by Pam Withers
Abuela moved towards them, her face a study in fury. Her eyes were locked on Myriam with such vehemence that Myriam found herself cowering. Abuela has never hit me, but is it possible she’s considering it now?
Abuela walked right to Myriam, towering over her seated granddaughter. “How long has this been going on?” she demanded.
Myriam, aware that Rex couldn’t understand a word they were saying, responded, “Nothing is going on, Abuelita. Please believe me.”
Abuela’s eyes flashed fire; her fists clenched. Then she seemed to waver and all but collapse at Myriam’s feet. Myriam, not sure whether to cower or help her, watched Abuela rise on all fours. Then she mumbled incoherently as her eyes began leaking tears.
“Abuelita?” Myriam said, alarmed.
“No, no, no, no!” Abuela said in a weaker voice, staring again at Myriam. She lifted a hand to wipe the wetness from her cheeks, then stuffed the plants she’d brought from the river into her mouth. She began chewing vigorously.
“Is she okay?” Rex asked.
“Yes, she’s chewing the plants to make the medicine my ankle needs,” Myriam replied in a tight voice, not daring to look at Rex. “They have to mix with her saliva.”
Rex, still hanging well back, didn’t reply as Abuela spit the mess into her hand and applied it to Myriam’s spider bite. Then she found a clean portion of sash and bound the foot – far tighter than necessary, Myriam thought. The old woman took a long swig of water from her water bottle, then passed it to Myriam, urging her to drink far more than Myriam wanted. Abuela was rocking back and forth in a way that frightened Myriam and coo-cooing at her like she was a child.
Finally, Abuela motioned for Rex to sit down.
“Translate,” she ordered Myriam, who nodded numbly.
I found myself all but shaking as I sat down on the hard, wet ground with Myriam and her grandmother, who seemed a little crazed. I’d never seen Myriam look frightened of her before. Worse, Abuela had now pinned her eyes on me and was jabbing a finger at my chest while speaking rapidly.
“I forbid Myriam from helping you further,” she declared through her trembling translator.
“But–” I started to argue, panicked at the thought of parting with Myriam in this way.
“All contact with each other ends here, now, this moment.”
I felt defeat. This was all my fault. What had Gramps warned me? “Leave it at the looking, if you know what I mean. We’re not meant to mix with Indians.”
But Gramps was wrong. Abuela was wrong, I dared to think. I listened dully as Myriam tried to plead with Abuela. I needed no translation to see the old woman wasn’t buying it.
“You are meant for Alberto,” Abuela told Myriam sternly. I figured that out, since Myriam didn’t bother to translate it. Then Abuela turned to me.
“Your grandfather,” she said in an accusatory tone, “he came here to kayak El Furioso. He and his friends paddled to the waterfall. Then he became ill. His teammates left him. He got a parasite from drinking bad water. He was ill for two months.”
“Two months?” I echoed. “Not true. I have his journal to prove it!” Unfortunately, the journal was in my waterproof bag back in my kayak.
“He might have died if my village hadn’t allowed me to tend to him. They didn’t trust him, but they pitied him, even though he gave us no money in return for the food and medicine we gave him. Even though he had a, um, superior view of himself.”
That’s Gramps, all right. I squirmed a little as both Abuela and Myriam gave me sideways glances to see how I took that information. Judging from the look in Myriam’s eyes, this was new information on an age-old story.
She was translating quickly, as if impatient for the story to emerge faster. Meanwhile, I detected anger seeping away in Abuela. Her voice began to soften.
“Despite his faults, I admired him. I was only seventeen. I didn’t know better, but I came to love him.”
What? Myriam’s jaw loosened as Abuela hung her head. “When he left, he knew I was expecting his child. He swore he’d return. His parting words were ‘I will find a way.’ ” Abuela’s energy seemed to be fading.
Myriam and I were stunned.
“Papá?” Myriam finally asked, her voice a whisper.
“Of course,” Abuela replied.
My head was spinning. Papá of the soft green eyes, face paler than the other men in the village, his strong build so much like Gramps’. Papá was my mother’s half brother?
“So Papá is … my uncle?” I blurted, trying to compute it all. “And Myriam and I are … second cousins or something?”
Myriam didn’t translate the question. She didn’t need to. We stared at each other. No wonder Abuela was so upset!
“The village elders found out, and a few of them went to talk to him. I guess that scared him.…”
Rex tried to imagine his grandfather scared of anything. “And they chased him down the mountain?”
Abuela glared at me, shaking her head no, both pain and anger in her eyes. “That’s what he claimed? He said nothing else? Nothing of me?” She was struggling not to cry.
I sat forward and pulled Abuela’s hands into mine. I wanted to assure her Myriam was innocent. I wanted to put things right somehow – to apologize for all that Gramps had been and still was. I was willing to bet he’d never even told Abuela he was married to someone back home, someone expecting – my own mother.
I didn’t have the Spanish or English to do it. And even if I had, it was too late. Abuela pulled her hands away, rose, and ordered Myriam to rise.
“You, go!” she said in terse English, her anger and energy returning.
Abuela speaks some English words? I stood there, feeling torn and helpless as I had that first day in Myriam’s village. I was an outsider.
“But I want to say good-bye, and thank you,” I mumbled. I’d paid them; I’d fetched food for them; I’d left most of my possessions with them. I hadn’t exhibited a superior attitude, had I?
“You said your good-byes last night,” Myriam said in a cold voice that cut me like a machete. She must be still thinking of the necklace … must be still angry. And the necklace was back in my hidden boat, along with Gramps’ journal of lies. She moved alongside Abuela, away from me. “Go finish your river!” she shouted.
Abuela’s story had clearly rekindled Myriam’s anger at me. Do we really have to part this way?
Panic reached my throat as they walked out of sight. A girl with a swollen ankle, a worn-out eighty-something woman leaning on her cane. It was a long walk to the village, probably more than an hour’s journey at the rate they were going.
“I could fetch the mule for you,” I called out. They didn’t answer, didn’t look back.
I eyed the bike sprawled in the dirt with a flat tire. They’d send someone back for it. But me? No one was coming back for me. To them, I was worth less than a bike with a flat tire. And I was guideless – totally alone in a foreign land.
I headed downstream, my heart heavy, rain flowing down my face. I walked listlessly, no longer caring I was beside the Furioso, no longer caring I was moving towards what could be the Furioso’s most dangerous rapids. It didn’t matter now if I paddled them or not. Maybe I should abandon the kayak and not attempt the canyon, as Myriam had begged. That way I’d return alive to face Gramps – let him know what I thought of him, let him know that he owed Myriam’s family. It was time to build my life around not becoming like him.
The faster I walked, the more certain my resolve. Mom believed I was better than Gramps. And I believed it now too. I would deliberately put an end to this first-descent game.
I reached down, picked up a fistful of wet dirt, and slung it towards the river. Reached down again, slung more, and more.
First descent, I raged bitterly to myself. Oh, yes, Gramps, you had multiple first descents in Colombia, all right. Or did you decide Mom and I were “first” and Papá and Myriam “second” among your descendants?
“You like
the dark ones, eh? We’re not meant to mix with Indians,” I mimicked him as I ran faster and faster along the trail towards my kayak. “You pathetic two-faced hypocrite! You liar!”
I didn’t realize I was screaming until I thought I heard someone shouting back, far behind me. I paused.
Is the earth shaking, or is that the pounding of boots? It was like an entire army running at me from the direction of Myriam’s village. My heart seized up. I veered off the trail, my heart catapulting in my chest, searching for somewhere to hide.
A hollowed eucalyptus tree appeared between me and the river. I sprinted to it, hoisted myself up inside it, thankful for all that upper-body strength training. Breathing heavily and sweating bricks, I wriggled farther up to ensure that my dangling feet wouldn’t show. I managed to find a crack through which I could see what was on my tail. It was only moments before a large battalion of soldiers began marching past.
My body grew cold and shivers ran up my spine. Their feet were clad in black leather lace-up military boots; their uniforms were green camouflage; and their faces were covered by black bandanas, cowboy style. But this was no western movie. I was in Colombia, a stone’s throw from dozens of soldiers moving in a column through sheets of rain. Although lots of them were younger than me, the deadly serious way they held their machine guns dispelled any notion of child’s play. I had no idea whose side they were on, but I vaguely recalled Tom saying that the Colombian Army never came up here because there weren’t enough of them to fight the other two armies, and they didn’t much care what happened to the indígenas anyway.
Alberto had joined the guerillas, which must mean guerillas were the ones fighting for the poor. The paramilitaries worked for the rich to get rid of the guerillas. Isn’t that what Gramps said? One thing’s for sure: I need to stay clear of all of them.
The problem was, the soldiers didn’t seem to be passing by. They were spreading out, positioning themselves along the trail. How long can I hang out, soaking wet, in a hollow tree?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Myriam, shaken by Abuela’s revelation and the unpleasant parting that it had forced on her and Rex, tried to focus on just one thing: getting Abuela home before she collapsed.
Myriam’s ankle still throbbed, but she was more worried about Abuela, who needed to stop and rest so often that Myriam feared it would be dark before they reached the village. The rain beat down relentlessly.
When she smelled smoke on the wind, Myriam reminded herself they were close. The men must be burning another field to prepare it for planting, she thought. Strange they would try to do so in the rain. But when she heard shouts, she roused herself to a higher state of alertness.
“Abuelita,” she whispered, tugging on her grandmother’s elbow. “I think I hear soldiers. We need to hide.”
Abuela allowed herself to be led to a thicket of brush. Myriam removed Abuela’s plastic rain poncho, helped her lie under some low thick bushes, lay down beside her, then pulled the plastic over the two of them.
The shouting grew louder; the smell of smoke stronger. Tensing, Myriam raised her whistle. Then she heard the spit of machine-gun fire.
“No,” she groaned, dropping the whistle and throwing her arms around Abuela. They lay like that for a long time, Myriam trying not to weep, Abuela falling asleep as if unable to hear the distant fighting.
Then came the sound of boots crunching stones on the trail only yards away. Myriam dared not move as a column of soldiers marched by. She froze when she heard boots leave the path and move towards their hiding place. Spanish voices exchanged words as soldiers searched the brush. She held her breath, pressed her body closer to her sleeping grandmother, and prayed.
They came ever closer. She opened one eye and could see the muzzle of a gun hanging from a soldier mere feet away. From the leather lace-up boot, she guessed he was a paramilitary. She held her breath. Only when the boots and voices retreated did she let it out.
Moving her ear over Abuela’s mouth, she felt no breath. Panicked, she leaned closer, then started as a jagged snore arose.
Best to let Abuela be until I’m sure it’s safe, she thought. She crawled away from her and slithered through the mud to a better view of the trail. She saw only muddy boot prints.
Moving as silently as she could, Myriam crawled farther, closer to the village. The first body she came across was that of her dog, Capitán. His head was crushed as if by a gun butt. One hand flew to her mouth in disbelief as she cradled her beloved pet in her arms. The paramilitaries had been here to avenge Alberto joining the guerillas, she understood with a sob.
Her breath came jaggedly as she raised her head and saw half a dozen bodies strewn in the wet field. Her first instinct was to run immediately from one to another to see who was injured and needed help. But she forced herself to hold back the longest ten minutes of her life, until she was sure no soldiers had stayed behind to lie in wait. Finally, she could hide no longer.
She moved through the field in slow motion. Her spider bite forgotten, she dragged herself from one body to another, her fingers checking for a pulse, sobs bursting from her throat. She made the sign of the cross over each. Uncles, cousins, and other males she had known from birth were lying there, motionless. They were all adults; the soldiers had either let the boys flee, or had “recruited” them to their cause.
“Papá? Papá? Papá?” she found herself crying.
She discovered him under a pile of three men. They must have surrounded him in an attempt to protect their leader.
“Papá!” she screamed, rolling the other bodies off to wrap her arms around his big chest. Her tears dripped on his lifeless eyes as blood from his head wound seeped onto her wet, muddy blouse.
“No!” she shrieked to the angry gray sky, releasing him and limping to the plaza. There, smoke was still curling from the burned buildings. No women or children were in sight. They and some of the men had been allowed to flee to the next indígena village, Myriam guessed.
She looked about the plaza. The soldiers had smashed up the looms, and she could still smell gasoline from where they’d poured it to start the fires. She bent down and picked up Rosita’s fiber bag. She pictured a terrified Rosita running, the twins in her arms, guns aimed at her.
Myriam backed away, shaking, screaming for someone to answer her, to comfort her, to help her guide Abuela to safety.
Only a ripple of thunder and a hard pounding of rain replied. She gulped between sobs and walked up to her family’s scorched hut. Stepping through the doorway, she spotted Freddy’s little red hat and clutched it to her breast. As tears streamed down her face, she turned and fled down the trail, back to Abuela.
Abuela was stirring. She sat up and stared dazedly at Myriam.
“You have blood on your blouse,” she said, looking down to Myriam’s ankle as if that might be to blame. Then her eyes rose slowly, scanning Myriam’s trembling body and shell-shocked face. She reached her arms up to her and pulled her close as Myriam sank to the ground, spilling every tear that had ever thought to form.
It was nearly dark when Myriam led Abuela to the cave over the river. They had no energy to make it to the next community that night. Myriam had neither food nor appetite, and she couldn’t face sleeping in the remains of her village – nor did she have the physical or mental strength to bury the bodies of the men who had fallen.
She could barely move. It had taken all her remaining energy to walk Abuela to the cave by a circuitous route, to prevent her from witnessing the devastation.
“I will go. I must see,” Abuela had insisted, but the frail woman was no match for Myriam, who was capable of just this one act: preventing her grandmother from seeing the carnage.
Now, Myriam had the presence to accomplish one more goal: getting the two of them up the steps and into the cave, coaxing herself and Abuela to drink some water, peeling off some of their wet clothing, and covering the two of them with the dry blanket Alberto had kept in the cave’s corner. They clung to each other,
both crying.
Just before she fell into a deep sleep, Abuela lifted Myriam’s face close to hers. “Myriam,” she said, “you must tell people. You must do as you planned: Go to university; find a way to tell the world.”
Myriam’s eyes flooded, and she stroked her grandmother’s wrinkled face. Salty tears ran past the old woman’s lips. “I love you, Abuelita,” Myriam said, choking on a sob. She could not tell her grandmother it was too late. Everything was too late. The world had ended.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
During my hour in the tree, I determined several things. First, I was no more than a ten-minute walk from my hidden kayak. Second, the soldiers spread along the trail weren’t spending any time by the river itself. And I knew from Myriam that only rarely did the trail offer a view of the river. Even if someone spotted me once I started kayaking, I’d be long gone by the time they ran to river’s edge. And while they could take potshots at me if they wanted to, something Papá said stuck in my mind: “You’re worth more alive than dead.”
I was frightened, yes, but saw no future in staying in the tree. My plan to abandon the river and portage along the trail had just been scuttled. I was better off getting out of this hot spot by kayaking the river. Suddenly, portaging seemed more dangerous than paddling without a safety-rope assistant. In fact, the biggest danger would be stepping onshore to scout.
Can I paddle a series of difficult rapids while scouting only from my boat? It was unwise and heightened the danger, for sure. And I’d have to get out of my boat at the waterfall. But with soldiers around, I was best off getting out of here as fast as the river could take me. For better or worse, the continuing downpour was making the river flow faster by the minute. Besides, I had no sleeping bag and almost no food left, so dared not spend any time looking for figs or berries. Never mind that Abuela had banished me from the village.
I tried not to think about that, or the fact that during the abrupt parting with Myriam, I hadn’t had the necklace to give her. Not that it would have helped mend things between us, even if I’d handed it over. The damage was done. By thinking only of myself and a first descent, I’d brought this misery on myself. It was time to leave this country to its troubles. Survival, not a first descent, had become my top priority. I’d hand the necklace over to Jock to deliver to Myriam and Abuela on their next market day.