The journey to Bajo Cauca brought with it a suffocating heat. Sweat clung to their clothes and trickled down their backs, yet the heat itself was not the greatest danger. The true torment came from the flies and mosquitoes that hovered relentlessly around them, drawn to every drop of blood and breath of sweat. At night, they burned damp wood to create thick smoke, the only barrier that kept the swarming insects at bay. During the day, they covered their skin with ointment whose sharp herbal scent barely masked the stench of sweat and fear.
All around stretched a savage land—dense, restless, and unwelcoming. The only traces of civilization were narrow, dusty roads that appeared and vanished like mirages among the trees.
As they followed one such path, a young servant rode ahead and called back, "Master, there's a group of people up front!"
Carlos nodded, his hand near his pistol. "Merchants, I'd wager."
After a short walk, they came upon a broken carriage stranded in the mud. One of its wheels had splintered clean through. A man stood beside it, wiping his brow, and raised his hand in greeting.
"Excuse me, sirs! Could you lend us a hand? The road turned rough, and we've lost a wheel. One of my men carved a makeshift one, but we've found it difficult to lift the carriage." His tone carried both exhaustion and a plea.
Francisco and Carlos exchanged a glance.
"Of course," Francisco said, "but some of our men will stand guard. I hope that won't make you nervous—bandits are not rare in these parts."
The merchant nodded quickly, relief and understanding in his expression. "Not at all, sir. I've heard of such dangers myself. Best to be cautious."
While Francisco and two servants heaved at the carriage, the merchant and his men fixed the crude wheel in place. The smell of resin and dust filled the air. When they finished, the merchant wiped his hands on his vest and turned to Francisco.
"If I may ask, sir, are you bound for Cartagena as well?"
"That's right," Francisco replied. "Why do you ask?"
The merchant hesitated under his cautious gaze. "Please don't take it amiss, sir. We are simple peddlers. Our father, a merchant in Mompox, sent us to Antioquia for trade. We're now returning, though we foolishly hired no guards. The road proved far harsher than we expected. I'd gladly pay if you allowed us to travel under your protection."
Carlos and Francisco looked at each other. Carlos spoke first. "If it's only to follow our trail and nothing more, we've no objection. But we keep our own pace—fall behind, and that's on you."
The merchant smiled gratefully. "Agreed, sir. Allow me to introduce myself—Camilo Torres—and this is my brother, Dario. Our father runs a trading company between Mompox, Cartagena, and the nearby provinces." He gave a small bow.
Francisco returned it. "Francisco Gómez, from Medellín. We're bound for Cartagena as well—I've a ship to catch for Hanover, for my studies. This is my father and my assistant, Catalina."
He faltered slightly on the last word, unsure how to define her before strangers. Camilo noticed the hesitation—and the fleeting glance that passed between Francisco and Catalina, the quiet longing in her eyes, the protective edge in his. Awkwardly, Camilo refrained from the customary kiss on the lady's hand.
"Are you two—?" he began, uncertain.
Francisco and Catalina hesitated, but Carlos broke in with a chuckle. "Boy, you'll be gone for six years. Why shrink now?"
Francisco sighed. "It's not fear, Father. Not everyone takes kindly to such things. If he holds to the old Spanish notions, he might kill me—or her."
Carlos smirked. "Funny, considering what you plan to ask your grandfather to do," he muttered.
Ignoring the jab, Francisco said firmly, "She is my fiancée. If that troubles you, best keep your distance."
Camilo raised his hands in reassurance. "Not at all, sir. Though we are criollos, our stepmother is mestiza. My mother died of malaria years ago, and Dominga—the woman who raised us after—taught us to keep open minds."
Francisco's shoulders eased. From that day on, the two groups traveled together. At first, they camped separately at night, but little by little, the Torres brothers drew closer, sharing fires and stories beneath the heavy tropical sky.
One afternoon, as they rode along a winding road, Francisco frowned and reined in his horse. "Something's there," he said quietly.
Carlos followed his gaze. "That house—I don't recall ever seeing it before."
The convoy came to a halt. Dust settled in the humid air. The Torres brothers looked on in confusion as Camilo rode forward. "What's happening?"
Carlos pointed toward a distant hill, his expression grave. "There's a house there. Never seen it on this road before. We fear it might belong to bandits."
Camilo shaded his eyes, studying the structure across the narrow river. Through a veil of mist stood a house—picturesque yet wrong somehow, its walls weathered, its roof sagging with age.
"That's impossible," Camilo murmured. "My brother and I passed here barely two months ago. A house like that would take years to build… and look—its walls are already decayed."
A chill ran through the group. The forest seemed to grow quieter, the hum of insects fading to a distant tremor.
Francisco finally spoke. "We'll camp here for the night. I'd rather not go near that place. It feels—unnatural."
They all agreed. As dusk bled across the horizon, Francisco found himself staring at the hill. Though it was far, it seemed to watch them, close as a shadow.
Behind him, Catalina whispered, "Do you think witches live there?"
"I hope not," he said softly. "But just in case, we'll scatter salt, hang a crucifix, and place an image of Saint Michael nearby."
Catalina smiled faintly. "I thought you didn't believe in gods or demons."
Francisco looked at her, his face calm but solemn. "I don't. But I respect those who do. And if faith keeps the dark away, I'll borrow a little of it tonight."
She laughed quietly, the sound softening the tension that clung to the camp. The unease born from that strange house slowly dissolved in the warmth of their shared firelight—and the unspoken comfort of each other's presence.