He awoke in Hell. His entire body was screaming, and a wild Demon's face, reflected in firelight, hovered over him. He had fallen; he remembered falling, falling into eternity, and then came the darkness. He tried to move, to raise his head, an arm, to flex a leg. Nothing, nothing moved. He was dead, then, so yes, the firelight and Demon confirmed his agonizing arrival into Hell.

The Demon spooned a vile liquid into his mouth, and he choked, gagged on the rancid foulness of it. "Oh god," his mind reeled, "sweet Jesus, this has to be a nightmare," and then the darkness returned, it lasted for a long, long time.

But he wasn't dead, and during the ensuing three months he floated into and out of consciousness, time and again he stepped to the edge of infinity, and was pulled back, back into a world where few would ever again see beyond the horror he had become. The Demon was always there, and sometimes it spoke to him soothingly in a strange, gutteral language. He was completely paralyzed, this vital fact he comprehended, although he had no awareness of the passing of time, or understanding of where he was. The one thing he recalled with absolute, bitter clarity was the circumstances behind his being there.

***

"What about it, Greg? You making it all right?"

"You just take care of yourself; I'll be right behind you."

"I'd give it another quarter mile or so, what do you think?"

"Shit Steven, we've been walking along the edge of this cliff for miles, and I can't tell that right here is any different than where we were an hour ago. Here, another quarter of a mile, what difference does it make? It's still a long way down to the river."

"Okay, okay, you're right. Let's pick out some stout anchor trees, rappel down, and start fishing."

"Only you would come up with the crazy idea of hiking for two weeks into the Brazilian mountains to go fishing. Damn it, I don't know why I let you talk me into these stunts."

"Come on, you've got to admit that fishing the Grand Banks was becoming a bit tame, now wasn't it? When I heard about this gig, well, hell, I wasn't about to pass it up. I noticed that I didn't have to twist your arm too hard come along either, old chum. That's the Moxotó River down there in the gorge, and just how many people in New York do you know who have fished it?"

"You're the only person I know who would want to."

"Yeh, well come on. Drop your gear and ropes. You're right; this looks like as good a place as any. Let's tie off and get down there."

The men shed their packs, and Greg stood wiping sweat from his face, while Steven tied his rope to a tree and threaded it through his rappelling gear. Steven looked up, "What's the matter? Tie your rope off and let's get going."

Greg grinned and shook his head, "You go on down. I need a few minutes to myself back in the bushes."

"Hell, I might have known it," Steven laughed, "afraid you'll crap your pants on the way down?"

"Something like that, yeh. You go on ahead; I'll be along when I'm ready."

Steven tied the other end of the rope to his pack and fishing gear, and lowered it over the side of the cliff. It was two hundred feet to the bottom. He rose, turned his back to the cliff and gave the rope a hard test pull. Satisfied, he backed up to the edge, hung his heels over the edge and leaned back. "See you at the bottom," he grinned and bounded backwards into the air. The rope slid through the coupling on his belt, and he began his descent into the gorge.

Greg looked down, and a satisfied smile crossed his face as he pulled a machete from his belt. "Hey Steven, take a look," he yelled, as he waved the machete over his head.

"What the hell are you doing?" Steven yelled back as he paused, suspended against the cliff face.

"It's goodbye, old chum! We've been looking for a way to get rid of you, and this stupid little adventure has provided the perfect opportunity."

"What?!"

"Sure, Kate and I planned it all out. She wanted you out of her life. Hell boy, I've been sleeping with your wife for the past year!"

"You sorry bastard!"

"You're the bastard! You think you're a big shot; Steven Doyle, the Broadway star, the handsome leading man turned big-time director and producer. Who was behind the scenes giving you all of your ideas, making you the most successful man on Broadway? I was, Steven, it was me that made you what you are, and it was because of me that you became one of the richest men in New York. What did I get out of it? Peanuts, the scraps you threw to me, but only when it suited you. So now I get it all, don't you see? Yes, Kate gets your money and I get Kate."

"Greg, don't do it, for god's sake please, let's talk about this..."

Greg swung the razor sharp machete, severed the rope, and stood watching as Steven's arms flailed the air until he disappeared into the trees two hundred feet below. "Adios, old chum."

* * *

More months passed, and Steven gradually regained his health, such as it was or would ever be. He learned that the Demon's name was Itzupalkah. "I am one of 'The People,' of the Munduruku tribe," Itzupalkah told him in the barely decipherable pidgin lanquage they had created and agreed upon between them. "There was trouble in our village, a man was killed. Now I live here alone in this poor hut, I wish it otherwise, but what can you do, eh?"

Itzupalkah was old, how old, Steven couldn't tell, but his long, unkempt, gray-black hair flaired outwards, in the manner of an electrically charged porcupine. He had the dark skin of the indigenous people of the Amazonian jungle, and his ancient, lined face bore tattoos designed in the form of mystic symbols.

"Why did you save me?" Steven asked.

The old man shrugged, "What was I to do? It is far, too far to find someone else to help you. You would have died before I could return. I am no shaman, but still I called upon the Spirits to aid me, and gave you medicines from the jungle to fight your infections and fever. Somehow, you are alive; I don't know why, give thanks to the Spirits. You should be dead."

"Yes, I'm alive, but not alive-a paralyzed, maimed, useless cripple. Is that being alive? I fell a long way, why wasn't I killed?"

"The trees saved you. Their limbs tore you apart and broke your back, but in the end, the trees cradled you in their arms and kept you alive."

"You should have left me lying out there. You should have let me die."

"No! Before you die, two people must pay for what they have done to you."

"You know about that?"

Itzupalkah nodded, "You sometimes talk in your sleep. Your wife, Kate, and a man, Greg, did this to you. Your wife is an actress. Tell me, what is an actress?"

* * *

Time stood still in the Moxotó River gorge. Steven's health and stamina slowly improved, although every long day was measured in hours, minutes and seconds of unrelenting pain.

Itzupalkah fed Steven his meals, and it was during such a time that he said, "When you are strong enough, I will build a canoe and take you down the river to a white man's hospital."

"When do you think that will be?"

Itzupalkah shrugged, "When? What does time matter here? It will be when the Spirits decide. After that, we will take the canoe on to New York."

"We?"

"Yes, I am going with you."

* * *