Corcovado

They stole through Corcovado. A tense feeling of the chase was upon them. Brambling vines, errant boulders, and the thick, wet vegetation made their flight a frenzied rush. Already their full packs had become anchors on their shoulders, anchors slowing their flight from this park ranger dauntless in his tracking prowess. Their throats were parched as only the hunted can taste. On an inclined ledge the poachers decided to ditch their cargo of animal skins. They scrambled up the rocky knoll kicking the loose scree until they established a beachhead still within eyesight of their packs, but possessing the advantage of height now on their pursuer. Salvador Maria Antonio sprinted after the poachers' trail aware of every step before it fell. He ran through the jungle silent, leaping over tuffs of grass, cruising through thick ferns, and even stepping ever-so-carefully on the turtle-backed rocks in the mud pools which would have given the casual observer the impression he indeed was walking on water. Deliberate with every step, he leapt through his park knowing full well what it was that he protected and the lengths to which he needed to go to accomplish his duty. Corcovado National Park had been a nature preserve for over thirty years, which meant encroaching poachers who were now on their third generation of trespassing into land protected by the Costa Rican government. They operated with near impunity though, as the staffing levels at the ranger stations were filled with few rangers, and fewer still who either felt compelled to chase down the thieves or had the ability to do so. Their practice was cruel and quick; the ocelot jungle cat was baited, trapped, and skinned while the carcass was left to rot still attached to the bear-claw style steel trap. Naturally a thriving market demanding the skins encouraged the poachers to exact their villainy on these beautiful animals. Salvador Maria Antonio showed an equal measure of compassion to the poachers as they did to their prey. His birth and youth in the jungle had honed a Tarzanian ability to use its strengths as his own; his amplified natural senses combined with an unyielding endurance made Salvador Maria Antonio the apex predator here, and the poachers knew it. Their hearts pumped nervous with blood that seemed ready to burst arterial walls. Their breathing was dense and muffled as they reclined against the precipice overlooking the lush life-infused canopy below. It screamed its angst back at them. The shrill barbs of sound pierced their ears. Salty drops of sweat beaded on their collective brows. A nervous canteen of water was hurriedly passed amongst them. Their muscles ached. They hoped against reason that he would find some comfort in finding their backpacks and end his search there. Not ones to typically find salvation in prayer, each of the three poachers removed a black steel rifle. The three positioned themselves sniper-style on the ridge triangulating on their packs. Carved with dynamic relief in their hilts, the rifles' cross-hairs fixed on the approaching ranger. Daylight scopes zoomed in on the position of their packs. The resulting image was clear enough to read the "Made in China" tag at this magnification. High caliber slugs designed to be molten upon impact were on tap at the firing pin. Safety releases were relaxed and the poachers prepared to bag their biggest prey yet. Salvador Maria Antonio trusted the monkeys. Where they were to him was less important than where they weren't. High on the confines of the ledges above him he noticed the complete stillness of life even as he ran onwards along the poachers' trail. None of their curious monkey heads protruded from a characteristic perch overlooking the canopy, a clear indication to Salvador Maria Antonio that the poachers had holed up high above him. They had the advantage of height now. Ahead he immediately saw their packs. He had given good chase, the paychecks of their weeklong killing spree were bundled in those massive packs. Given the bulk of the packs he suspected they had over a dozen pelts in each, a small fortune he immediately knew they wouldn't abandon so easily. As he bowled over the bend where they had left their packs Salvador Maria Antonio instinctively ran off the trail towards a bramble of booming, concealing ferns. "Kapow! Kapow! Kapow!" Three bursts of fire from the ledge above sounded. For a moment Salvador Maria Antonio continued to run at his breakneck pace, but liquid fire surged through his back and thighs before the rapport of the gun fire ever crackled back to the poachers. His body seized and fell into a roll. His limp frame plummeted to the earth sliding forcefully into a clutch of roots. Handle over tip, tip over handle, his machete clanged against the bumpy ground and fell silent next to him. The jungle came alive with screaming capuchin monkeys and shrill, piercing jungle hens reacting to the shots. Their boisterous jeers fell through the clouds like rain, igniting a carnival atmosphere in the confines of a jungle swath. For a long while the noise was overwhelming, only ceasing to be deafening when the poachers finally eased off their perches and walked into the growth below. Tension returned to the jungle floor. The inhabitants watched expectantly as the poachers descended. It wasn't difficult to follow the blood spatter on the fern leaves. The poachers began to confirm their assumption that they indeed had picked-off Salvador Maria Antonio. Red bandanas embroidered with an orange setting sun absorbed the beads of sweat on their brows. Corcovado had yet to have the afternoon rain so the air was stifling in the roots of the jungle. Moisture clumped together in the veins of ferns. In the distance, beyond the poachers' awareness, the sky ignited with light. At their feet thousands of industrious ants each carried more than his own weight in foliage back to the nest. The wiggling green line stretched as far as the eye could see. Stepping softly, each man circled around the ferns pooling water. Cautiously the poachers walked through the pleasant green foliage looking for red. Bright red. A drop there, a splatter here, it didn't take them long to close in on Salvador Maria Antonio. Then they smelled it. A smooth, sweet caramel scent filled the air. It waffled delicately on their palates. The cigar's pleasantry took them all away for a moment to their own first tastes. It was so out of place in the jungle to smell the intoxicating air of a cigar burning away. The smoke filtered in and out of the light, obscured fully now by an enormous cashew tree looming ahead of the poachers. Carved by the imagination of God, the cashew tree rose from the jungle floor to the height of heaven above, monopolizing all visible air rights with its canopy and sequestering any open ground as its own. Only a rough hewn path, jutting with rocks, welcomed them to the tree. Twice again the thickness of their outstretched arms, the cashew tree’s trunk rose ominously above them. At its base lay a worn machete. Weary eyes locked. The poachers drew their rifles up and clamored around the width of the giant cashew tree. Another whiff of the cigar filled the air. One of the poachers stayed back, while the other two crept around the left side of the tree following a crimson trail sprayed on the ferns. The sounds of strained breathing lumbered just beyond their sight. Two poachers wheeled around the tree keeping their rifles on point, one aimed high, the other low. Two shots blasted out, then silence.