Bringing the Boy Home

by N. A. Nelson

  We both turn just as the door opens.

  “Hey, Tirio.” Mrs. Carter smiles. “Can you stay for lunch?”

  I nod. “Sure, thanks.”

  She motions us in. “The food’s in the kitchen, but you boys can eat out here, if you’d like.”

  Joey storms past her into the kitchen, snatches a plate of sandwiches and pickles from the table, and stomps back outside.

  I take the other plate and rush after him.

  “Don’t forget your drinks!” Mrs. Carter calls as she grabs the cordless phone.

  I see the two glasses of ice tea sitting on the counter. Hurrying outside, I set my plate down and then run back to get the tea.

  I grab one glass. Scratch, scratch. A cat sharpens its claws on a tree in Havana Park.

  I grab the other. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Someone’s watch ticks off seconds in the bathroom.

  I head for the porch but freeze when I hear Mrs. Carter’s voice. “This weekend,” she murmurs to someone on the phone upstairs. “Stan’s flying in, and we’re going to tell him together.”

  There’s a pause and then Mrs. Carter starts crying softly.

  “Joey’s going to blame himself,” she says. “I know he will. He’ll think the divorce is his fault, like maybe there was something he could have done to prevent it, but”—she gulps in a breath—“this is my fault, not his….”

  A wind blows in through the open sliding door and whispers behind me:

  my fault, not his

  my fault, not his

  my fault, not yours

  I spin around and come face to face with my mother. Not Sara, but Maroma—my Takunami mother. Brown and dusty, she hasn’t changed since the last time I saw her, from her slight smile to her haphazard haircut.

  A fly lands on her forehead and she brushes it away. “This is my fault, not yours, and I too will pay,” she repeats. “I too will pay.”

  I drop one of the glasses and it shatters on the tile floor. I look down and see slivers of glass sparkling up at me as tiny drops of blood appear on my foot.

  When I glance up again, Maroma is gone.

  Mrs. Carter rushes downstairs.

  Outside! my mind yells. I don’t want her to know what I heard.

  Thump, slide, thump, slide. I recognize the sound instantly. I’m dragging my foot. I haven’t done that for years.

  Maha.

  I slam the lone glass of tea onto the picnic table and lean over the porch railing, gasping for breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Joey asks.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Carter is standing in the doorway, looking nervous.

  “I accidentally dropped a glass,” I say, composing myself and turning around. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter. I’ll clean it up.” I head toward her, dragging my foot with me.

  Mrs. Carter’s gaze drops down to my leg. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “No, my foot’s just acting up again.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Tirio,” she says. “I’ll do it.” She pauses, then turns to Joey. “Honey, your father’s coming home this weekend. Don’t make any plans for Saturday night; he wants us all to go out for dinner.”

  Joey’s face lights up. “Really? Cool! Can we go to Las Conchitas?”

  “Sure,” she says, smiling tightly as she closes the heavy wooden door. “I’ll make reservations.”

  Joey’s almost trembling with excitement when he looks at me. “Ha. Told you things were going to change.” He laughs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “So, what really happened in there?”

  Not wanting to spoil his happiness—and knowing he won’t believe me anyway—I decide not to tell him about what the “change” really means. “I saw a vision of my mother,” I answer, my voice even.

  Joey doesn’t even bother to doubt me anymore, as if his father coming this weekend makes everything possible. “Sara?” he asks.

  “My Takunami mother.”

  He stops chewing for a second, and looks confused. “If the Good Gods control the plants and animals, and your father controls you, who controls your mother?”

  “I told you,” I say through clenched teeth. “My father doesn’t control me. Or my mother.” Staring down at my bad foot, I push away from the railing. My foot feels strong. I take a step. It holds me. I take another and another, until I’m standing next to Joey. “I need your help.” I narrow my eyes. “I need you to help me prepare for a two-day trip in the Amazon jungle.”

  LUKA

  12 Years, 360 Sunrises

  The Amazon

  “Today we test your eyes,” my mother says.

  My heart quickens as I stare at the sight in front of me.

  “Caiman, peccary, fer-de-lance, jaguar, and anteater.” Maha pauses in front of each of the five forms. “You must find every one by nightfall.”

  She has gone too far. She has involved others.

  “Maha, these boys aren’t old enough to stay out all day. They’re still children; not one of them is over six.” I watch five little chests poke out further and five chins lift higher in response to what I said.

  Ignoring me, she smudges ash on the arm of the fer-de-lance snake, Kapuki. “The boys will not make sounds, so you must rely on your eyes alone. These are all animals that can harm you in your journey home.”

  The young boys, serious and determined in their camouflage, follow Maha’s every move with their eyes. Their bodies have been meticulously decorated to mimic the skin, scales, or fur of each creature: ru-pah leaf to change Luwta’s brown skin to the black-green of a caiman; atuh berry and ash on Kapuki to duplicate the pattern of the deadly fer-de-lance snake; lustu root on Pisteru to look like the fur of the anteater; real peccary hairs attached to Weru’s back; and Kiwano, the youngest of the group at four years old, painted with u-shuh berry and rioba sap to look amazingly like a miniature jaguar.

  I run my fingers through my hair. “What if something happens to them? I do not want to be responsible.”

  “They will be in their natural habitats.” Maha continues pacing. “In other words, the peccary will be on the ground, not in a tree.”

  Pisteru giggles until Weru, the peccary, shoots him an angry look. At six, Weru is the fattest of the boys and a poor climber. I am sure that is why he was chosen as a ground animal.

  “The caiman and jaguar might be on land or water, and the fer-de-lance might be in a tree or on the ground. They will all be two hundred footsteps from the wash area.”

  “What if I do not find them by nightfall?”

  She ignores me. “When you spot one, give the call of the tooka bird and say the name of the animal. The boy will award you with a seed from the sho-ro sho-ro bush, which you will then put in this.” She holds up a small leather pouch. “Once you have all five seeds, you may return to the village.”

  “What do the boys do when I find them?”

  My mother slowly narrows her eyes at me. “My son, for someone who in three sunrises is supposed to have all the answers, you ask a lot of questions.” She hands me the pouch and then jerks her head toward the forest. The five boy-animals silently race toward the jungle. “Stay here until the sun has reached midsky and then you can begin,” she instructs me before striding away. I stare after her helplessly.

  “It looks like someone has something to prove,” a deep, soft voice behind me says.

  Surprised, I turn and see Tukkita, the Takunami shaman, standing under the shade of the po-no. His tiny, wrinkled body is dwarfed by the tree’s massive trunk.

  “Oh, and I will, Tukkita,” I assure the medicine man, my voice sounding louder than I intended.

  He closes his eyes and I swallow a lump in my throat. Was my tone disrespectful? I look down. “The boys will be fine and I will prove myself.”

  “That is something we will find out in a few days, my proud friend,” he says, shuffling away, “but it is not you I was talking about.”

  As the sun moves upward, I walk to the shade of the po-no tree where Tukkita had been standing.


  It is not you I was talking about. The shaman’s words repeat in my head. If not me, then who? It couldn’t be the boys; they are just following Maha’s orders. So it had to be…Maha? The papaya I had for breakfast churns in my stomach and the acid works its way up my throat as I lean over and rest my hands on my knees.

  Tukkita said what everyone else is thinking. As hard as I try to ignore the raised eyebrows and whispers of the other villagers, it is difficult when Maha parades me around after the completion of each test.

  It is true that no other Takunami mother has ever gone through such widespread testing to prepare her son for his soche seche tente. But Maha is just that type of person. Everything she does is beyond what is necessary. When she makes a piece of clothing, she folds the jagged edges over to make a straight hem. When she cooks, she adds extra spices. I watch her stay busy until late in the night, and when I wake, she has already begun another project. Sometimes I look for signs that she has slept at all.

  When she is happy, she is very happy. When she is mad, she is crazy mad. But I have come to accept it as the way Maha is. Now Tukkita’s words plant doubt. What does my mother have to prove?

  “Luka,” a small voice says. I straighten up and see Sulali. I grimace at her two black eyes and swollen nose. She was passed out for half of yesterday after being hit with the bamboo.

  “You are a sight, little one.” I sit down and pull her to me.

  She giggles and wiggles into my lap. Growing quiet, she opens my hand and grabs the leather pouch. I wait for her to speak and notice how long her hair has gotten. Karara has braided it identically to hers for the past couple of weeks. I’m sure Maha hasn’t noticed.

  “Do good, Luka,” she finally says. “Do good, so Paho can come live with us. Do good, so Maha and Karara will be happy.”

  My whole body sags. Karara is not the only sister who has suffered from my training.

  “Paho will not ever live with us, Sulali,” I remind her softly. “Even after I pass the test, he must stay in the men’s rohacas.”

  Her chin trembles, and I stop myself from telling her that I too will be moving there.

  “But he can play with you every day.” I clap her hands together. “And spin you around a lot higher than I can, I’m sure.”

  She sniffs. “Really?”

  “So high you will be saying eh-eh to the muwipa.”

  She giggles.

  I hug my sister. “Now go find Tambo and cause some trouble.”

  She buries her head in my shoulder.

  “Go, before I make you eat dirt like you made me.” I grab some soil and she shrieks and jumps up.

  “Kuiju—I love you.” Her eyes flit to mine for a second and then dart back to the ground.

  It is not something my family says, and I wonder where she heard it. I tug at the bottom of her skirt and peer up at her face. “Kuiju, Sulali. We all do—very much; Paho also. You will see. Very soon this will all be over and we will be a happy family.”

  My sister smiles and I force myself to laugh. “Now get out of here, before Maha catches you.”

  “Good luck,” she whispers.

  I push her gently. “Go.”

  As she skips away, I notice the shadow of the po-no tree has disappeared. Taking a deep breath, I stand, tie the cinched pouch to my wrist, and head toward the wash area.

  The coolness of the jungle instantly puts me at ease, and the load on my shoulders lifts with each step. “Hello, old friend.” I smile. The leaves nod as I pass, and patches of light speckle the path, pulling me forward. I jump from one patch to the other and think again of Sulali.

  I must do well.

  Upon reaching the clearing that opens onto the river, I search for any signs that one of the boys might be hiding in the water. No such luck. I guess this isn’t going to be that easy after all.

  Last season, flooding destroyed our wash area and the men worked for five days to build a new one. They wove river reeds together to form a circular fence that reaches twenty paces into the river and also twenty paces along the shore. It is the only place where our tribe can safely bathe, clean our clothes, and swim. The gate we enter through is always closed to keep the caimans out, but I notice now, with some unease, that it is open. Hurriedly I shut it, wrapping the leather straps around the top and bottom of the door. Peering into the water again, I look for a pair of reptile eyes, but see nothing.

  Setting my jaw, I go over my plan. Starting by the water’s edge, I will walk two hundred steps into the forest and then come back, combing the area in a fanlike pattern. It should only take me a few hours. I shake the gate to make sure it stays closed, recheck the river, and begin.

  After walking about a hundred steps, I gag and stumble backward. Covering my nose, I breathe out of my mouth until I come upon a tree bearing the horrible-smelling but delicious ah-ku-de fruit. Passed out against the trunk is Weru, the boy assigned to be the peccary. Staring at him—with his hands clasped across his chubby belly and sweet, slimy pulp all over his face—I shake my head and decide to teach him a lesson.

  I step behind another tree and mimic the call of the tooka bird softly. “Wee-wee-o.”

  Weru doesn’t stir.

  “Wee-wee-o.” A little louder this time.

  He shifts and rolls to his side.

  I repeat the call once more and Weru stiffens. I can see him searching for me but trying not to move. I have yet to call out the name of an animal, so he doesn’t know if I have spotted him or someone else.

  “White-lipped peccary,” I finally say, and appear from behind the tree. His peccary hairs have come unglued and hang pitifully down his back. Slowly he stands and, without meeting my gaze, hands over the sho-ro sho-ro seed.

  “Go wash off, Weru. The flies and mosquitoes will have you for supper if you don’t.”

  Hunched over, he shuffles toward the water.

  “Oh, and Weru, make sure to close the gate. Someone left it open earlier.”

  He freezes.

  “Was it you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “It’s okay,” I assure him. “Go. The flies have already found you.”

  He casts a fearful glance at the water. “Better the flies have me for dinner than a caiman, Luka.”

  “There are no caim—” But he is already jogging away. I wipe the ah-ku-de pulp off the seed and slip it into the pouch.

  Two hours later, I have found all the boys except one. Kiwano, the four-year-old jaguar, is still missing. Thunder claps in the distance; a storm is coming. Breaking into a run, I spin around trees and search the dense foliage. He loves to climb, so I’m sure he is up high. Where are you, Kiwano?

  I hear the raindrops before I feel them. Luckily the umbrella of the jungle protects me from most of the downpour. But as the leaves grow heavy, they will sag and it won’t be long before I’ll be soaked.

  I turn back toward the river and my heart leaps. Huddled high in a koi tree, his thin arms clutching his knees, is Kiwano.

  “Wee-wee-o.” Clap! The thunder is closer. The little boy does not move.

  “Wee-wee-o! Jaguar!” I cup my hands around my mouth and yell up to him. “Kiwano, come down now! You’re the last one; good job!”

  He does not hear me.

  I try to shake the koi tree, but it doesn’t budge. “Kiwano.” I hear the panic in my voice and hope he doesn’t. “Come down from the tree.”

  No response.

  The rain has reached us, and my hands and feet slip as I climb the smooth trunk of the tree. When I am finally even with the branch where Kiwano is crouched, I touch his arm. “Kiwano, don’t be scared. I will get you down.”

  He doesn’t move. Peering through the rain, I notice his eyes are clenched and his lips are moving furiously. I lean in.

  “Go away, go away, go away,” he whispers. “Go away, go away, go away.”

  “Kiwano, it’s Luka. I’m here to take you home. Give me your hand.” He does not respond. Bumps rise on my skin. Something is wrong.
/>   I grab him and we half shinny, half fall down the tree.

  “Go away, go away, go away,” he murmurs in my ear.

  He is a small boy, and I run home with him bouncing on my hip like a sack of dried palm fronds. When I get to his hut, I hand him to his maha and turn to get Tukkita.

  “What happened?” Before I can take a step, Maha is standing in front of me.

  “I don’t know. When I found him, he was acting the same way. Maha, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing,” she snaps. “I am sure he just climbed too high and got scared. Go home. Karara fixed dinner.”

  “No.”

  Tukkita suddenly appears; I ignore Maha’s glare and follow him inside. The shaman leans over the boy and mumbles words I cannot understand. Kiwano is still whispering, “Go away, go away, go away,” and the song the two voices make sounds strangely beautiful. Suddenly, Kiwano gasps and sits up. His eyes are wild. Clutching the shaman, the two stare at each other.

  “Punhana,” he says.

  Kiwano’s mother falls to the floor wailing. Maha turns gray. I cannot move. The Punhana is the legendary bird of death, the messenger of the Good Gods. As a child, I heard stories about the Punhana, the beautiful bird with an orange and red tail and bright blue wings. It is said to have a crown of feathers the color of a sunset, and a beak as long and green as the tuta palm. It always brings its message to a child and it is a simple one: death.

  “It is not going to be Kiwano,” Tukkita says. “He was just the one who saw the Punhana. Someone else in the village is going to die. Someone important…” His voice fades, and he seems to avoid looking in my direction.

  “Who?” No one answers me. I turn to the boy, still trembling on the floor. “Kiwano, who did the Punhana say is going to die?”

  Kiwano looks at me with cloudy eyes. I lunge for him. “What else did the Punhana say?”

  Tukkita shoves me and I fall to the floor, surprised at his strength.

  “The Punhana does not speak. It only shows itself to two people: the messenger and the person who is going to die. We just have to wait.”