by N. A. Nelson
RED. STOP. DON’T ENTER.
I turn back toward the main river. Blinking yellow eyes pull me forward.
I keep going straight.
After a while the eyes spread out, and I wonder if I made a mistake. What if I passed my river an hour ago? My heart starts beating faster. What if these caiman eyes aren’t really a sign from the Good Gods after all?
RED, RED. RED, RED. I kill the motor. The main river in front of me is blocked by two huge black caimans. The irises glowering at me are the size of my fist. Where do I go now? I spotlight both sides of the bank, looking for a smaller river.
Nothing.
I shine on the red eyes. They’re still there. Where are my yellow and orange eyes?
I scan the river. Then I see it: the clay lick. One of the last things I remember before Sara rescued me was a blurry wall of color. When I asked Sara about it later, she told me that parrots gnaw at the clay to neutralize the poison from the fruit they eat. The colors I had seen were a flock of birds. Although the rock barely peeks above the water, I have a feeling this is my clay lick…my tributary.
I spin the boat toward it and almost cheer when I turn the corner and see four pairs of yellow eyes beckoning me in. The small river snakes sharply around the wall and then disappears. I would have missed this if not for the caiman roadblock.
Scanning the river behind me, I look for the red eyes. They are gone. So are the yellow and orange ones. Even if they are dangerous, caimans are the pets of the Good Gods—raised and released for the use of my tribe—and I am thankful.
As the sky ahead of me begins to lighten, I continue up the tributary. Realizing I’m slouched over, I straighten up in my seat and stretch. I made it! I sneaked out of the camp, recognized the animal signs, and the Good Gods are apparently helping me. Three great things. I find myself grinning. For the first time since I decided to take the test, I feel like there’s a very good chance that I’m going to succeed. I really might make it back!
I don’t know where or when I’m going to stop, but I’m sure there will be another sign. I just have to recognize it. As soon as the thought enters my brain, the boat engine begins to sputter. The gas. I could transfer the hose to the second gas tank and continue, but, as silly as it would have seemed yesterday, I now realize this is my sign—my signal that this is it.
This is my starting point.
This is where I begin my soche seche tente.
In two days I will be back in the Takunami village.
In two days I will see Maha.
In two days…I will show Paho how wrong he was.
LUKA
12 Years, 362 Sunrises
The Amazon
Paho is dead. Impossible. The world is spinning and I grab the bench tighter. What am I going to do?
A thousand thoughts ricochet in my mind, making it impossible for me to focus. I know I will have to wait until Tukkita speaks to the spirit world. This is how the Takunami decide what to do with a boy whose father dies before he turns thirteen. In the past, the Good Gods have ordered boys to be abandoned and find their way home alone, or to be paired with their paholo, their father’s father. One boy, Miniho, was taken five sunsets before his test, but given a bow, some arrows, and a knife to get home.
What will they do with me?
I look over at Tukkita, but his eyes are closed. I know not to disturb him when he is in a trance. Yet I must know what he has found out.
“Tukkita,” I whisper.
The medicine man shows no sign he has heard me.
Wait. What did Tukkita say about Karara? He said she had been there when the Punhana appeared. So she had lived through the night. For the first time since learning about my father’s death, I am thankful. My sister has not died because of my lie.
But what about the bird I heard that night? Did the Punhana follow Karara when she came back to see my father?
I stare at my mother, still passed out in her hammock. Maha was right; Karara is always causing trouble.
“She should have just stayed in the woods. She might be dead, but Paho would still be here.”
“What are you saying, Luka?” Tukkita asks.
“Karara.” I turn to face him. “This is her fault. She angered the forest spirits, and now they are punishing us. First she found out who Paho was, and then she led the Punhana to him when it was actually meant for her.”
I expect him to be both surprised and angry, but he just shakes his head. “No, Luka. Your father did not die because of Karara. He actually lived longer because of her. There are some things you need to know.”
The old man looks at me with eyes that are now clear. “Luka, your sister has a very special talent. Karara is a shaman…like myself.”
Tukkita is the most respected man in our tribe, so I look down to hide my disbelief.
The shaman nods his head and sighs. “When I explained this to your mother, she had the same look.” He pauses. “Your sister is very powerful, Luka. I have never seen healing powers like hers.”
“She went where she didn’t belong.”
“I introduced her to your father. He had been sick for a long time, Luka. She was his only hope.”
“Why would you do that, Tukkita?” I ask, my voice rising. “How could you betray my family? No Takunami girl has ever”—I stomp my foot—“ever known her father before her brother has. No one. Until now.”
“The Good Gods did not kill your father, Luka. And neither did your sister.”
“Then who? What killed him? Why did he die?”
The shaman is silent. Finally he speaks. “He was poisoned.”
“Liar!” my mother screams. She is now sitting up and glaring at Tukkita.
“How dare you come into my hut and say these things? I want you out. Now!”
Tukkita does not move. “I have spoken no false words against you, Nunooma. I have only told Luka what he wanted to know—why his father died. And it is true, he was poisoned.”
“Yes, by you and my daughter.” My mother jabs a finger at him. “You poisoned him. By taking him to the river every day, you made him sicker and sicker. And I never would have known if I had not caught you that day of Luka’s sight test.”
“The Amazon was good for your husband. The female spirit of the river combined with the female energy of your daughter was the only thing that kept him alive.”
I think back to the day I found the gate to the wash area unlocked. My mother must have surprised Paho and my sister as they were leaving the water. They were the ones who left the gate open.
“Then why did he die?” Maha asks. “If Karara is so powerful, why couldn’t she save him?”
“Because you banished her from the village and by the time she came back, it was too late.”
“What are you talking about?” I stand between Tukkita and my mother. “Why did Paho need female energy?”
My mother silently glowers at Tukkita.
“I will give you one chance to explain, Nunooma. Otherwise I will tell Luka what he has asked.”
“You have no idea what you are saying.” Maha storms toward the door. “I will not allow him to listen.”
“One chance, Nunooma.”
“Mmpah, Luka, let’s go.” She grabs my arm.
I pull it away and look at her. “Maha?”
“Your father was ill and Tukkita could not save him, so he is blaming me. That is what happened.”
“That is one possibility, Luka,” Tukkita says. “Now here is the other. When your mother gave birth to your older sister, she was very disappointed that Karara was a girl. She wanted only one child, the required son.”
“Lies, all lies,” my mother sputters.
Ignoring her, Tukkita continues. “When it came time to try again, Nunooma asked me for a potion to give your father. She was already drinking tea from the ku-ku-pa tree, but that had not worked with Karara, since she came out as a girl. So your mother wanted your father to take a potion also. When I refused, she took matters into her own h
ands. As you know, all plants and animals in the jungle are filled with a spirit. Even at a young age, your sister was showing signs of shamanism, so your mother made Karara gather plants from the jungle that contained the male spirit. Then your mother brewed all of these ingredients into a tea and gave it to your father every night for the next three months.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?” Maha laughs in the back of her throat. “The next child was Luka.”
“Nine months later, you were born,” Tukkita agrees, “and your father was very happy.”
“Aha—” Maha begins.
“But,” Tukkita interrupts, “not long after you began to crawl, he came to me because he did not feel well. He slept plenty, yet he was always tired. I gave him some bark to eat and he complained no more. Twelve moons after his first visit, he returned to me, limping. He laughed, saying he was getting old, but I could see something was wrong. Over the years, your father’s body began to weaken—slowly and one part at a time—but soon he was unable to move without assistance. When I visited the spirit world for guidance, I had dreams of your sister picking plants. I asked her about this, and she told me what your mother had done.”
I turn to Maha. “Is this true?”
“Yes. I did make a tea from the plants your sister brought back. But it was her fault your father got sick. She gave me the wrong leaves.”
“All the male spirits that had been in the plants went to war when they entered your father’s body,” Tukkita continues. “There were too many, and they slowly killed each other off, taking your paho with them. There was nothing more I could do, so I asked Karara for help. It was she who came up with the idea of immersing your father in the female body of the Amazon to negate all the masculine energy.”
My mind is spinning. Karara didn’t kill Paho.
“If I hate children so much, Tukkita, why did I have Sulali?” my mother asks.
“You felt guilty. When you saw how sick Honati became, you knew it was your fault. He loved children, so you had another to keep him happy. The masculine spirits were so busy fighting each other, they didn’t even stop long enough to give you another warrior. You had a baby girl.”
I run to the door and gulp in fresh air. My mother didn’t kill Paho.
“Enough, Tukkita…” My mother and the shaman continue to argue, but I no longer hear them.
I killed my father. In order for me to be born, my father had to die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TIRIO
12 Years, 363 Days
The Amazon
A hundred yards in front of me a po-no sits rooted in a patch of mud. I aim for the beach and gun the boat’s motor, praying it’ll hold out a little longer. The engine kicks the boat forward with one last cough before dying, and we glide onto the bank.
When I jump out to anchor the rope, I realize I’m still wearing my socks and shoes. In order to pass the soche seche tente, a boy must return to the village the way he left it. I don’t want my father to say I had help, so I remove my footwear and toss it into the boat. Now I’m ready.
Turning around, I take a deep breath and look at the tiny half circle of beach and the wall of trees surrounding it. I stride toward the woods, hoping to find a trail, but it’s as if the trees have linked branches in a united front to keep me out. There’s no choice but to wade along the bank and look for a way into the jungle.
The river is too muddy for me to see the bottom, so I grab a stick to measure the depth. Staying close to the shore, I pick my way along the bank. The water is deliciously cool against my legs, and I think back to when I was younger, playing in the wash area with the other kids. After finishing the laundry, my mother would stand at the beach, hands on hips, and frown at the mass of swimming children. Grinning at her frustration, I would tread water and wait. Finally, unable to pick me out, she’d throw her hands up and yell, “Tirio, mmpah—let’s go!” It wasn’t until I was back on the shore that she could tell by the footstep-drag-footstep that, yes, I was her son.
I stop and turn to look at the beach behind me. A pair of well-shaped footprints are stamped into the mud. Thunder rumbles close by and I look up to see menacing clouds overhead. A few raindrops freckle the water as I hurry forward, desperate to find a way into the protection of the jungle before the sky opens completely.
Inching along, I think how stupid I was to look for a trail from the beach. Of course no animals would go to such an open spot to drink. It would be too dangerous. With their heads down, they’d be vulnerable to predators. They would want to stay camouflaged in the jungle. You’ve got to start thinking like a Takunami! I silently scold myself as the rain starts to fall harder.
I’m about fifty yards from the beach when suddenly I can’t find the river bottom with my stick. I turn toward the shore and see a narrow trail in the brush. Realizing where I am, I yelp and quickly pull myself up onto the bank. Scrambling away from the water, I run into the jungle, trying to get away from the shore. When I feel I’m far enough, I stop and, with my eyes, follow the trail back to the river. I’m not worried about the storm anymore. If I’m right—and I’m pretty sure I am—I just stumbled into a caiman’s underwater den.
The lazy reptile had parked himself right by the trail, so when some thirsty animal came for a drink, he could just snap it up. Little work, big reward. Shivering, I hurry away in the opposite direction.
The path is narrow, and in some spots the crawling vines and plants devour it so completely, I think it has ended. But after pushing some branches aside, and trampling some brush, I see it beckoning a couple of yards ahead. The jungle will take back an unused trail within days, but luckily, at least one large animal is consistently using this one.
I keep my eyes and ears open for signs I need to change directions. After the caimans, I feel confident that the Good Gods will show me the way.
Suddenly, I freeze. What was that? I crouch. A chill runs down my spine. There it is again…a piercing screech. Where did it come from? Scanning the nearby trees, I spot a kaka-ta parakeet huddled on a low-hanging branch. Its feathers are soggy and limp, and it hangs its head and wails again.
Birds are the built-in alarm system of the jungle, and the Takunami use them as signals of danger. I grab a nearby stick and try to figure out what is happening. I peer through the blanket of rain until finally I see a flash of movement. A fat prupita glares at me from its position a foot off the trail. The lizard flicks its tongue but doesn’t retreat. The parakeet moans again. The bright green feathers lying around and the remnants of a fallen nest tell me the story: the prupita has attacked the nest and eaten the parakeet’s babies.
I wipe my rain-plastered hair out of my eyes. The prupita isn’t blocking the path, so I decide it’s not a sign to stop. I step cautiously around the tree and hurry forward.
I think about the poor parakeet mother, and then I think about my own. I wonder what she did when she got back to the village the day I left? Did she continue with the rest of her chores: weaving baskets, planting new vegetables, cleaning the hut? Did she brood, moaning and hanging her head like the parakeet? I frown. What do I wish she had done?
I hope that after mourning for a respectable amount of time, she went back to living life—and was happy.
But what’s a respectable amount of time? A month? Six months? A year?
How long did she wait to have another son? Did she tell him about me?
There is an offshoot of a trail ahead and, although no sign from the Good Gods points the way, I decide to veer toward it.
NO! DON’T! TURN AROUND! DANGER! STOP!
The force of the thoughts is so strong, I grab my temples and stagger backward. I know the voice is right. An unshakable hunch has taken over my whole body—a familiar hunch, I realize, growing cold—a hunch just like the one I had on the soccer field.
YOU MUST TURN AROUND! THIS IS NOT THE WAY.
I spin in a circle, looking for him. This is it. My father has started communicating with me. He’s just taken over, like a pupp
eteer.
Knowing that what I’m about to do may be stupid, I grit my teeth and continue along the offshoot. Sorry, Paho, but if my body wasn’t good enough for you seven years ago, then it’s not good enough now. I need to do this on my own.
LISTEN TO ME. YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.
I run, but with each step, his thoughts pound harder against my skull.
YOU NEED MY HELP. YOU CAN’T DO THIS ON YOUR OWN. STOP!
I try to think about other things to block him out. I start to sing the alphabet song in my head.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G…
NO. NO! NO! he roars.
…H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P…
TURN AROUND.
…Q, R, S…
BAD.
…T, U, V…
I can see the original path.
…W, X, Y, and Z.
STOP.
Now I know my ABC’s…
I’m at the intersection of the trails.
Silence.
Next time won’t you sing…
I hold my breath.
…with…
My eyes dart around.
…me.
Silence.
He’s gone.
My head is pounding like I just got smacked with twenty soccer balls, but I force myself to continue sprinting ahead, not the way he wants me to go. The rain hammers me, and I stop and raise my mouth to the sky. The water trickles down my parched throat, but it’s not enough. Then I see a grove of plantains. Their leaves, as big as elephant ears, catch the rain and empty it onto the ground like the gutter on a roof. Positioning myself under one of the leaves, I let the rain pour into my mouth. I stop to catch my breath and then drink more. Luck stays with me. The tree has ripe fruit and, jumping up, I grab a few plantains. I ignore the lingering headache and continue.
After a while, another small path appears to my right and a tiny arrow of green on the ground points me toward it—a sign from the Good Gods as bright as if painted with neon. I kneel and shake my head at this amazing assembly line of insects. Holding leaves ten times their size like umbrellas, millions of bu-ki ants scurry toward their colony. I jump when I notice I’m standing in the middle of their route. Leaning over to check out the damage I’ve caused, I wince at the several wounded ants in my footprint. A couple struggle to recover, and one, having never let go of his load, limps along, leaving a leg behind. I watch as his comrades step over and on top of him without slowing. I pick up the leaf with him still clinging to it, and place it next to the ant hole. I watch him safely disappear inside. First the parakeet and now this—I’d forgotten how cruel nature is.