Whirlwind

by David Klass

  As we move forward, I notice that the shaman seems to be growing younger and more vibrant. His wrinkled face smoothes out and his stride becomes springier. At the start of our journey, the hunched old woman hobbled along on a walking stick. Now she carries the stick in her right hand and uses it to swat away thorns. The two young warriors at first struggled to carry Kidah over the rough terrain, but with each step their burden seems to lighten, and they bound along like twin mountain goats.

  I feel the power of the place myself. It’s restorative, regenerative. All the aches and pains from my many wounds begin to melt away. I feel wide awake and energized, like I just woke up from the best sleep of my life to a beautiful spring morning filled with promise.

  We draw close to the edge of the abyss. The shaman stops first and stands stock-still, gazing down in rapture. One by one we join him on a great stone that protrudes like a natural balcony out over the precipice.

  Over the lip of the enchanted chasm into which we are now peering, four mighty rivers burst into space. They tumble down the rock-ribbed mountainsides from all points of the compass in roaring cataracts. The boulders that line those torrents seem to dance in the sun as their sharp edges skewer the current, shooting up fountains of froth.

  The four great waterfalls hiss and bubble down the cliff faces into a diamond-shaped valley where they form a witches’ cauldron of a whirlpool. In the center of that swirling lake floats an emerald island so lush that it gleams in the sun like a jewel in a watery crown. One by one, picking our way down the mountainside on the single narrow trail, we head for that shimmering sapphire.

  How can an old shaman possibly pick his way over razor-edged rocks or an aged crone, even with Eko’s and my help, negotiate her way over yawning crevices? But halfway down she flings her walking stick aside and climbs down with nimble, sprightly steps. The two warriors carrying the slumbering Kidah bring up the rear, easily surmounting the roughest crags despite the added weight of the wizard.

  And then we’re slipping and sliding down the lower slopes, to the rocky banks of the swirling lake. We stand there together, marveling at the scenery and wondering what to do next. It’s like looking down into a giant Jacuzzi that doesn’t have an “off” switch. Every few moments geysers of spray hurl up from one or another of the cataracts and splash us from head to foot, while a warm and fragrant mist perpetually hangs over the entire valley.

  Looking across at the island, we see trees that look like green skyscrapers, and pink and violet flowers as big and bright as beach umbrellas. Several dark, giant faces frown at us through breaks in the foliage.

  “How are we ever going to get across?” I ask Eko. “If we try to swim we’ll drown. There are no bridges.”

  Eko nods, her eyes running over the rocky banks. “And there are no trees on this shore to build a boat. Let me ask the shaman.”

  The shaman in turn asks the old woman, who smiles and chatters back at him in their singsong language. She now has the energy and demeanor of a middle-aged woman, and occasionally I see the mannerisms of a teenager or the carefree facial expressions of a young girl. She returns to the memories of her girlhood and informs the shaman that she knows a way across.

  76

  We pick our way around the perimeter of the lake to a sheltered spot between two massive boulders. Deep in the shadowy recesses of the cavern we glimpse something.

  “What is it?” I ask Eko.

  “She says her father built a raft, and had warriors drag it down the trail. He blessed it with special spells, and left it here after they returned from the island.”

  Eko and I climb down to see the craft. It’s in remarkable condition considering that it was built decades ago. Perhaps it was protected from the elements by the rock overhang, or perhaps the magic spells worked. Time in this valley doesn’t seem to have the corrosive, ravaging effects it has everywhere else.

  The two warriors help us drag the raft out of dry shadow into misty sunshine. It’s made from logs that were lashed together with hemp ropes. There are a few crosspieces for passengers to stand on, and a palm tree mast. In the sheltered cavern we find the moldy but still-serviceable animal-skin sail.

  “That raft must be more than fifty years old,” I warn Eko. “It may crack apart in the current. If we overturn, the whirlpool will suck us right down.”

  Eko also looks concerned as she studies the wooden craft. “If it worked fifty years ago, it should work now.”

  “What if her memories are playing tricks on her?”

  Eko considers for a moment, and we both study the wrinkled face of the old woman. She’s climbed onto the raft and is looking across at the beckoning island, smiling toothlessly at the trees on the far shore.

  “Sometimes you just have to trust people,” Eko tells me, and steps onto the raft. The shaman follows her, as do the two warriors bearing the Mysterious Kidah.

  I hesitate a second more. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” I tell Eko, and climb aboard.

  The old animal-skin sail is raised and we push off. For a horrible moment we’re caught by the swirling current. There’s a sucking sound around us as we begin to circle the island at ever-greater speed, and I can feel the hemp ropes straining and the old logs beginning to weaken and crack.

  Eko, we’re circling the drain and we’re about to be flushed down! I cry out telepathically.

  Suddenly the old sail billows as if it’s caught a wind. I don’t feel even a faint breeze at my back, but whatever force is driving us is strong enough to push us out of the grip of the whirlpool. We sail straight across as if pulled by an invisible tugboat.

  When our raft bumps gently against the green bank of the island, I immediately hop off, glad to be on solid ground again. But the bank is not solid—it’s a soft bed of moss and grass that extends right down to the water. My toes sink in an inch, as if I’ve just jumped onto a luxurious carpet.

  We pull the raft onto the green bank and set off to explore the jungle Eden. The surrounding cliff walls are barren, which makes the explosion of life on this island even more striking. The smell hits me first—it’s a sugary but not cloying odor of fruits, leaves, and flowers that reminds me of a candy store.

  Flowers are everywhere, underfoot, high above us, and on hanging vines. Eko names a few of them for me—rainbow orchids and golden Amazon roses and scarlet forest flames that are so bright I can barely stand to look at them.

  The old woman begins to walk toward the center of the island, and we follow her. She seems to know just where she’s headed, and her eyes shine brightly like those of a little girl leading the way to her secret playhouse. The foliage is lush but not impenetrable—unlike in the rain forest, sunlight shines down here, filtering through the trees and reflecting off the walls of the chasm.

  There must be more birds here than on whole continents. They’re perched side by side on branches like church choirs or warbling solo from mossy mounds like happy drunks in an alley. They seem to have no fear at all of humans, and as we walk, parakeets and hummingbirds land on our shoulders and twitter encouragingly in our ears.

  “What is this place?” I ask Eko in an awed whisper.

  “I don’t know,” she admits. “The People of the Forest don’t have a name for it. In their legends, the spirits of the rain forest have lived here since time began.”

  Perhaps those spirits once had physical presences, and were worshipped by ancient forest dwellers. That might explain the dozens of imposing statues that look down on us as we press forward.

  They remind me of the stone statues on Easter Island—humanlike faces on pedestals that resemble torsos. Each face is distinct, as if the ancient artists were striving to capture personalizing qualities like strength, courage, and compassion. The smallest of the monoliths are ten feet high; the largest must be thirty feet and weigh fifteen tons. I can’t fathom the work it must have taken to carve and transport them. It seems impossible for humans to have done it without modern technology, but then I recall the pyramids of
Egypt, built thousands of years ago.

  The shaman, the old woman, and the warriors pause each time we come to a statue. The warriors seem bewildered and frightened and bow slightly as if in obeisance. The medicine man scrutinizes the carved faces and sings softly to them, perhaps reciting prayers. And the old woman simply smiles up at them like they’re long-lost friends.

  Near the center of the island is a stand of giant trees, with trunks so thick that two-lane roads could be cut through them. I look up their straight, spiked trunks to the top where majestic crowns of branches explode into color with green leaves and creamy pink flowers.

  “Are they redwoods?” I ask Eko.

  “Kapok trees,” she tells me. “Thousands of years old and sacred. The Mayans called them the trees of life, and believed that their roots reached down to the underworld, and their branches supported the heavens.”

  In the center of the stand of kapok trees sits a statue that is much larger than all the rest. It could almost be a rain-washed hill or a wind-chiseled crag. I look up and study the gaunt, shadowy visage. The hollow eyes and angular nose and mouth somehow manage to convey an impression of both strength and kindness, and also a sort of tolerant melancholy, as if this great forest spirit is resigned to the foolishness around him.

  The monolith is as lifeless as the black stone it was carved from yet also vibrant as the vortex of all life on this enchanted island. Butterflies swarm it, parrots and toucans perch on it, and thousands of flowers bloom around it, attracting pollinating insects that sing and chirp and whistle.

  A human cry of pain shatters the bucolic moment. I look down and see the Mysterious Kidah moving about, writhing as if trying to shake off invisible ropes. His lips curl back, and he screams again in wordless agony.

  The warriors carrying Kidah start to lose their grip as he thrashes about, and they look terrified by his wrenching shrieks. They lay him down on a bed of moss and wildflowers at the foot of the great stone figure and back away.

  Then the birds and the bugs leave us. One minute we’re being serenaded by hundreds of songbirds and the next there’s an eerie silence. The butterflies and beetles, dragonflies and centipedes also flutter off or slither away as if they sense something that they want no part of.

  “What is it, Eko? What’s coming?”

  She doesn’t look back at me. She’s looking up into the sunny afternoon sky. And so, I notice, is the old shaman, who has begun a strange, herky-jerky dance.

  77

  The sky blackens, the wind picks up, and the temperature starts to drop precipitously.

  There’s a flash of lightning, a cymbal crash of thunder, and an icy driving rain begins that would feel more appropriate in northern Maine than in this spiritual cradle of the Amazon.

  I watch lightning flash across the face of the stone statue while hundreds of birds take frightened flight, cawing and shrieking as they try to escape the downpour by flying up and over the walls of the chasm to the surrounding rain forest, which may provide more shelter.

  “Is it the end of the world?” I ask Eko, only half kidding.

  “It’s a friagem,” she tells me.

  “A what?”

  “A freak storm that sometimes hits the rain forest. Polar air from the Antarctic finds its way north, claws a path over the Andes, and collides with the steamy air over the Amazon basin. Anything can happen in a friagem!”

  As if to make her point, the howling cold wind uproots a tree near us.

  The shaman, the warriors, and the old woman retreat to the shelter of the kapok trees. These giants have withstood thousands of years of Amazon climate, and the shaman is betting that they will withstand this friagem.

  Eko starts to follow them. I glance down at Kidah on his mossy bed beneath the idol. He’s getting lashed by cold wind and blasted by rain. It’s hard to tell whether he’ll drown or freeze first. “Eko, we can’t leave him.”

  “He’s where he needs to be,” she tells me. “Come.” She takes my arm and draws me away.

  We sit out the cold squall inside the partly hollow trunk of a giant kapok tree. I stick my head out when the wind is howling its hardest and the rain is coming down in icy sheets, and see a bolt of lightning flash down and strike a direct hit on the giant idol.

  The massive stone face glows red, as if drinking energy and heat from the blast. Its lifeless features seem to move and twitch as the red glow animates its deeply set eyes and flows over its angular nose to the base of the torso, where it covers Kidah like a fiery blanket.

  As quickly as it came, the freak storm passes. The sky lightens, and rays of sunshine filter down. Birds circle down from the heights, and a cheerful rainbow appears in a sky that had just been as dark as death.

  We leave the shelter of the kapok tree and walk back toward the stone idol. A thin coating of frost from the cold snap clings to the ferns and the wildflowers.

  Kidah is no longer writhing and moaning. He is lying still, and from a short distance away I am positive that he’s dead. “He froze to death in that storm,” I tell Eko.

  “No,” she says, “he’s breathing. He’s just asleep.”

  We gather around the slumbering wizard, and for a few seconds the six of us just watch him. There’s a faint smile on his dry old lips, and he looks very much at peace. “We didn’t come here to watch him snore,” I finally tell Eko. “He’s your friend. Wake him up.”

  “He’s not my friend,” she says nervously. “I’ve never met him before. He’s … reclusive and legendary, the most famous man of my time. You are the beacon of hope. You should wake him up.”

  I start to reach down and then hesitate. “He looks like he’s enjoying this sleep. What if he doesn’t take kindly to being woken up, and turns me into a frog? No, I think you should do it, Eko.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “He won’t turn you into a frog. He’s not that kind of wizard. His magic is the gentle sorcery of wisdom and truth.”

  “Maybe so, but I still don’t want to wake him up,” I tell her. “This is your mission and your wizard. Now stop being such a chicken and start behaving like a Priestess of Dann.”

  The shaman suddenly pushes forward and bends to Kidah. He gives the wizard a good hard shake, as if from one old medicine man to another.

  Kidah’s eyes snap open. For a moment he has no pupils or irises. Just empty holes. And inside those holes we see clouds swirling.

  The shaman pulls back with a frightened gasp. He leads the warriors and the old woman several steps away, and they peer out from behind the stone idol.

  Kidah blinks twice, and his eyes become the eyes of an old man, bleary and unfocused. He looks up at us, still unknowing and unspeaking.

  We all stand there waiting silently to hear the first words of the greatest mind of the future.

  I can almost hear my heart thumping. What deep truth will this living oracle impart to us as he wakes from the dead? Will he explain the purpose of life or the secret of death? Will he unravel the mystery of my own destiny and explain why I was sent back in time to live a childhood that was a lie, or predict how my future will unfold?

  Kidah’s eyes slowly focus. They may be the eyes of an old man, but they’re exceptionally bright. They almost seem to glow. It’s clear that he knows where he is now. His mouth opens. His tongue creeps out and wets his lips. Finally he says, in a hoarse whisper, “Wow, who turned out the lights?”

  I glance at Eko, and ask her telephatically: That’s it? Who turned out the lights? Are you sure he’s the mastermind of the future? Because, frankly, I expected a little more. Based on what I’m seeing, the Dark Lord will eat him for breakfast.

  Eko steps by me and bows her head to Kidah. “Great Soul of Dann,” she says in a reverent voice, “something happened to your mind when you made the passage back through the tunnel of years.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Kidah says. “Talk about headaches. Who are you?”

  “Eko,” she says, “Priestess of Dann.” She bows her head again. “It
’s a true honor, 0 Great Soul, knower of the past, revealer of what lies ahead—”

  “Please,” he says, holding up a hand. “No mumbo jumbo before lunch. Just call me uncle.” He studies her for a second more. “You’re a nice girl,” he says, “but you should try to smile more.”

  I think to myself that that’s actually pretty good advice for Eko.

  The old wizard’s eyes swing in my direction. “And who are you?”

  “Jack Danielson,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “No you’re not,” he says, studying me carefully. And then he bursts into delighted laughter, jumps to his feet, and gives me a hug.

  78

  I have had a few unexpected hugs in my life, but never one quite this odd. The time-traveling Tiresias squeezes me tightly and chortles in my ear, “My boy, you’re the spitting image of your father. But where did you get that Jack nonsense? Your name is Jair, which means ‘he shines’—and I can see that it suits you.”

  His words rake up all my insecurities. I pull away forcefully and look back at him. “No, my name is Jack Danielson. I’m glad you’re okay, and we do need your help, but I don’t need you to tell me who I am.”

  Again, the chortling laugh. “Yes, yes, your father’s son indeed. Stubborn. Bullheaded. One could never tell him anything. I once beat him in chess and he tried to break the board over my head.” He glances from me to Eko. “So, you two are an item?”

  I recall that he was the one who prophesied that we would one day be married, and that our descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky. “No, sir,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

  “Just friends?” he roars. “Are you blind?” Then he glances at Eko and sees her blush. “Never mind,” he says, “there’s time for all that later. Who ate your toe?”

  At least the mastermind of the future is pretty good at changing the subject. “The colonel,” I answer.

  “What colonel?”