The High Valley. Anne Mather

fly on to California and she was lucky enough to have a window seat. Looking down on the sweep of shore line that bordered the thickly populated environs of Rio de Janeiro, she felt a pang of regret at leaving so much beauty behind. There was poverty, too, of course, but the rugged coves that could be found only a few miles’ drive out from the city centre with their white beaches and foaming surf more than compensated for the ugliness of the favellas. And yet the remarkable thing was that despite deplorable housing conditions and lack of amenities the people maintained a wholly vital spirit that no amount of misery could destroy. The massive statue of Christ passed away below them and the plane turned inland to cross the jagged peaks of the sierras. Faint patches of cloud dispersed slowly below them as the shadows lengthened and Morgana could distinguish the arid slopes,’ sun-burned above the lush foliage below. It was a panorama of grey and brown and blue, the valleys shadowed by the high slopes of the ranges that towered one above the other. It seemed impossible that the sun should ever penetrate those tropical forests that bordered swiftly running rivers and she felt a quiver of excitement pass through her.

      The sun went down in a blaze of glory, and darkness hid the majesty of the primitive land below their fragile craft. Morgana gave her attention to the magazines she had bought at the airport, and tried to relax. Across the aisle she saw the man from the airport bar, the dark-skinned man who had reminded her so vividly of the Salvadors. He looked her way and she encountered his gaze and looked swiftly away again, not wanting to appear inquisitive, and thereafter she concentrated on her books.

      Dinner was served soon after, and she ate sparingly, enjoying the coffee that followed the meal. She was in the process of closing her eyes to try and sleep for a while when several things happened all at once which afterwards became inextricably tangled in her confused mind.

      She remembered there was a cry from the rear of the plane. Some old man had had a heart seizure, or at least that was what everybody thought. The two stewardesses hastened back to attend to him and while Morgana, like everyone else, was curiously looking back in an attempt to see what was going on the dark-skinned man from across the aisle got to his feet and his companion went forward and entered the pilot's compartment. Morgana knew at once that something was wrong. For one thing, passengers simply did not enter the pilot's sanctum during the night, and she looked up to find the man beside her was holding a small, but very lethal-looking, revolver. She stifled the cry that rose in her throat as the man began to speak, first in Portuguese, and then in English. As the passengers turned to listen, and saw the weapon in his hands there were horrified gasps and one of the women screamed.

      The man waited until there was a constrained silence and then went on: “Please do not panic! There is no need for anyone to get hurt.”

      Morgana quelled her own fear and looking up at him said: “What do you intend to do? Have you taken over the plane?”

      The man gave her a brief stare. “Indeed, senhorita, my comrade is now in command. I am assured the pilot will do as he is told or my companion will fire his gun, puncturing the body of the plane and possibly sending us all plunging down in a death spiral to the jagged slopes below!”

      There were murmurs of protest from the passengers and Morgana thought with dismay how easy it was for a man with a gun to commandeer an aircraft. It was such a vulnerable means of transport relying so much on the infallibility of its pilot and the instruments he controlled.

      Now the man stepped to one side as another man came forward from the back of the plane. Obviously, Morgana thought, the assumed illness of the old man had been a deliberate ruse to distract the stewardesses’ attention. Now the two girls were seated in rear seats and as helpless as any of the passengers.

      Morgana tried to maintain a sense of calm. As the man had said, there was no point in panicking, and they still didn't know what was behind this show of force. The two men beside her spoke together, but they spoke too quickly for her to understand and their patios was indistinguishable. There was a nervous buzz of conversation from the rest of the passengers, and Morgana, sitting alone, felt isolated from their group. She refused to consider what might become of them, and instead looked up at the men beside her and said:

      “Where are you taking us? Surely we have a right to know.”

      The man who had spoken to the passengers looked down at her with narrowed eyes. “You are inquisitive, senhorita, and I do not have to tell you anything.”

      Morgana lay back in her seat and looked out of the port despairingly. There was nothing to be seen in the blackness, only the faint flaring at the tail of the engines and the diamond glitter of a star. She wondered where the men were from. They were not Brazilians, or at least they did not speak like Brazilians. And besides, they most closely resembled the Salvadors who came from the middle regions of South America, near Bolivia and Paraguay. They could be Monteraverdians, themselves, part of the guerilla movement Mr. Dennison had talked about.

      A few minutes later the pilot emerged from his cabin looking taut and weary. He was accompanied by the man who had entered the cabin earlier. The pilot stood at the head of the aisle and spoke to his passengers.

      “We are bound for an airstrip somewhere in these cordilleras,” he said. “We will land there and allow these men to disembark, then we will fly on to Los Angeles.”

      Morgana knew that the cordilleras were the high ranges and so apparently did many others of the passengers. A drawling American voice asked: “Aren't these the foothills of the Andes, man?”

      His words caused consternation among some of the others. To contemplate landing a plane of this size on some plateau among these peaks was a terrifying prospect.

      The pilot's face was drawn. “Sim,” he said heavily. He was a Brazilian himself and he knew the position they were in better than any of them.

      Morgana twisted her fingers together. Unwillingly, she was feeling the first twinges of real fear.

      The American spoke again. “You don't honestly expect to put a crate of this size down among these hills!” he said dryly.

      The man beside the pilot spoke now. “There is no danger,” he insisted calmly. “The plateau has been used before. I repeat, there is no danger.”

      Morgana didn't believe him and nor did anyone else, but what could they do?

      The pilot spread his hands. “What would you have me do?” he asked helplessly. “Refuse? And have them crash the plane?”

      The American sounded reluctantly agreeable and one or two of the other men asked questions, their voices revealing their doubts and anxieties.

      When everyone had found out what they wanted to know the pilot returned to his cabin, still accompanied by the other man. As he was leaving, one of the older women said tremulously: “What about radio contact? Can we contact our families and tell them we are all right?”

      The pilot shook his head, and the man with the gun said: “All radio contact has been cut. There will be no messages.”

      Morgana looked up at him quickly. “But – but everyone will think the plane has crashed – that we are dead!” she protested.

      “For a few hours, that is all,” returned the man calmly.

      “But our families will be sick with worry!” exclaimed another woman. “It's inhuman to let people think we are dead!”

      “Enough. I will answer no more questions!”

      The man was curt and for a few taut moments there was absolute silence. Then, gradually, they began whispering together and Morgana wished she could feel less distrustful. She couldn't believe they would just touch down wherever their destination might lie and allow the pilot and crew to carry on knowing full well that they would be immediately reported. And anyway, why had they chosen this way to get to their destination? Why couldn't they have used the normal flights to Monteraverde, if that indeed was where they were taking them?

      She thought of her father waiting patiently at the airport in Los Angeles, and imagined his painful anxiety. What would the authorities do when they lost radio contact?