Bringing the Boy Home

by N. A. Nelson

  As I walked out of the hut this morning, Maha warned me with a stern look. I nodded and grabbed my bow from its place above my hammock. I hope the grunting man won’t tell her I stared too long.

  When I arrive at the palm tree, I reach for the stick leaning against the trunk, poke it into the opening of the bees’ nest, and stir. The air buzzes to life. Carefully, I return the stick. “Sting me.” I taunt the insects as they swarm. “Sting me, winged warriors, so the aim of my arrow will be as straight as the aim of your stinger.”

  When I was little, I used to swat at the bees; now I stand with arms outstretched, focusing on the power each prick brings, visualizing the straight arrows I will soon shoot. Walking away, I feel myself stand taller and thank the Good Gods for providing such useful animals.

  I count the tiny red bumps that have risen on my skin—twenty on one arm, nineteen on the other. I touch the ones on my chest and wonder how many my paho gets before he goes hunting.

  Hearing rustling in the branches above me, I peer into the canopy and see a group of spider monkeys. I am not allowed to hunt monkeys until after I have completed my test, but I know I could get one if I tried. Banging on the base of the wah-pu palm, I attempt to separate one from the others. I throw a rock up and clap my hands. A big male leaps through the air and flings himself to the next bough. I shake the tree to isolate him more, and it works. Screaming at me, he grabs for a vine and climbs up, lunging for a looming branch. I see my shot through an opening in the leaves. Positioning myself, I pull the bow back and point at his heart. Holding my breath and keeping my elbow close to my side, I release the string, feeling the sting of the bees in my straight aim. The empty bow twangs, and the monkey screeches and climbs higher until he is lost in the leaves.

  “You are safe today,” I tell him. “But next time I will use an arrow. Next time, I will take you home.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TIRIO

  12 Years, 358 Days

  The United States

  I pull against the cuff that attaches my ankle to a medieval-looking machine. “How does it feel?” Dr. Riley asks.

  Since Sara adopted me seven years ago, I’ve been coming to Sport and Health Physical Therapy to straighten and stretch my bad foot. A few beads of sweat have popped out on my forehead, but I don’t flinch. “Great. I didn’t feel a thing yesterday during the tournament.”

  He smiles. “Excellent. But you’re still wearing the orthotic, right?” He wags a finger. “Don’t forget to take it on your trip.”

  Sara clears her throat and lifts an arched eyebrow at me. I quickly look down and switch the cable to the other foot, wondering if she suspects something. “Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll take it on the trip.” But I won’t wear it, I think as I start my second set.

  When Dr. Riley first put me on the pulley system, I was ready to bolt out the door and swim back to the Amazon. Thinking he was going to string me up, I fought like a snared animal, and it had taken several months until I finally trusted him and tried again. For two weeks, I struggled to do one repetition; now I can complete three sets of twenty.

  Today I do an extra five.

  “Feeling strong, huh?” Dr. Riley brings over a wobble board and points to the clock. “Three minutes. Go.”

  “Jeez, who in the world comes up with these things?” I step onto the square piece of wood. The design is the same as a seesaw, with the board centered on a ball underneath, and my job is to keep it balanced.

  “Crap.” The wood taps the floor on one side. I over-correct. Tap. Then the other. Tap. I grit my teeth. I hate not being good at something.

  “Easy, T,” Sara remarks.

  I take a deep breath and relax.

  Dr. Riley asks Sara if we’ve gotten all of our vaccinations, which of course we have. Sara never slacks on that kind of stuff. She tells him about the follow-up research she’s planning, and how she’s looking forward to going back with me this time.

  “I’ll be working in the mornings,” I hear her say, “but we should still have a ton of time just to hang out and have fun. One thing I made Tirio promise is to help me find a hyacinth macaw that I can shoot.”

  “As in the parrot?” Dr. Riley sounds shocked. “You want to shoot a parrot?”

  Sara laughs. “With my camera. And since Tirio’s got such an amazing eye for spotting things, I’m sure we’ll find one.”

  I block out their voices and focus on keeping the wobble board even. You can do it, I tell myself.

  When I was in the Amazon, working on improving my five senses, my mother would make me repeat a task four or five times even after I’d done it correctly. “You are the weakest boy in some areas, Tirio,” she had said. “Your only hope is to be the strongest in others.” And then she would smile. “You can do it.”

  “I can do it,” I mutter under my breath as the board hits the floor. “I can do it.”

  “Tirio?” Dr. Riley suddenly waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Tirio? Can you hear me?”

  I stare at him, bewildered, as his words echo in my head. Hello? Tirio? Can you hear me?

  Sara and Dr. Riley laugh as he points to his watch. “Time’s up. You’re good to go.”

  Time’s up. Good to go. The voice repeats. I look at Dr. Riley, but his mouth is no longer moving.

  “What’s wrong, T?” Sara asks.

  I stiffen and wait for the voice to echo her words. Silence.

  She comes over and helps me off the wobble board. “Tirio?”

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, holding my breath and looking around. “Really.”

  “Are you sure?” Dr. Riley hands me a bottle of water.

  I nod.

  Sara slings my backpack over her shoulder and leads me toward the door, thanking Dr. Riley. “I think we’ll just head home now,” she whispers.

  Head home now, the voice repeats.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wince.

  “Okay—well, be careful,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Be careful…I’ll see you soon…be careful.

  Pushing past Sara, I run down the stairs, away from that voice—but I trip and crash onto the lawn.

  Sara rushes out and helps me up. “Tirio, what’s going on?”

  I gulp air back into my lungs.

  “Stay here with Dr. Riley,” she commands. “I’ll get the car.”

  I nod and lower myself onto a step. A fluttering in the grass catches my eye. It’s a pierid. A pale yellow pierid. I’ve seen pierids in Florida, but this one is different.

  “It’s only got one wing,” I whisper.

  Dr. Riley follows my gaze. “What does?”

  A strong wind catches the butterfly like a kite.

  Go, go, go, my mind screams. Get away! But the gust tumbles it cruelly to the end of the sidewalk, where Sara accidentally steps on it, crushing it under her sneaker.

  I can’t look at the dead butterfly. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

  Hello? Tirio? Can you hear me?

  Time’s up. Good to go.

  Head home now.

  Be careful. I’ll see you soon.

  I think the tribe that wanted me dead…knows I’m alive.

  LUKA

  12 Years, 358 Sunrises

  The Amazon

  My mother looks at me expectantly.

  I take a sip of the soup and list the first ingredient. “Manioc.”

  She grunts. That was an easy one.

  “Sawari nuts, ayumara fish, bra-bra leaves.”

  Wiping sweat off the back of my neck, I scoot closer under the shadow of the thatched roof. I stare at the clothesline slung low between two poles and look for signs of a breeze. It stays as still as a dead tapir.

  My mother’s piercing eyes follow the bowl to my mouth as I swallow again.

  “Kha-la-mu mushroom, pas-puh chile, wu-pu yam, and”—I make a face; it can’t be—“dirt?”

  My younger sister laughs and hides behind Maha. My mother smiles for a second as she looks
at her daughter. “Sulali wanted to trick you by adding dirt. She thought you would never expect it.”

  “She was right.” I wink at the little girl peeking out from behind Maha’s arm. “I didn’t expect it. Nice try, Sulali. We will see how much you like the taste of dirt later.”

  She screeches and jumps on Maha’s back.

  My mother’s lips disappear into a thin line as she impatiently motions toward my soup. “Continue.”

  “Palm fruit, manala root, vanilla, conto weed, and”—I drain the bowl and place it on the ground triumphantly—“frog eggs.”

  Maha frowns. Sulali jumps down and stares with wide, expectant eyes.

  “You must tell me more,” Maha demands.

  “More? Maha, that was all. There is nothing more.”

  “You must be specific.”

  My older sister, Karara, has just returned from the garden. Placing her woven basket on the ground, she cocks her hips and smirks. Sulali moves away from Maha and grabs Karara’s hand. I look at the basket overflowing with manioc root and go over everything in my head. What did I miss? A new spice? A rare leaf? Ants? I am sure of my list and look up. Karara rolls her eyes. I glare at her. Sulali bites her lip, and Maha’s face is blank. To help me now would only harm me later. They will not be in the jungle in four days to give me answers, so they do not now.

  Karara picks the basket up and turns to go inside.

  “Kupu-kupa frog eggs, the silver tree frog,” I shout triumphantly at her back. She flicks her wrist over her head to show she is not impressed and disappears into our hut. I turn toward my mother and her face relaxes into a smile.

  “Yes,” she says, patting my head. “Tomorrow we test your ears.”

  “Maha?” I stand, knowing if I don’t ask my question now, I will lose my courage. “Last night at Kholina, when you saw Paho…”

  She narrows her eyes.

  “Did he…” I fumble for the words I practiced. “Do you think…”

  “Yes?” she snaps.

  “Is he happy with where I am?” I blurt. “With my progress? Does he think I’m ready?”

  “He will be happier when you have passed,” she says, turning away. “And so will I.”

  We hear Karara snort.

  Maha freezes in midstep and slowly curls her hands into fists. Spinning around, she smiles widely at Sulali and me.

  “Yes, Luka,” she announces loudly. “Your paho is very proud of you…his son.”

  I walk over to the wash pot. “Good,” I murmur, dipping my soup bowl in and swirling it around.

  There is silence from inside our hut.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TIRIO

  12 Years, 358 Days

  The United States

  “I feel fine,” I assure Sara as we walk toward Cal’s diner. “Really.” I hold open the restaurant door and realize I’m still shaking. “I think I just need something to eat. Plus, didn’t it seem really hot in Dr. Riley’s office?”

  Sara looks concerned as she walks inside. “Not particularly.” She pauses, then adds, “I wouldn’t want you to be sick for our trip, Tirio. We can always postpone it, if we need to.”

  From behind the counter Cal’s face lights up when he sees us, and he waves. “How are my favorite two customers today?” he asks as we sit down at our usual spot.

  “Starving,” I say. Cal chortles as he ladles soup into a huge bowl and slides it toward me with a sly grin. “You will never get this one,” he whispers. “Never. If you get it right, free soup for the rest of the year.”

  For the past five years, Sara and I have been coming to Cal’s Gourmet Diner after my physical therapy sessions. This tradition started when Cal and I developed an unusual friendship over his famously secret soups. All of Cal’s recipes come out of his head; he never uses a cookbook and he won’t tell anyone the ingredients. People beg him, even offer him cash, but he always refuses.

  I would silently cheer every time he turned someone down, happy that I wasn’t the only one hiding something.

  When I was eight, I decided to share my secret with Cal.

  “Almonds, cauliflower, cucumber, yogurt,” I said.

  Cal stopped cutting the tomatoes.

  “Garlic, beef broth, dill…”

  He walked over to where Sara and I were sitting and crossed his meaty arms on the counter.

  “And pepper.” I smiled shyly and looked down.

  “How in the world?”

  “What did he do now?” Sara laughed.

  “I think you’ve got a future chef on your hands.”

  “Why, is he giving you hints on how to improve your soup?”

  “What do you mean? My soup is perfect.” Cal clutched his chest in mock offense but continued to look at me with admiration. “No, this young man just listed all the ingredients in his soup. Every single one.”

  Sara whooped. “Really. Well, maybe Tirio and I should open a restaurant across the street and give you a run for your money, Cal.”

  Leaning down so we were eye to eye, he stroked his mustache and stared at me seriously. “Mr. Tirio,” he said, “come back next Friday and I will make a new soup for you. But next time, young man, could you whisper the ingredients in my ear?”

  I looked at his hairy ears and grimaced.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Or write them down, if you wish. As remarkable as your talent is, sir, I do not want my recipes advertised for everyone to hear, you see?”

  I nodded solemnly. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin his secret.

  Five years later, as Sara and I sit in the same seats, he’s still trying to stump me. Sometimes I get them wrong, but often I’m right—especially lately. I’ve been on a roll.

  “Go for it, Mr. Tirio.” He smiles today. “This one is especially tough, so take your time. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  I sip a spoonful. A familiar taste hits my tongue and my stomach flip-flops. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Sara rummages through her tote bag and pulls out a pen. “Did he make it really spicy? You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

  Shaking my head, I grab the pen from her and begin writing on my napkin.

  Chicken broth

  Lime

  Cilantro

  Pepper

  Chicken

  Sorengi mushrooms

  Paprika

  Worcestershire sauce

  Basil

  Salt

  My hand is shaking as I write down the last ingredient. Although I haven’t eaten it in seven years, I would know this taste anywhere.

  Manioc

  Sara gives a low whistle as she peers over my shoulder. “Where in the world did Cal get manioc?”

  I shrug, and although my heart is pounding, I try to act nonchalant as I give the napkin to Cal.

  The older man shakes his head in disbelief and then holds out his hand in congratulations. I shake it and go through the motions of shrugging and grinning sheepishly, but inside my mind is screaming, Manioc! I ate manioc twice a day when I lived in the jungle, but I haven’t had it once since I’ve been here. And in Cal’s diner? My mind churns with questions. Why would Cal put it in my soup?

  During the drive home, an eerie feeling settles over me. The hunch on the soccer field. The strange voices. The appearance of the manioc. What does it all mean?

  When we pull into the driveway, I still don’t have any answers.

  “So how do you feel now that you’ve eaten?” Sara asks as she unlocks the front door of our townhouse. “Better?”

  I drop my backpack under the enormous palm tree that has overtaken the small hallway. Not wanting her to postpone our trip, I manage what I hope is a convincing smile. “One hundred percent better.”

  She stares at me with narrowed eyes, unsure. So I lift my arms and flex my muscles like a bodybuilder, making different grimacing faces with each pose.

  Finally, she laughs. “Okay, okay, I get it. Save the impression session for Juan Diego. He already told me the dining h
all at the camp needs a new roof. One look at you, and he’ll have you up there with a hammer and nails.”

  Juan Diego is one of Sara’s oldest friends. He’s a Brazilian ethnobotanist and was driving the boat the day Sara found me floating in the corpse canoe. He’s still working at the research camp.

  I straighten up so that I’m almost as tall as Sara. “I could do it.”

  “I know,” she says. “And you probably will.” Sara starts flipping through the mail. “Oh, by the way, Professor Goodwin is coming over later, probably around eight….”

  “Professor Goodwin, huh? You mean tall, dark, handsome”—I put my arm around a wooden spider monkey sculpture sitting on the hall table—“single Professor Goodwin?”

  “He offered to teach my classes while I’m away.” Sara doesn’t look up, but a smile has crept onto her face. “And he wants to discus my syllabus.”

  “Good thing we just cleaned the house and there are fresh flowers on the table,” I say, following her into the kitchen.

  “What I’m trying to get at,” Sara continues, ignoring my taunts, “is that the rest of the week is very busy and I’d like to wrap the gifts we’re taking to the research camp before he gets here. Can you help?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” She motions toward the living room. “There’s a bag of stuff in there. Why don’t you bring it into the kitchen, so we’ll have more room.”

  I walk through the archway of Kai’inga hunting spears into our living room. All around me are reminders of Sara’s work as an anthropologist. Masks of warriors leapfrog with photos of Sara and me on our annual camping trip. A hollowed-out honey-colored gourd sits between last year’s soccer trophy and a lopsided clay vase I made Sara for Mother’s Day. Even the windows are decorated with woven reed blinds pulled up by braided vines.

  “Tirio,” Sara calls.

  I pick up the bag and take it into the kitchen, where we start sorting through the gifts Sara bought. There’s a bunch of stuff for the American staff at the camp, as well as some small toys for the kids in the local tribes.