by Bob Nailor
“Don’t worry, Dr. Ana,” Paulo called after her. “I’ll keep the others here until you return.”
“Dr. Carvalho,” Dr. Theodouros called after her. “You know Foundation protocols. Going on your own could be dangerous and is ill-advised.”
Ana turned to face them just before she disappeared into the vegetation. “It’s quite clear they have given permission for only me,” she replied. “I’ll return after I’ve had a chance to talk to this queen. Have Wayne attempt to get on the line with Singapore somehow. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”
As she trudged behind Tinga, Ana wanted to scream, to yell, to jump up and down in her excitement. It’s me, not some other person, but me they want to see first. She swelled with pride knowing she was the one making the contact this time, and no one would snatch away the glory.
Chapter Nine
THE QUEEN'S SECRETS
Ana followed Tinga through the dense brush on an almost invisible winding path and wondered how far to the village. She could no longer see or hear the rest of her expedition. You should have brought one of the men, she thought and immediately shook her head to erase the idea. She refused to let herself consider dragging a male along.
Tinga, slightly taller and immensely stronger, stopped abruptly and turned to Ana. “You are the leader?” Tinga asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes, I am,” Ana replied, startled by the action.
The Indian’s deeply tanned face wrinkled in timid embarrassment. “Is it true that beyond the forest, in the world of Pizarro, there are large birds who fly with us–” She pointed at the sky then patted her chest. “Inside them?”
At first, Ana stumbled at the words and concept Tinga attempted to project. Who is Pizarro? she wondered. And what flying birds are large enough to swallow a human?
Suddenly, Ana realized what Tinga was asking but still couldn’t associate the name Pizarro with the airplane. “Pizarro?” Ana finally asked.
“Gonzalo Pizarro, the conquistador and explorer,” Tinga said. “Ejup Mikić has told us the tales of this man and also of Francisco de Orellana.” She smiled. “We have all learned the story of The Beginning and how our lord and master came to us. And, we have seen the silver birds high over the trees.”
Ana smiled at the innocence of the powerful warrior. “Those birds are called airplanes,” she replied. “And yes, they carry us inside them. Much has changed since Pizarro’s day.”
Tinga nodded, deep in thought, and just abruptly, once more started toward the village. They moved hurriedly through the overgrowth, plowing through the vegetation in a dash to their final destination. Some growth had sharp edges and cut at Ana’s skin where she found her arms slashed and bleeding by the time she caught up with the younger woman.
“See that tree?” Tinga pointed at a tree about one hundred yards distant. “Our village is not far from there.” Ana stared where the young girl pointed. To her, not one towering tree stood out from any of the others. Yet, Tinga could see a difference, enough to know where home was.
Tinga stayed well in the lead, her bare feet silently skipping over rocks and fallen logs as she raced through the dense underbrush. The magnificent tree loomed closer and closer. Its trunk dripped with lush vines, its canopy dense and expansive. Ana’s guide slipped around the base and disappeared. She pushed her legs with what little energy she had left and dashed along the path Tinga had followed.
Without warning, Ana burst into the brilliant tropical sun, panting with anticipation. Tinga stood at the foot of a small hill covered in knee-high grass. She held a hand out toward Ana, her eyes sparkling with pride. “We are here,” she declared.
Together they dashed up the rise as the mid-day sun bathed their skin in delicious heat. They stopped where the terrain abruptly fell away. Before them stretched a mile square wide clearing obscenely hacked in the towering forest. Ana’s eyes followed the line of the hill which extended in an uninterrupted straight line to both sides of where they stood. She sucked in a gasp of surprise as the village stretched out ahead of them.
The satellite photos could never have prepared Ana for what her own eyes witnessed. Dozens of identical structures lined orderly, narrow streets with a few natives doing morning commerce. At the far end, a grassy plaza spread wide and green encircled by trees blazing with yellow and purple blossoms. Beyond, a stunning dome rose, thatched with gleaming golden strands of buriti. From its highest point waved a black and red banner, fluttering in the light breeze.
The hill she climbed was the geoglyph which the loggers had exposed in their rampage of clear-cut deforestation. Ana’s mind flooded with the image of hundreds of natives like her guide laboring endlessly to sculpt such an extensive creation in the land. Nearly as large as the clearing, it’s precisely straight walls and rounded corners rose around the village like the walls of a medieval fortress. The rows of huts sat squarely in the middle, embraced safely by the earth.
Tinga turned to Ana, her eyes clouded with insecurity. “And please,” she said urgently, “do not mention my questions.” Ana gazed into the young woman’s terrified eyes, afraid someone might learn of her curiosity.
Ana replied with a gentle smile and a squeeze to her hand. “Where is your leader?”
“There, in the large oca on the plaza,” she said and pointed to the domed structure thatched with dried straw. Ana smiled as she recognized the word oca, Tupi-Guarani for house.
She stopped dead in her tracks and stared in awe when she approached the village. Neat rows of huts lined two narrow, packed-dirt paths. One was laden with baskets of forest fruits and vegetables. Others displayed milled flours, archery equipment, colored beads, and pottery. Atop each hung a colorful triangular flag, now limp in the midday heat. The impression was of commerce with Indian women wearing uluri negotiating purchases with shop owners. She headed for the building Tinga had pointed to.
Tinga gently grabbed her arm. “You must walk slowly with respect until you have passed our queen’s approval.”
“Queen?” Ana repeated. “She…she is your leader? A woman?”
Ana’s mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps this tribe indeed was the lost Icamiabas of Amazon fame. She glanced about the village and saw only women. At first, she was confused until she realized that in a matriarchy, men would be the servants and possibly kept behind the scene. No matter where she looked, a man was not to be found. She wondered where they were. Perhaps they are hunting, she thought. But, then why did Tinga meet them, rather than a man, a servant? Ana shook her head and shrugged her shoulders; research would give her the answers.
“Take me to her, then,” she said with resolve.
Tinga led her down the main path to a large, elegant oca at one end. Above flew a larger pennant bearing the image of a golden arrowhead. When they entered the dark interior, Ana’s eyes struggled to see after being in the intense tropical sunlight. Slowly the elegant space came into focus. Every inch of the small straight wall below the dome was decorated with elaborate panels woven from natural fibers. Spears and arrows, some appearing to be centuries old, hung here and there. A woven mat graced the floor with stools grouped as if for conversation. At the far side sat an exquisite throne formed from smooth branches covered with woven straw. Directly above hung one more piece which dominated the space. A startling red eye stared back at Ana, woven into the center of an oval panel. Around its edges, brilliantly colored feathers glowed in the dim light.
Tinga walked quickly to the empty throne and fell to her knees, her head bowed in obeisance. “Kneel with me,” she whispered to Ana, “Quickly.” Ana slowly did as she was told but kept her head high, her eyes fixed on the disturbing red eye.
“Mighty Queen,” Tinga called into the empty darkness. “I have brought the one you seek, as requested.”
Ana snapped her head and stared at Tinga. Requested? The oca returned to silence, unbroken only by the forest sounds around them. Seconds, minutes slipped by in taut tension. Ana heard a rustle from behind
and saw Tinga’s hands tremble. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement in the darkness. An extraordinary form glided in front of them and Tinga’s entire form began to shake in fear.
The figure was taller than the tallest man and clad in a magnificent woven cloak. It fell in the form of a triangle, which began near the top and flared out several feet to either side. The fine fabric, woven from natural fibers, was dyed a deep indigo. The bottom few inches were decorated with ornate golden thread, woven in square geometric patterns. The entire surface was studded with polished gemstones and more gold needlework. Even in the low light, the cloak shimmered in extravagant brilliance.
At the very peak, a polished golden crown jutted from a horrible mask. The blackened face was formed from the polished seeds of the tucum palm tree. Every feature was exaggerated and horrifying. Ruby pupils glared out from garish, almond-shaped eyes. A long, hooked nose protruded toward them, glittering with gold inlay. Ana felt her own hands tremble, even though she knew it was all a show. The opulence of the garment made her want to bow like Tinga and hide in its safety. Ana’s skin rippled with goosebumps from her neck to her toes. Two tall, brown-eyed natives walked from behind to stand on either side of the figure. They reverently stretched and unclasped the fabric from behind and lifted the cloak and crown as a single piece. Slowly, they removed it away to reveal the gleaming white figure inside. Ana instantly recognized the imposing form from their meeting in the forest.
Itotia stood tall and nude, strong and stately. Her white skin, as smooth as ivory, seemed to glow in the low light,. She wore her long, black hair on top of her head, braided together with fine filaments of gold and coiled. She wore uluri formed from filaments of gold gathered around a ruby the size of a quail egg. She stood in fierce judgment over them as her attendants placed her cloak and crown on a stand under the ever-glowing red eye. It seemed another terrifying being was in their midst.
Itotia dismissed the two natives with a slight motion of her head and sat on the throne before Ana and Tinga. Her crimson eyes drilled holes into Ana’s being as the oca again fell into eerie silence.
The queen held up her right hand as if in blessing. “Tinga, you have done well and honored yourself and your family.” She nodded her head ever so slightly. “Depart, my sister, knowing you are one of the chosen twelve maidens.”
The young native woman stood up, bowed and quickly eased herself out of the hut. Ana’s stomach fluttered when she found herself alone with Itotia. Even though she was not her queen, she felt her own will begin to melt in her presence.
“Dr. Carvalho,” Itotia finally said. Her voice was low and rich, complex in tone and accent. “You have found our little village. You will find us different than the other peoples of the forest. Our ways stretch back to the dawn of time and we have kept ourselves pure. You are welcome as long as you respect the traditions and rituals which make us great.” Itotia glared, her eyes glowing like embers in a blacksmith’s furnace. “Stand.”
Ana stood, her eyes locked on Itotia’s. The tall, pale woman’s eyes glowed with a light and color she had never seen. Her mind told her to run, but her body refused to obey. The queen’s face softened to a tiny smile. “Go, my daughter,” Itotia said softly. The potent trance lifted. “Bring the rest of your people to learn our ways.”
Ana turned and hurried out of the royal oca. Outside, the sun slammed into her face with punishing rays and she froze in place until her vision returned. She was alone and disoriented, her head still spinning from the encounter.
“This way, Ana,” Tinga said, taking her hand. “May I call you Ana or do you prefer doutora?”
The question of Portuguese formality from an isolated native shocked her. “Of course you can call me Ana,” she said back with a smile. “I may be a doctor, but I hope to be your friend.”
“Then come,” Tinga said, leading the way. “I’ll show you our village.”
They headed along one end of the broad plaza. It was oddly deserted, without the yip of a stray dog or the giggle of a child. An odd figure passed in front of them headed toward another hut behind Itotia’s grander structure. She was as tall as Itotia but smeared with red mud from her neck to her feet. On her head, she wore an elaborate mask which resulted in a profoundly frightening effect.
“Who is she?” Ana asked. “And why is she covered in mud?”
Tinga was unsettled by the question. “Queen Itotia explained our ways are different than other peoples of the forest.” She looked in the opposite direction. “Come, let’s find your friends.”
Ana heard a moan escape from the hut, like that of someone seriously ill. “What was that?” Ana turned and headed away from her guide toward the source of the groaning.
Inside the oca was a miniature version of the royal hut, but plain and poorly maintained. She burst through the small entrance, fell to her knees, and let her eyes adjust to the low light. The woman covered in mud who she had seen leaned over a man’s form, her head close to his like a confidant sharing a whispered secret. She jerked away at Ana’s entrance and her red eyes flared at the intrusion. A smile slowly crossed her face and her eyes narrowed. She licked her lips and glared at Ana.
Like Itotia, the skin of her face was whiter than any native Ana had seen in Brazil. Its luster was dull, more opalescent than Ana’s European tone. Her lips were full and pulsed in a lush, almost obscene red. As a sneer curled her lips back, Ana saw brilliant white teeth. They seemed sharper than even Itotia’s as if they had been filed to a razor’s edge. Her incisors were pronounced and curved under her lips like a jaguar’s but were finer and more pointed.
“His time is short,” she said in a matter-of-fact snarl, a knowing smile twisting up the corners of her lips.
When the native moved away, Ana recognized the ailing man. It was Paulo’s man who had disappeared in the forest. She dashed to him and kneeled next to his emaciated body. “Lúcio?” She placed a loving arm about the young man who appeared to have aged three decades since she’d last seen him. “Please, open your eyes and look at me. I’m here. I can help.”
He wore only dilapidated shorts which drooped around an emaciated frame, his arms limp at his sides. His skin was thin and pale, the color of dried paste. The large, black beads he wore around his neck stood out in stark contrast to his pallor. She was reminded of how pale Megan had appeared when she stumbled from the jungle earlier that day. He was barely a shadow of the man she remembered.
Lúcio inhaled deeply, his frail chest rattling in response. His eyes opened, watery, pale, and sunken deep into their sockets. “You’ve come,” he whispered hoarsely. “Beware. They are–” He noticed the young native woman still standing nearby and his eyes widened in fear. He burst into coughing and thrashed about on the straw mat where he lay. Not once did his stare leave the native’s glowing red eyes.
“Beware,” he whispered to Ana when the fit had passed. “They are not as they seem. You have meddled in things which are better left in the dark.”
The native clamped an iron grip on Ana’s shoulder. ”Leave us alone,” she growled. “He is ill and needs my care.”
Ana felt Lúcio’s body tighten as the woman neared. “No,” he cried. “Not again.” He raised a feeble hand as if to defend himself. Quickly, Ana realized he was making the sign of the cross and babbling in his native tongue.
The woman hissed at him. “You speak nonsense.” She shook her head. “Your illness has turned you demented.” She pointed at her temple as if to say ‘Crazy.’
Ana listened to Lúcio ranting, clueless as to what he was saying. Why had he made the sign of the cross? She wondered. Perhaps the woman is correct, and his mind no longer is sound. What disease could possibly do this? She held him close, comforting the man in his last hours.
Lúcio slumped into unconsciousness in Ana’s arms. His breathing was shallow but he still had a pulse, faint and slow. She wondered if he would survive until her return with the rest of the group. Perhaps he only needed fluids and a
transfusion. Maybe Paulo or Moema would recognize the symptoms and know a remedy. Or, maybe old Ibiaci would have just the right dried leaves and berries to send Lúcio back to his crew.
Chapter Ten
A CHAT IN BOCA
In Boca do Acre, the town’s simple restaurant was located directly across from a colonial church on the town square. At noon, The Cabocla buzzed with the business of serving lunch to half the people who worked in the center. Lawyers squeezed in between bank clerks and bricklayers as they gossiped and negotiated their way through a home-cooked meal. Mostly, they lined up to load their plates from the buffet which was strictly by the kilo. A cute little Indian sat at the end of steaming food to weigh the portions piled up by each customer into their respective bowls. She scribbled the weight on a tiny scrap of paper and sent them to their tables. Today, the special was beef heart sautéed with onions, garlic and okra. The thick, pungent sauce soaked into rice, fried potatoes, and purée of manioc. The most popular drink was always juice made from cupuaçu, the celebrated Amazon fruit. Its thick white pulp was perfect to whip up with water or milk to slurp away the hundred-degree noon-time heat.
Edson leaned with one shoulder on the back wall, his muscular arms folded across a black t-shirt. The simple gold shield of the Federal Police was embroidered over his heart; POLÍCIA FEDERAL was emblazoned across the back in unmistakable yellow block letters. Just above the swell of his right bicep, a tiny Brazilian flag livened the black sleeve. A holstered stainless-steel semi-automatic pistol decorated one hip. His men had eaten and headed back to their boat ten minutes before. He preferred to take his time and let the noontime conversation drift past his trained ears.
Father Bora jogged in from the street, dressed in his usual white tropical-weight habit.