Read a sample

Sometimes it’s hard to know if a book is right for you. Read the opening chapters of Boy of the Amazon: Return of the Black Caiman for a little taste!

Before...

He plunged his claws deep into the mud, trying to get a stronghold. Writhing from side to side, he burrowed his belly further into the silty bottom. But he couldn’t escape the force of the water. It surged over his back, catching on the knobbles and pulling him, scale by scale.

Vibrations came from all directions, confusing him. The usually quiet waters churned. A grainy haze made it hard to see. He had no time to dodge the dark, solid thing that bumped across his snout. Jolting, he sensed the mud slide through the webbing of his toes. His grip loosened. He gave a forceful thrust with his tail, and another, trying to swim against the torrent.

It was no use.

When he unclenched his claws, the water’s tug was immense. It sent him spiralling backwards, pummelling at his sides, and twisting each of his limbs.

But he did not fight it. He’d been around long enough to know when to battle, when to succumb. He would not challenge the angry river.

And so, he let himself be carried away. Downstream.

Did you love our little snippet?

Chapter 1

Samik took the rungs two at a time, his spear wedged under an armpit as he climbed down the wooden ladder of his hut. He pivoted near the bottom and jumped the short distance to the ground. His bare feet hit the dirt with a satisfying slap.
“Come on! What are we waiting for?” He grinned across at Pacho, who leaned against one of the hut’s long stilts, a half-eaten banana paused at his lips.
“Wha—” his friend spluttered, hoisting himself upright. “I’ve been ready for ages!” Pacho rattled the fishing pole in his other hand as proof.
Laughing, Samik spun on his heel. He dashed off along the well-worn path which cut across the flat stretch of emerald grass in front of their village. His eyes fixed on the river, brown and beckoning, just beyond.
“Wait up!” The drum of Pacho’s footsteps sounded behind.
Veering off the track, Samik leaped over a pile of fishing baskets drying in the sun, tucking his knees high under his chest and holding his spear aloft as he sailed over them with ease. Air whizzed past his cheeks, and he laughed again, his body light after being cooped up all morning, mending nets in the hut.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” came Pacho’s following shout as he too cleared the jump.
Soon they reached Hollow Grey—the old, straight trunk that stood, solitary, in the centre of the green, its few nude branches stark against the sky. Dirt tracks coiled around its base like snakes, slithering on down toward the river.
Samik stopped to skim his palm across the soft, arrow-pitted bark. He smiled at his friend. “For good luck.”
“Give me some of that.” Pacho rubbed both hands against the trunk with vigour. “I need all the luck I can get.”
Samik chuckled, and closing his eyes, he sent up a silent wish. Hollow Grey was the target practice pole. Many times, he’d held it in sight along the shaft of his arrow. But the ancient trunk was also a fishing talisman, and with his papa away, it was up to Samik to feed the family. He gave it another rub.
Nearing the end of the grass flat, they slowed to scramble down the stubby embankment, and dropped onto the sun-hardened mud. Landing in a crouch, Samik scanned the bank—empty, except for a scattering of dugout canoes and some more fishing baskets. A log washing platform lay half submerged at the shoreline.
Pacho thudded down beside him, dropping to his haunches. They locked gazes, and Samik raised an eyebrow. His friend’s lips quirked in return. And they were off again, legs pounding as they raced down the wide stretch to the river—not stopping until they crashed into the shallows and the water slapped at their shins.
Pacho doubled over, panting. “You won!”
“Only just.” Samik nudged his friend. “Let’s go!”
They waded out to the waiting dugout, bobbing on the surface. Timber clattered against timber as they flung spear and rod into its hull. Samik gripped the narrow sides to keep the canoe steady while Pacho climbed in and sat on the rear bench seat. Scooping up the tie-rope, Samik unhitched it from its mooring stake and turned it around. Then, dropping the rope end into the prow, he swung in after it.
Samik relished the pull of muscle at his shoulder as he took his first stroke. The wide wooden blade came out glistening, its pointed tip dripping like a giant leaf after the rains. He drove his paddle in again, and with Pacho doing the same on the opposite side, they moved away from the bank into deeper water and set off downstream.
Their rhythm matched easily, and Samik watched the village slide by—the familiar cluster of stilted wooden huts with their palm rooves light against the dark wall of jungle behind.
His own hut was the last in the row along the front. He squinted as they passed it, making out his mama’s silhouette moving about beneath their covered deck. Another movement near the outer railing caught his eye, and his little brother Tomi poked his head out between the beams. Samik stopped paddling to wave, smiling as his brother’s pudgy arm thrust forward, flapping wildly in return.
At the edge of the village, a group of women tended one of the common garden plots, their backs bent between banana plants and pockets of manioc and corn. Others worked at the far perimeter, light glinting off machetes as they hacked at the ever-encroaching jungle.
Soon only forest flanked the dugout, towering up from the river on both sides and spilling out at the edges in a tangle of green.
Pacho had started up a tale about the goings-on at his hut that morning. Samik caught snatches of the story—some amusing drama involving Squawk, their cheeky pet macaw, thieving someone’s breakfast and everyone blaming everybody else. But it was hard to hear over the thrum and swoosh of the paddle and the chorus of insects pulsing from the banks. He half listened, laughing along to satisfy his friend, but his real focus was on the river.
The water glimmered bronze. It appeared still today. Calm. Peaceful. Bathed in the syrupy warmth of the afternoon sun. But the river never slept. Even now, at the end of the dry season, when the low water levels left the banks vast and bare, it kept moving. Currents under the surface, eddies in the shallows. It was ever busy, journeying somewhere. And it was full of life if you knew where to look. A heron drifted in front of them to alight at the shore.
“Should we fish at The Fallen Tree?” Samik called over his shoulder, inclining his head forward. As always, his gaze was drawn there. He could already see the sun-bleached branches poking out of the water at the bend up ahead. “I saw some decent-sized fish when I was there a few days ago.”
“Good idea,” Pacho replied. “Looks like there’s no one else around today, so we can sneak up in the dugout.”
Samik angled the canoe towards it, wetting his lips and leaning into the paddle as they picked up the pace.

Chapter 2

The skeleton of the old tree stretched across the bank, its bare canopy disappearing into the shallows. Samik loved to balance out along the trunk, climb onto the highest limb, then launch himself into the cool river. A kingfisher perched there now, eyeing the water. A good sign. He motioned for Pacho to slow.

The little bird tilted a jade head at their approach, pausing briefly before flitting off, heading downstream. A pang of envy caught Samik as he watched it go. The Fallen Tree was as far as they were allowed by themselves—the village boundary. Once the river rounded the bend, it was off-limits unless children were with an adult.

“Tell me again what it’s like.” He didn’t bother hiding the wistfulness in his voice.

Pacho had been out beyond the boundary many times already with his papa Táki, but Samik’s father still wouldn’t take him.

“Not yet,” Maniro kept saying whenever Samik asked. “What’s the rush? You’ll get your chance. And besides,” his papa often added, “there’s plenty of jungle and river to explore right here.”

Samik ground his teeth. He’d tried to be patient, but even some of the younger boys were going out now, while he was stuck in the village waters.

With shallow strokes, they edged the canoe closer to The Fallen Tree.

“There’s tambaqui down there,” Pacho told him, gesturing far downstream to where the fish could be found.

They had reached the crest of the bend, and the kingfisher was just a speck, darting past a little beach where palms hung low over the water. “The fallen seeds bring them up to the surface to feed,” Pacho went on. “If you’re patient, you can catch them. And further along, where that smaller river joins from the side, there’s payara.”

Samik’s lips parted as he eyed the point where the rivers met. He’d heard that the fanged, silvery fish put up a decent fight. His spear-throwing hand twitched, and that gut-gnawing feeling came again. It was almost a constant nowadays. He glanced back upstream from where they’d come. Off in the distance, the broad sweep of mud-beach beside the village was just visible, though the huts were out of sight. He was close to home. Always close to home. He used to like that thought. Found it comforting.

But now . . . it smothered him.

They had sidled up to the trunk, prow toward the bank, and Samik turned his attention back to the water. He sharpened his resolve. If he made a good catch today, it could only help his cause. Eventually, his papa would have to see he was ready. Balancing the paddle across his knees, he peered over the side. Beneath him, leaves and broken branches patterned the slick riverbed, their edges fuzzy with decay. Water weeds clung on here and there. He glimpsed a fleeting shimmer as a school of tiny fish fled under the canoe.

Now for something bigger.

He balled his hand into a fist and flexed it out again. “Let’s start here and work our way out wider. If we have no luck, we can try along the shoreline.”

“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Pacho said. “I’m already tasting fish dinner!”

Samik grinned as he pushed off the trunk with his paddle. “There is a slight hitch.” He couldn’t resist. “If we want to catch anything, we’ve got to stay really quiet. Think you can manage that?”

“Very funny,” Pacho replied. “Actually, I’m known as the silent hunter.” There was a pause, followed by the unmistakable rumble of a resounding fart. Pacho chuckled deviously.

“Awwww!! That stinks!” Samik hunched forward, but in the small canoe, there was no escape.

Their sniggers drifted out across the water, and they let their dugout do the same.

More broken branches passed beneath, reeds twirling between them like spirals of flowing, green hair. Samik directed them every so often with gentle strokes. A faint plop sounded from behind. Pacho had dropped in his line, but Samik kept his eyes trained on the water, searching for signs.

A smattering of stray bubbles surfaced off to the side. He traced their source—the delicate outline of a ray, flat against the mud. Further on, a young turtle glided through the reeds, its long neck probing for food. But no scales. No swirl of fin or tail. He gnawed on his lip. Waiting.

Then . . . he saw it. . . .

Chapter 3

The stealthy movement had disturbed the water just beyond the prow. If Samik hadn’t been looking so intently, he would have missed it. Not a flicker, but the stirring of something bigger. Keeping his eyes on the spot, he reached down, switching his paddle for his weapon.

“What is it?” whispered Pacho.

“Not sure. . . .” Samik kept his voice low. He touched the three prongs at the end of his fishing spear. Sharp. Rising, he set his feet wide for balance. But as he stood, his shadow fell across the water. A whirl, the glimpse of a dark shape, then whatever it was disappeared, leaving a cloud of silt.

Samik’s eyes darted to either side, trying to see where the thing had gone. Nothing. Not even a ripple. Puffing out a breath, he dropped onto the bench seat and drummed his fingers on the shaft of his spear. Foolish. He’d given himself away.

“I should’ve checked the angle of the sun,” he said. “My shadow scared it off.”

“Ah well,” Pacho replied around a mouthful of something. “It might come back.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Samik swivelled to face him and couldn’t help a smile. “Eating again?”

His friend had reclined in the rear of the canoe, rod resting in the crook of his elbow, legs outstretched, and feet dangling over the edge. Pacho shrugged, grinning. “Got to keep up my strength.” He delved into the woven pouch on the cord around his neck, pulling out some berries. “Want some?”

Samik let their bitterness smart on his tongue before chomping down. He turned idly to the front, his gaze skimming downstream, and as he did so, his eyes snagged on something, and snapped back.

“What’s that?” Sitting up straighter, he strained to see above the branches of The Fallen Tree. Something twitched on the horizon.

“Looks like a canoe,” Pacho said. “Let’s back up a bit so we can get a better view.”

They paddled in reverse for a few strokes. Samik cupped a palm over his brow. Pacho was right. It was definitely a canoe. The telltale motion of paddles on either side was unmistakable. “Maybe the men have returned?”

“But where are the rest of the dugouts?” asked Pacho.

Samik slumped a little. This one was alone. Their papas had taken several long canoes and some shorter ones on their trip to town. They made the journey about four times a year, joining The Chief and a group of other village men to trade jungle goods for other supplies. The party had been gone nearly two weeks already.

They should’ve been back by now.

“Well, if it’s not them,” huffed Pacho, “they’d better not take too much longer. The wet season is almost here.”

Yes. Samik frowned.

This afternoon had been their first patch of sun for the past week. Grey clouds had been lingering—gathering, then dispersing—not quite deciding what to do. But Samik sensed the change coming. The air had that hot, thick, waiting feeling. But more than that. There was something ominous afoot. Leaves had been falling everywhere even though there was no wind, and the forest was noisier than usual: birds squawking, monkeys shrieking, and the heightened buzz and hum of insects. They were calling. Calling for the rains to come. Samik only hoped his papa and the men made it home before then.

The lone canoe was closer now, passing that little beach where the bird had been. Samik could see the larger silhouette of the front paddler—probably one of the few younger men that had stayed behind, returning from a morning’s fishing.

Pacho sniggered. “I know who it is,” he said, voice low. “It’s Boca. But I can’t tell who the other person is because Boca’s blocking the view.” He chuckled again, and Samik reached around to swat him playfully with his paddle end.

“Oooouch,” Pacho wailed, exaggerating. “What? It’s true! He’s a man who loves his food. I can relate to that.”

Samik smothered his own laugh. But Pacho had a point. There was no seeing past the big man’s bulk. Samik leaned out over the water, trying to work out the identity of the rear paddler. And as he did so, something made him look down. A shadow had shifted . . . just under the canoe. Startled, he jerked back. When he peered over the edge again, it had gone. There’d been no further chance to figure out what it was, but it had been on the bottom. Of that, he was sure.

“It’s back,” he hissed, gathering up his spear. “And this time, it’s not getting away.” He rose, quicker than before, teetering for a moment, before bending his knees to absorb the shudder. “Keep us steady,” he urged his friend, all the while eyeballing the water.

“Yep, I’ve got you.” Pacho’s tone was eager as he stilled the dugout.

It was deeper here. About neck height. Samik could still see the riverbed. Thankfully, there were no branches or weeds in the way now, only mud.

What was it? One thing was certain—it wasn’t small. A big catch could feed not only his family and Pacho’s, but some of his neighbours as well.

Samik kept up his search, adjusting the grip on his spear. The sweaty pads of his hands stuck to the wood.

Hushed voices sounded nearby. The other canoe. He’d forgotten it was there. It bobbed somewhere at the edge of his vision. The two paddlers must be keeping a respectful distance, drifting to watch, knowing he was on the hunt. He sharpened his focus.

Where had the thing gone? His eyes raked back and forward, over the same swathe of riverbed.

There!

A dark form inched along the bottom, coming towards the canoe.

He raised his spear.

Timing was everything.

Holding his breath, he willed it closer. Nearer . . . nearer. He took aim, just off-centre to where he wanted to land it, knowing how the river distorted things.

Wait . . . wait . . . he urged himself.

Now!

With a powerful thrust, he sent his spear hurtling down. It sliced through the water. His prey made to flee, but it was too late. It was skewered. The spear end reared upwards. Samik dropped to his knees and lunged.

“Grab it! Grab it!” Pacho bounced up and down, forgetting to keep the canoe level.

“Hold us still!” cried Samik as he swiped at the jerking spear shaft. With a smack, his palm connected, fingers latching on. The water roiled, impossible to see through. But he had it! He had it! His arms strained against the twisting weight. Gripping with both hands, he pulled upwards.