he’d come to join Algy in looking at the bed. It was a good enough bed, Algy supposed, especially now he was facing the prospect of actually sleeping on it. “And I don’t fancy suicide by jaguar this evening. Might prevent us from getting paid for this little lot.” He shook the box of lichen scrapings illustratively. A small plume of dust erupted from a poorly sealed corner before Biggles managed to close it up again.
“That stuff is pretty delicate,” said Algy. He gestured at the box. “I hope it’ll make it back to the city without disintegrating entirely.”
“If it does then Harrison will have to deal with that himself,” declared Biggles. He scratched at his neck. “I don’t think this cave living agrees with my constitution.”
Algy shook his head sadly. “You’ve lost your spark of youthful enthusiasm,” he replied. “Why, just a few months ago you’d have insisted on sleeping in this cave. ‘Live a bit for once, Algernon old boy’, you’d say.”
“And you’d have done it, grumbling all the way,” said Biggles. He sounded fond. Algy glanced across at him, then away. It was much easier to dance around the subject of tender feelings with Biggles. It saved embarrassment, and avoided having to acknowledge some of the darker nights they’d spent during the war.
The bed was a non-issue. They’d shared a bunk many times on their adventures in South America, and so it was almost second nature to snug up beneath the furs, shoulders brushing, once Biggles’ watch showed night had fallen. The rain still roared beyond the cave mouth. It was dark but not cold, the ambient humid heat of the jungle permeating the air and leaving Algy sweating beneath the furs.
Eventually he drifted off with one arm and one foot poking out unprotected. His sleep was light and muzzy, as if he was skating over the surface of dreaming, and he found himself feeling more exhausted when he woke, suddenly, to the sound of his bedmate tossing and turning.
He rolled over and put a hand on Biggles’ shoulder. They both had bad dreams from time to time, but when Biggles didn’t snap awake Algy felt a thrill of panic in his chest.
“Wake up, old man,” he said, then jumped when it echoed back at him.
“‘M still awake,” said Biggles. “It’s bloody cold in here. Can’t you feel it?” He rolled away from Algy’s hand, falling from the edge of the pallet and onto the earth beyond it.
The panic grew sharper. Algy pushed himself up and crawled across to Biggles, who had managed to grab onto the pallet that made up the bed frame before apparently losing track of what he was doing. It wasn’t quite like the flare ups of malarial fever that took him from time to time, but it was close enough that Algy was trying to remember which part of the pack he’d put the quinine in when Biggles pulled himself back into bed.
He found himself quite abruptly with an armful of his best friend, Biggles’ face pressed into his shoulder. “Steady on, Biggles,” he said, but rested a hand on his back nonetheless. “Plenty of me to go around.”
“You’re much warmer than this fool bed,” replied Biggles, muffled by Algy’s shirt. “Are you running a temperature?”
His concern was touching even as Algy’s worry grew. “Not a bit. I think you might be coming down with something.”
Biggles frowned. Algy couldn’t see it but he knew Biggles well enough to tell by the tone of his reply. “I don’t feel ill,” he said. “Just cold as blazes. I’ll be lodging a complaint with the relevant authorities.”
“Venezuelan Cave Offices,” said Algy. He grinned. “Ready to take on any and all issues with caves, caverns and tunnels within national borders.”
They sat quietly for a moment. Algy felt tentatively at the back of Biggles’ neck. He didn’t feel noticeably warm, although he was damp as if he’d been sweating through his shirt.
“Are you feeling any better?” He asked.
Biggles nodded against his shoulder. “A little. Think I might try sleeping again, if you don’t mind my behaving like a limpet for a few hours. You’re much better than these furs for warming a man up.”
“Fine by me,” said Algy. He lay down again, shuffling until he was in a more comfortable position with Biggles lying on his shoulder. The other man was out like a light the moment they were horizontal - it seemed the restless night had hit him hard. Algy hesitated for a few seconds, then gave into the impulse to run a gentle hand through Biggles’ hair. It was soft and slightly damp with sweat, the familiar blond strands parting easily between his fingers.
He fell asleep a short while later, still with his hand cradling Biggles’ head. He dreamed this time, a confused mess of jungle animals and the sound of rain. When he woke, the rain didn’t stop. It was still dark.
Biggles was still attached, although his head had shifted to rest over Algy’s heart. One arm was slung across his waist, neatly trapping Algy in a hug. It was pleasant enough, although he could envision a problem arising if he needed to answer the call of nature any time soon.
It was oddly peaceful, lying awake in the cocoon of darkness made by the cave. That way of thinking led dangerously close to wistfulness, however, and so Algy rolled away and closed his eyes once more.
Biggles made a plaintive little noise, almost a whine, and somehow plastered himself along Algy’s back in a single motion. It was at this moment that Algy noticed a more imminent, biological issue which would need attending to.
“Wake up,” he said, when Biggles made a less plaintive noise and shifted his hips, pressing up against Algy’s backside in a way which should not have felt as good as it did. When this request didn’t work, he poked Biggles hard in the arm until he woke with a shout of annoyance.
“What’s the big idea?” He asked, rubbing at his shoulder with a wounded expression.
Algy rolled his eyes. “I’d prefer not to be used as a marital aid,” he sniped.
Biggles flushed scarlet, then shook his head. “No need to be crude,” he sneered. Then he frowned, and shivered. Algy felt his irritation melt into worry as the shivers grew in intensity.
“Christ, you really are cold,” he said. He reached out and tugged some of the furs up and over Biggles’ shoulders. It didn’t seem to help much.
“I told you so,” said Biggles, in the tone of a boy ten years younger. Then he sighed and shifted. His problem was still visible, although Algy tried to avoid looking at it. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me, laddie. I feel very odd.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the two bandaged fingers carefully. The bandages had an odd, purplish tinge.
“Best check those,” said Algy. “We don’t want you getting blood poisoning five hundred miles from the nearest hospital.” It was probably an exaggeration, but with the plane moored several miles away on the river it would take hours to reach medical help.
Biggles offered his hand. Algy took it gently, and ignored the shudder which ran up Biggles’ spine when he did so. The bandages came off easily, with no sign of pus or other unpleasantness, but the purplish tinge still worried him. When he had them off and bundled away, he inspected the cuts.
“What on earth?” He murmured, bringing Biggles’ hand closer to his face. The cuts were already closed up. A slight purplish stain was spread around the scabs, glowing faintly the same way as the lichen had.
“Something very odd is going on,” he said, after he’d cleaned Biggles’ fingers with a swab covered in iodine. “What is this stuff we’ve been sent to collect?”
“Some sort of cure all, I thought,” said Biggles. “Although as we both know, cure alls usually cure nothing.” He shifted awkwardly. “I have a feeling that’s not its only use, somehow.”
Algy grimaced. The problem hadn’t conveniently gone away on its own, then. “Would you like a little privacy?” He gestured in Biggles’ general direction, feeling his own cheeks flush.
Biggles nodded, also with a grimace. “I’ll call you back when it’s… done.”
With one last nod, Algy went back up to the cave mouth. The rain was lighter now, but he had visions of broken banks and rushing currents which dissuaded him from trying a short walk at that particular moment. Instead he leaned against the edge of the rockface and tried very hard to listen to the rain rather than the faint, breathy moans echoing up the tunnel.
It took perhaps ten minutes before Algy heard a low curse which seemed more frustrated than aroused. “Everything alright?” He called, then realised that Biggles had probably hoped Algy would at least pretend deafness for the whole affair.
“I’m having a bit of trouble,” said Biggles. His voice was strained. “I don’t know if you have – anything that might ease the way a little.”
"Of course I don't have 'anything'," snapped Algy. "I don't tend to assume I'll be getting off with anyone while trekking through the damned jungle. Rather dampens the ardour when you might be savaged by a leopard at any moment."
“Don’t bite my head off about it,” Biggles replied. “I’m not enjoying this any more than you are.”
“Isn’t the point that you’re supposed to enjoy it?” Algy asked. Despite himself, he came back into the cave and approached the bed, where he found Biggles in a state of moderate disarray. It was odd to see Biggles unbuttoned and half-dressed while still sober.
His fly was undone and his trousers pushed down to his knees. His prick was leaking against his stomach. Algy felt an odd swoop in his stomach, then dragged his eyes up to Biggles’ face.
“I don’t see why that should matter,” muttered Biggles, somewhat mutinous. He met Algy’s gaze, his eyes shining with that same odd, purple haze. The damn lichen had a lot to answer for. “I’d just quite like to get off before I freeze to death.” He shivered again. “Haven’t been warm since I stopped touching you.”
He immediately, visibly regretted the statement. His face shuttered, and he looked away towards the darkness. Fine tremors shook his slim frame, even as he clenched his fists on his bare thighs.
Algy put a hand on his shoulder. “No shame in it, old thing,” he said quietly. “Whether it’s the pollen or anything else.” He rubbed his thumb in small circles, relief swallowing him when Biggles responded with a fond sigh. An idea occurred to him.
“Feels nice,” he said. Algy could feel him relaxing beneath his hand. “Thank you. I know it’s not exactly ideal.”
“Well,” said Algy. He swallowed. “I do have a suggestion. If it’s the cold that’s stopping you from - going, so to speak, then I can stay here while you work things out. If you see what I mean.” His cheeks felt like they might actually combust, but at least he’d got the idea out in the open.
Biggles looked similarly mortified. “You mean, to sit here and touch me while I –” He cut himself off, halfway through an obscene gesture. His breath hitched as he shifted in place.
“Quite,” said Algy. “It’s practical, one supposes. You say touching yourself is no help while you’re so cold, and it’s clearly not going away on its own. If we want you compos mentis when the rain finally stops, you need to come off.”
“I just don’t see why I’m so blasted cold,” muttered Biggles. “Doesn’t seem like a bit of lichen ought to do it.”
“We’ve come across stranger things in the past few months,” said Algy. “Death orchids come to mind.” He shifted closer to Biggles, settling in along his side and resting his weight against him. His own prick had unfortunately woken up to the possibility of some action in the near future.
“Alright,” said Biggles, after a long and thoughtful silence. Now that he’d decided, some of his usual forthright practicality emerged. He slicked his hand with the tin of vaseline from the first aid kit and, with Algy’s arm around his shoulders, took himself firmly in hand.
It was difficult for Algy to remain a steadfast, calm presence. He found himself rubbing circles on his skin once again, but this time he was keeping pace with the motion of Biggles’ hand as he stroked himself, up and down, with the little gasping noises in his throat and the sucking noise of the vaseline. He found himself with his head resting on Biggles’ shoulder, watching transfixed as the head of his prick appeared and disappeared in the ring of his thumb and forefinger. He’d seen Biggles’ prick before – it was a hazard one encountered living in such close quarters with another man – but he hadn’t let himself consider it in detail, the slim shape of it, its modest length and the swell of the vein at its head. He swallowed heavily, then shifted, his prick hard and heavy in his trousers.
The whole experience was surreal, and it didn’t seem likely to end. Biggles made a soft, whining noise as he sped up his movements, thrusting up into his hand rather than letting his hand move, and still he seemed no closer to coming off than he had when he began. He had at least stopped shivering, although the shakes which came with a good honest orgasm seemed a long way off.
“This is stupid,” said Biggles. He stilled his hand and shifted enough that he could look Algy in the face. “I can’t do it myself. Don’t know what this damn stuff has done, but my own hand feels like sandpaper.”
Algy took a deep breath. Biggles’ eyes on him were steady and calm, with less of that odd purple sheen. “I suppose you want some help, then? Typical officer. Can’t do anything himself, has to palm it off on his underlings.”
“I think you’ll find you’re an officer too, Captain Lacey,” smirked Biggles. He sobered quickly. “And yes, that is what I’m driving at. I worry that this won’t wear off otherwise. I’m starting to feel pretty squiffy up here –” He gestured at his head. “Lack of blood or something. I’d rather not faint in this condition.”
“Very sensible,” said Algy. He reached for the vaseline, feeling somewhat detached from the action, and coated his palm. It was cold and slimy, a texture he’d always hated, and it only delayed the inevitable moment at which he would be putting his hand on his best friend’s prick. You couldn’t really come back from that sort of thing, although Algy knew Biggles would try his best.
Biggles’ prick fit nicely in his hand. He closed his fingers around it and put his head back on Biggles’ shoulder, now sat slightly behind him. The velvety heat of it went to his head a little, and he found himself stroking up and down in a steady motion without having to think about it. This was a relief, because Algy had a feeling that thinking about it would involve some shattering realisations, and he really didn’t have time for one of those. Biggles made a high pitched noise when Algy’s nail caught against his slit; Algy avoided doing so again. The noise was imprinted in his brain anyway.
Proceedings didn’t take long after that. The feeling of Biggles panting beneath his hands made Algy feel hot and dizzy, but the objective of driving Biggles to a crisis and – hopefully – purging whatever strange contaminant was in his system was more important than his own aching prick. He kept stroking Biggles, his rhythm speeding up slightly as Biggles began to rock his hips into the motion, and within a few minutes a soft shudder and a low moan heralded Biggles spending all over his stomach.
“Christ, sorry,” he said, then wriggled his way out of Algy’s hold. He picked up the discarded bandages and wiped away the worst of the mess, wrinkling his nose, and then pulled up his trousers. “Thank you,” he continued, after a long pause.
“Don’t mention it,” said Algy. His voice was admirably level, he thought, but it took only one glance for Biggles to notice his own predicament. He had one of his faces on, the one which usually meant Algy was about to be swept along in a slightly mad plan which would ultimately result in success, however bruised and battered they became along the way.
“You enjoyed it,” Biggles noted, in an almost academic tone.
“Of course I enjoyed it,” said Algy, hotly. “A handsome young man asked me to get him off, I’m not made of stone.”
“Handsome, am I?” Biggles asked. He seemed more mischievous now, more himself than he had been. The purple sheen was gone from his eyes, and when Algy glanced down at his fingers he saw that the stain had vanished. “I never would have known.”
“They invented these things called mirrors,” said Algy. “You might like to invest in one.”
“Oh, but it’s so much nicer to hear it from a friend,” Biggles smirked. He spread his hands. “I was worried that you would hate it. We’ve never – talked about this sort of thing. But I did notice where you went some nights at Maranique, you know.”
“As did I notice where you went,” returned Algy. “It’s no skin off my nose who any man goes to bed with, or any woman for that matter. So long as everyone’s happy.”
“On this, we are perfectly in agreement,” said Biggles. He smiled, a familiar sight, and then reached out to pull Algy close. He kissed him gently, lips soft, and pulled back. “Is that alright?”
“More than,” said Algy. He grinned. “I suppose you plan to get even, then?”
“Something like that,” said Biggles.
The rest of the night passed in a pleasant fashion. Algy found himself swimming back to consciousness much later, with Biggles’ head once more pillowed on his chest, and the ever present sound of hammering rain finally gone.
They packed up their kit quickly, mindful of the possibility of further showers, and made their way out of the cave. The bed they set to rights fairly quickly, pallets straightened and furs heaped up plentifully, although they did leave the tin of vaseline alongside the small collection of poultices which they had both been too nervous to try themselves. The rain had broken the humidity just slightly, enough that Algy felt less like he was breathing in a thick, oxygenated soup, and the colours of the jungle seemed more vibrant than ever. It was breathtaking in its own way, how the leaves shone in the sunlight and the birdsong rang out clearly in the morning air.
The village was pleased on their return. Their translator, whose slight amusement was now much less mysterious, welcomed them back.
“Did you find what you needed?” He asked, with a lascivious wink.
Algy groaned. “Yes,” he said. “And we really wouldn’t have minded a warning, you know.”
“That’s just not how it’s done, I’m afraid,” said the translator. “There’s a lot of stories about the plant you came here for, and one of them is that its effects are highest when you haven’t been told. Although perhaps that is just a way of laughing at the white man; I can’t really say.” He shrugged in embarrassed acknowledgement.
Biggles shook his head. “Thank you for all your help, regardless. We’ve got enough to bring back to our employer plus a little extra. Is there some sort of payment scale, or is it more the fee for being allowed to go into the cave at all?”
“You’ll be invited for dinner,” said the translator. “The food is quite delicious, although it might not be what you’re used to.”
“That sounds fine,” said Biggles. “I’m finding that trying new things suits me rather well, lately.” He set off towards the house of the village chief, the translator leading the way.
Algy, flattered, followed behind him.