by N. A. Nelson
“Our success,” he corrects me.
I drink half of my cup and then throw the rest on the fire as an offering to the Good Gods. Tirio does the same. The fire hisses and dims but then flares up high into the night sky. The black ash turns gray as it rises and fattens into clouds. I tilt my head to watch the smoke form shapes and float toward the moon, like children being called home.
The next morning, as soon as it is light enough to see, Tirio and I head for the river. Some of the men grunt their good-byes as we leave the men’s rohacas, others look away, angry that such a strong warrior is allowed to leave the tribe.
Kiwano gave his blessing last night. “The Good Gods approve,” he said after staring into the fire for a long time. He then shoved his staff into Tirio’s hand.
“It is filled with healing spirits,” he promised gruffly. “If you are not going to let me help you properly, it is the best I can do.” He then turned and disappeared in the darkness toward his hut.
Sulali comes running up to us now, gasping for breath, and hands Tirio a couple of leaves. “Here are some things to help with your pain,” she says. “I’m not a shaman, but my sister was very generous with her knowledge when she used to have to watch me. I wanted to get them fresh this morning.”
“We must go now, Sulali,” I say. “I will return soon.”
She leans in and kisses Tirio on the forehead before heading back toward the village, her newly braided hair swinging in eight separate sections along her back.
When we get to the wash area, the sun is still only halfway visible above the river, and out of habit I stop to make sure the gate is closed. By the time I turn around, Tirio is already lowering himself carefully into the canoe, chewing on one of the leaves Sulali gave him. He is even stronger than I had thought. As I push the boat off, I tell him that we are going to stay close to the bank.
“The river is weaker here and we are hidden,” I explain.
In response, he nods and starts paddling strongly on the left side of the boat.
Watching the muscles in his back work, I feel a surge of pride and match my pull rhythm with his. The boat surges forward, the river letting us glide along easily, as if she understands that this is the last time I’m going to have a moment like this.
By midday we reach the caiman den. Tirio holds up his hand, motioning me to stop, but I continue paddling. There are two boats on the beach ahead, and I hear a man and woman speaking.
“I am going to stay with you until the end, Tirio,” I whisper. “Please. Allow me this one last thing.”
Again, he only nods.
I keep the canoe close to the jungle, allowing Tirio and me to sneak up on the couple and see them before they see us. They are on the other side of a shelter, bent over something, arguing, and do not even hear me help Tirio out.
We stand and stare at each other for a moment, until he finally reaches out and hugs me.
I feel his heart beating against my chest. Or maybe it’s mine beating against his. I cannot tell.
Kuiju, my son, I think.
I love you too, Paho, he replies. I love you too.
Still unnoticed, we pull apart. Holding two fingers in front of his lips, Tirio motions me away.
I climb into the canoe and push off. After Maroma died, I grew to hate the Amazon—all it did was take people from me. Now as I paddle home, I forgive the river. At least once, she brought someone back.
I now know who my son is. He is a man with a strong soul but a wound in his body. I am the opposite. I am a man with a strong body but a wound in my soul. By passing our soche seche tente, Tirio and I have earned the honor of being called warriors. And warriors leave the scars of their boyhood behind them.
Tirio is alive and his spirit is safe. Maroma and I did our jobs. The past seven years and so many deaths were not wasted. I must let him go.
Tonight when I return to the village, Kiwano will consult the Good Gods. They will choose a second wife for me, and in a few sunsets we will get married. We will try for a son. I will never forget Maroma or Tirio, but I must move on. I must survive. It is the way of the Takunami.
EPILOGUE
TIRIO
13 Years, 2 Sunrises
“Tirio!” Sara runs up, pulling me into a hug. “Oh my God, you’re alive! How did you get here? Where have you been? We’ve been searching all over for you.”
Juan Diego stands behind her and gives me a little wave.
“I’m fine, Sara,” I say, squeezing her tightly. “Really. I went back to my village, like I said in my note. I’m sorry you were worried, but I had to do this.”
“Do what?” she asks, letting me go. “The test you wrote about?”
I nod. “My soche seche tente. I had to try, Sara.” I say the words I’d been practicing in the canoe. “It was my birthday and I was getting these messages, we were going to be here anyway, so—”
Juan Diego holds a finger to his lips, and I break off in midsentence.
Sara puts her hands on her hips and stares off into the jungle. I look to Juan Diego for help, but he just shoots me a patient smile.
When Sara finally speaks, her voice is soft. “Did you pass?” she asks.
It is not the response I expected and it takes me a minute to answer. “Yes. I did.” I pause. “But then I told them I wanted to come back home.”
She closes her eyes and drops her chin to her chest. When her body starts to shudder, I realize she’s crying.
“Sara…” I limp over to her.
“I’m just so glad you’re okay.” She turns and hugs me again. “Whatever reason you needed to leave, we’ll deal with later, but for now, I’m just glad you’re alive and that you’re here.”
“Me too,” I whisper. “Me too.”
She pulls away, noticing the bandage of leaves. “What’s that?” She sniffles.
I look down at my leg. “Oh. I got attacked by a jaguar,” I say.
“Of course you did.” She throws back her head and laughs.
When I don’t join her, she realizes I’m not kidding. Shaking her head, she sighs and puts her arm around me. “And this coming from someone who, less than a week ago, wanted to be normal, just like everyone else.”
A clatter of metal causes us both to turn. Juan Diego is breaking down the tent.
He peeks around the collapsed rain flap. “I figure we might want to head back to the camp now. Have someone look at Tirio’s wound, take a shower…” He pats his belly. “Eat some lunch.”
“Sounds perfect,” I reply. “Table for three, please.”
In the days that follow, I’m unable to do any of the things that Sara and I had planned: visit the tribes, learn to dance—certainly not climb a kapok. Not with my leg. Not this time. But at night when we sit on the porch together, I do manage to gain Sara’s forgiveness by explaining everything that happened to me. It helps that she’s an anthropologist and is used to dealing with the customs of jungle tribes. In order to prove myself, I admit to showing off a little.
“Do you hear that?” I say on the night before we’re supposed to leave. “That kee-kee-ka? That’s a yulano—a tiny yellow cricket. And that other sound? That’s the flapping of the wings of the kuipa, the bat that’s going to eat the yulano.”
When the kee-kee-ka stops suddenly, Sara raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Wow. You are good. And what’s that whooshing sound that just went by?”
“A humgura.”
“And the croaking to our right?”
“An ikina.”
“And that rumbling?”
“That’s my stomach,” I joke.
“Ha-ha.” She punches me lightly on the shoulder and then stretches. “I’m heading to bed, Tirio.”
“Okay,” I say, suddenly distracted by a sound I just picked up. Padded footsteps.
“You’re not going to take off again, are you?” she asks sarcastically, holding open the door.
“No, no,” I say, standing. Deep breathing. Could it be? I follow her inside.
/> Lying in bed, I focus my energy on blocking everything out but the sound of the approaching animal. It is her. Right outside the perimeter of the research camp, the female jaguar stops, climbs a tree, and begins to purr.
When we get back to Miami, Joey’s dad has moved into an apartment a few blocks from Sara and me.
“He promised to take me on some of his flights this summer,” Joey says excitedly, stretching in preparation for our championship game. “California, New York, maybe even an international one.”
I just nod and pick at the rubber on my crutches, not mentioning that the game starts in five minutes and there’s no sign of his father. Just as the referee blows the whistle and Joey takes my place as goalie, Mr. Carter’s black Mercedes pulls up. He runs up next to me on the sidelines and whistles loudly, calling out Joey’s name. Joey grins and waves.
Mr. Carter turns to me. “Hey, Tirio. How’s the leg?”
“Fine, Mr. Carter,” I say. “Thanks.” After a pause, I add, “I’m glad you made it.”
“Me too,” he says before looking back toward the action and calling out words of encouragement to his son.
He seems to really mean it.
Even though I only knew him for a short time, I miss my paho. We still communicate. At dawn or dusk, I sometimes hear the howler monkeys claiming their territory, and last week I smelled fresh papaya in the middle of my algebra exam. It’s the only time I’ve ever smiled during a test.
In return, I send him feelings I think he’ll enjoy, like the thrill of taking off in an airplane, the rush of riding a bike down a steep hill, and the taste of Cal’s soup du jour.
My name is Tirio and I am thirteen years old. I am a man. I am a son. I am a Takunami warrior.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Scientists believe there are tribes in the rain forest we know nothing about. The Takunami tribe is imaginary, as are all of its rituals. They are based on an idea, and not on a representation of any known Amazonian people. All of the book’s characters are fictional, and although a number of the plants and animals mentioned in the text really do exist in the Amazon jungle, others do not. Some of the words spoken by the Takunami are used by certain Amazonian people, but much of the language is made up.
The idea for this story came from an experience I had while staying at a remote research camp in Brazil. On my second night there, I developed a stomachache and asked our guide, Juan Diego, for some local medicine. He enlisted the help of the cook, who went into the woods, gathered some leaves, and brewed a mild, green-colored tea. Amazed at my recovery, I requested the name of the plant, so I could buy more tea when we got back to town. Juan Diego told me the name, but explained that five minutes down the river, the tribe there would call it something else. The power of plants and the diversity of the jungle people stayed with me and “steeped” for two years before becoming the seed of Bringing the Boy Home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe the people below a tremendous amount of gratitude:
My three favorite English teachers: Mary Sue Mordica, Linda Wityk, and Barbara M. Epstein. You planted and nurtured a seed of hope in a young girl many years ago, and look what it has become. I’m so happy to be able to share this with you.
My family: Mom for allowing me to be bored enough during summer vacation that I was forced to figure out what I really love to do. Dad, for always having a nightstand full of books and for dropping me off at the Fort Leonard Wood library before I was old enough to drive. Katja and George, for being the best sister and brother a person stuck out in the middle of nowhere could ask for. Danielle, for encouraging me to pursue every dream I’ve ever had; your anguish at the wind blowing my manuscript into the lake was the best compliment I could have received.
The members of my critique groups, especially Amanda Marrone, for telling me when my writing was good—and also very, very bad.
My three editors: Leann Heywood, for believing in Bringing the Boy Home enough to fight for it to win the Ursula Nordstrom contest. Rachel Orr, for adopting the story (and me) and being so patient with my novice ignorance. Adriana Dominguez, for being the rock-solid anchor of this long-distance race and pulling the novel through the final stages even though your publishing plate was already “Thanksgiving Day” full.
And lastly, the people I share my life with every day: Rafferty, for giving me pregnancy-induced insomnia and a place to put my laptop from midnight until four o’clock in the morning while you kept me up. Soleil and Abby, for being as good as I could expect a two-year-old and a hunting dog to be during long walks through the woods in which I tried to clear my head. And lastly, John, my teammate and husband, who, no matter what kind of chaos life was throwing our way, never failed to make the world shut up long enough to look me in the eye and ask, “What can I do to help?”
You did it, honey.
Thank you, all.
About the Author
N. A. NELSON was born in London, England, and grew up on a cattle farm in rural Missouri. Living on a thousand acres of wilderness provided plenty of opportunities for adventure, but it also created a sense of wonderment about what else was out there. After graduating with a degree in tourism, the author strapped on a backpack and has been exploring the world ever since. Recent journeys include the jungles of the Amazon and the glaciered peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. BRINGING THE BOY HOME is the author’s debut novel and the winner of the 2005 Ursula Nordstrom Fiction Contest. Please visit www.ninanelsonbooks.com to learn more.
The author will donate a portion of the profits of this book to the Amazon Conservation Team (ACT), whose mission is to work in partnership with indigenous people in conserving biodiversity, health, and culture in tropical America. To learn more, visit www.amazonteam.org.
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Credits
Jacket art © 2008 by Tim Jessell
Jacket design by Sasha Illingworth
Copyright
BRINGING THE BOY HOME. Copyright © 2008 by N. A. Nelson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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