by David Faxon
“Mr. Connery, you don’t know me. My name is Estevo Castelo Branco. I’m a chief shareholder in Azevedo Limited. I’m considering a major investment in your company. In addition, I have other business arrangements you may find of interest. I’m in your city for only a short while. Would you be available at ten tomorrow morning? I apologize for the short notice.”
Connery hesitated. This was unusual. Most clients accommodated his schedule, not the other way around. At least that’s the way it seemed before things got screwed up. Unless extraordinary potential existed, not many were able to meet with him on short notice. This, however, could be exactly what he needed.
“Could you hold while I check my calendar for tomorrow?”
“Certainly.”
A quick glance showed him completely open the following morning, but after delaying a few minutes, he picked up the phone.
“I have a previous commitment at ten, but I can push it off until afternoon. I look forward to seeing you then.”
He hung up, then opened his laptop. An Internet search of the company showed an impressive website; an apparently large corporation involved in mining and resource development. Included were pictures of the corporate headquarters in downtown Brasilia and the names of other locations in various countries. He clicked on the list of names for the board of directors. Castelo Branco's name appeared as chairman emeritus. A further search for the former chairman’s credentials turned up nothing to give him pause; his attendance at various social functions, large donations to the arts and various endowments. His company was mentioned by a global environmental organization as possibly being in violation of existing laws. It seemed a routine protest faced by many large companies in that industry. He disregarded it with no further follow up, a mistake that would cost him dearly.
The next morning, Cindy rang his office promptly at ten saying his client had arrived. He asked her to show him in. His office on the eighteenth floor was striking, designed specifically to impress; mahogany paneling, sterling silver service, oriental rugs, art collection including a Monet watercolor, a fabulous view of the city.
The door opened to a man in his late fifties, well dressed, badly out of shape, no more than 5' 8”, weighing at least 250 pounds, maybe more. He was dark complected, hair slicked back and shifting eyes. An overpowering scent of expensive cologne permeated the room. Connery shook hands, offered him a seat and asked Cindy to have coffee and pastries brought in. Castelo Branco thanked him in heavily accented English, said he had already eaten, and could they get down to business?
“I am familiar with your company Mr. Connery, and the returns you have earned your clients are impressive.”
He continued in a courteous but abrupt manner. He appeared as someone of apparent importance who was in a hurry.
“You come highly recommended. Let me put it simply. I am considering placing a significant sum with your investment company. I assure you, the amount is substantial, but I must first have you meet with certain members of our board before we formalize any agreements. These will be preliminary discussions I’m sure you will find attractive.”
“And what kind of agreements would those be?”
“We are willing to consider paying a high premium for an equity share in Hawthorne. You would retain controlling interest, of course. If you are interested, we can piece together an agreement at our headquarters and then leave the details to our subordinates.”
He reached for a planner in his breast pocket, put on glasses and flipped pages.
“Can I assume you will be available four days from now, the twenty eighth?”
It all moved very fast, and this made Connery uncomfortable. He couldn't dismiss the fact, however, that he needed the deal.
“I’m flattered that you know of me and my company, but I know little of you other than what is on your web site. Forgive me. Usually we do extensive research on prospective clients but…”
“That is why I have brought this check for $100,000 as a good faith deposit, merely to open negotiation and get this moving. I will provide your secretary with banking references. If you meet with the board's approval, and a few qualifications I have set, I can assure you the sum placed in your trust will be substantial; seventy million to begin with.”
He had Connery's full attention, and some of his initial discomfort faded quickly. He called Cindy to see if the twenty- eighth was clear, then agreed to meet with the board members in Brasilia. It all had taken only fifteen minutes before Castelo Branco got up, exchanged pleasantries, and left a business card after writing his private number on the back. He shook hands, said he looked forward to seeing him in a few days. Connery walked him to the elevator after he left several documents with Cindy.
Later, he sat at his desk, elated. Momentous business deals had sometimes been put together at innocuous meetings, and on nothing more than a handshake. This could be one of them, no board members, no lawyers, no bankers. But something bothered him. Castelo Branco looked and sounded legitimate; head of a large company, substantial deposit, but something important was missing. Why Hawthorne Capital? Why this particular time? He didn't really want to go to Brasilia, an out of the way place, and he had enough fires to put out as it was. In the end, he had little choice. He asked Cindy to book him a flight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vale do Javeri, Amazonas
That day, Teman-e called to Nauoma. He watched his son’s eyes light up, for Nauoma liked nothing better than to hunt with his father- an opportunity to command his full attention for an entire day. With luck, Teman-e might kill a monkey, if very lucky, a deer. Nauoma did as he was told, fetched a bow and chose two arrows. His father would need no more. Each time they went hunting, Teman-e took his son a little farther from the village, allowing him to build endurance and confidence. And so, with nothing more than a bow and two arrows, they entered the jungle, the little boy running to catch up with his father. They would be gone most of the day, traveling far enough to continue Nauoma’s lessons, but a safe distance from the forbidden part of the rainforest. Only experienced hunters on an extended trip would venture beyond a certain restricted limit, for it was then they risked contact with outlaw tribes, especially women stealers. Capture could mean torture, death, or enslavement.
Father and son kept up a constant banter, laughing, talking and pointing at particularly colorful birds. The little boy asked questions about encounters with other tribes, ceremonies that were forthcoming, and a myriad of other subjects.
“Father! Tell me again of how you killed the jaguar!”
Nauoma knew he was his father’s favorite and tried hard to please him. He loved to hear of Teman-e’s exploits, over and over. Each time he would glean another detail, adding it to the hundreds of others he could recite word for word. Teman-e answered each question patiently, secretly pleased to have a son so inquisitive. He imparted knowledge that would someday prove necessary for his survival.
They walked for several hours, hoping to find some type of game, but by midafternoon Teman-e hadn't killed anything, although he shot at a monkey and missed. He was lucky to retrieve the arrow; ones that were straight and true were difficult to make. Monkeys stayed high in the tall trees and moved swiftly from limb to limb. To bring one down took more than a little skill. Nevertheless, he was upset for missing his first shot, almost losing the arrow. He told his son what he had done wrong.
The little man again notched an arrow in his bow as he slipped quietly through the jungle. Nauoma tried hard to keep pace. A member of a primitive Indian tribe, Teman-e wore a thin, sharpened stick inserted in his nose at the point where his nostrils separated. A distinguishing feature, it presented a look of ferocity to any foe. Inspired by the jaguar, the nose stick imitated its broad whiskers. Five feet five inches tall, he was a little past prime, but his body, taught, muscular, still capable of extraordinary endurance. He was built for times that called on him to defend, protect, or hunt. In truth, those times were limited, and there was little to do most days.
The women did all the hard work. And so, he chose what he liked best; hunting with Nauoma, who wished that he too, had a nose stick like his father.
Teman-e was naked except for the narrow hemp string around his waist. The string was attached to a pointed, conical aperture, woven from a special plant, made to fit snugly over his penis and drawn tight to his belly. It was the second distinguishing item of his tribe. He, as well as the other adult males of the Machi-te, received the apparatus at puberty. He wore it every day of his life. It was at once a symbol of manhood, courage, and sexual prowess.
Jet-black hair, cropped close and cut straight across his forehead, surrounded an oval face, broad nose, wide mouth. On his chest, painted stripes of red ochre and blue indigo adorned tannish brown skin. These set him apart as an exceptional warrior and hunter. For special ceremonies, he might wear bright beads, a feather, or two, but this was just an ordinary day. Nevertheless, in a few short hours it would become the most significant of his life.
He belonged to one of the most primitive of tribes. Their home was so deep in the rainforest and so remote, that life had progressed little since the Stone Age. Incredibly, they somehow managed to escape discovery by the outside world. Stories of their presence were rumored, but never verified. Others similar to them lived on the Venezuelan side of the rainforest. A few also in Peru. As civilization worked its way deeper into the Amazon, they retreated further and further into secluded areas.
Teman-e lived in the great Amazon basin where the largest river in the world, fed by nearly 1,100 tributaries, flowed through an area almost as big as Australia. Yet the part he knew, where he spent all his life, was no more than two or three hundred square miles; small and extremely remote in the vastness of a forbidding land.
The tribes of the Amazon were relatively unbothered until the discovery of gold in 1980. In the years that followed, many came under the greedy influence of garimpieros, tough gold miners who mined the precious ore from rivers and banks along the rivers. The larger sites employed Yanomami Indians who eventually adopted some western ways. Those like the Machi-te, however, lived in places where loggers and miners had yet to build roads to exploit the land's resources. There, the immense jungle could easily swallow small tribes, rendering them lost to civilization.
Sometimes, the main food source became scarce and the elders would vote to relocate. Teman-e saw this happen a few times in his life. The tribes depended extensively on cultivated gardens. Jungle soil is shallow. After several plantings, it loses nutrients and gradually becomes infertile. This occurrence would force the abandonment of entire villages in an effort to seek a place that offered more promise of food and game. Sometimes, the migration resulted in the encroachment of land held sacred by a rival tribe, causing conflict and skirmishing, one of the reasons why the Machi-te, as well as the Yanomami, were known to be warlike. They were called, the fierce people.
Despite many rivalries, no village could ever allow itself to be overrun by hostile outlaw tribes whose purpose was mainly to steal women. The Wakawakatieri, among the fiercest, made this a practice for centuries. They placed high value on continually breeding strong warriors with healthy and beautiful women, an ethnic purity practice designed to gain advantage over future enemies.
In his lifetime, Teman-e participated in several inter- tribal battles resulting in numerous deaths. He was both courageous and skilled at defeating opponents. Experienced from years of skirmishing since his youth, he was capable of quickly dispatching an enemy with a thrust of a spear or well-aimed arrow. Indeed, over thousands of years, the people of his culture honed bow and arrow technology to a high degree and he was remarkably proficient. As a Machi-te, he was duty bound to bring swift retribution to anyone who violated tribal honor. For this reason alone, he killed eleven men in his lifetime. Many of his fellow tribesmen could make the same claim. Half killed at least one person, and a full quarter of the males would lose their lives from years of fighting. Violence and revenge were considered measures of bravery, hubris, or machismo that defined his value system. Despite this, he possessed a side to his nature that set him apart from most, a primitive sense of moral balance, a noble savage. His skills were deadly but he used them only when necessary to defend, or avenge his family and tribe.
The practice of polygamy was inherent to his people. Of his three wives, Naru was the favorite. Their marriage was prearranged, as were most; she being the daughter of his aunt and uncle, highly acceptable because of the belief that cross cousin marriages were the most preferred. In cases with conflict over the selection of partners, the chief would decide whom a woman could accept as her husband. His decision was final, if it came to that.
Teman-e spent most of his time with Naru and their three children. His other wives resented this, but they would not dare speak against him. Of his offspring by Naru, Nauoma was the oldest, just over eight rainy seasons- easily Teman-e’s favorite. He enjoyed nothing more than watching his son progress in the skills he himself taught. They possessed little sense of time or urgency. Everything just seemed to happen at its most opportune time.
The day’s heat was oppressive. Teman-e and Nauoma stopped to drink from a stream in a partial clearing where the trees were less dense. There were ripened plantains close by, maybe honey. Both were hungry and the greenish fruit low hanging, so Teman-e cut some for them to eat. Afterward, he spied a beehive in the uppermost branches of a tall tree. Honey was a delicacy. His urge to taste the sticky nectar and have his son enjoy the sweetness, drove him to confront the soon to be enraged bees. But he was confident their stings wouldn't bother him. After receiving so many in his lifetime, he had a natural immunity.
“Nauoma! Wait here while I climb, and I will have a surprise for you.”
Half way up, he gazed over a boundless expanse of jungle, paused to enjoy its beauty, then cast his eyes on his son, patiently waiting below.
Climbing higher, shimmying one instant, reaching for a branch the next, he was almost in position to grasp the prize when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His peripheral vision was excellent, a quality that gave him great advantage over other hunters. He turned his head imperceptibly; a reflex motion.
What happened next, struck him with fear. Streaking toward earth, he perceived a giant silver bird of enormous size, making no noise as it descended at an incredible speed. What he witnessed defied imagination and at the same time reinforced his belief system. Was the nature spirit so angry that she would send this bird as an omen? A moment later, he saw a ball of flame followed by black smoke rising above the trees. His heart beat rapidly. There was no way to describe it. First it was there, then it wasn’t; an apparition with frightening implication, brilliant, fixed solidly in his mind. Never this alarmed at anything, even in battle, he came close to toppling from the branches.
Nauoma, busy fixing his bow, hadn’t seen what his father saw. The yell from above startled him, and he watched Teman-e slide down the tree, scrape his skin on the bark and fall the last ten feet. Those actions were foreign to the little boy’s senses. Such clumsiness wasn’t like his father, who was sure footed, nimble. It also wasn’t like him to be in so much of a hurry. The boy was scared and began to cry.
“Nauoma! We must leave! Now!”
A shaken Teman-e marked the spot in his mind, grabbed Nauoma by the hand and ran toward the village, half dragging, half carrying his son. He would seek guidance for a matter of this importance. The only one who might provide counsel was the shaman, Guardara.
CHAPTER SIX
Machi-te village, Amazonas
The sun was blood red on the horizon when Naru raised the crude spoon to her lips and tasted what she had prepared for the evening meal. Her husband and son would be pleased, for that day she dug a root that was scarce and difficult to find. One with a good aroma that would enhance the taste. When she was satisfied with her preparation, she looked up. Through the smoke from her cooking pot, she saw Teman-e carrying Nauoma on his back, running out of the jungle as if ch
ased by a boar. She thought that unusual. Almost always, he came up the trail at a slow pace with a dead animal over his shoulder. Something of importance had happened. There could only be one reason for his actions. Enemy warriors must be close to the village and this terrified her. If she was kidnapped by woman stealers, the likelihood of her ever seeing Teman-e and the children again was extremely slight. She ran toward her husband and son.
“Naru! I have seen something beyond understanding! Have you seen Guardara?”
Not waiting for her answer, he dropped his bow and arrows and crossed the communal area leaving Naru perplexed, at the same time relieved they weren't under attack.
Guardara, the old shaman and village chief, sat outside his hut catching the occasional breeze of late afternoon. Wise in the ways of tribal leadership, he enjoyed the powers he possessed, for no one dared challenge him. He had ensured his place in the tribe long ago as a young man, a day he would never forget. Alone and not far from his village, he stumbled upon a party of rival warriors. They were intent on avenging the death of one of their members, blaming the Machi-te. The nine warriors advanced toward Guardara, but he singlehandedly killed two before he himself fell wounded. The leader admired the young man’s tenacity and bravery and was about to remove Guardara’s head to strengthen his own spirit. Before he could, several Machi-te appeared with weapons, and the raiders fled. It began a long and bloody feud. Guardara, however, benefited by his actions. Within a few seasons, he was elevated to chief and shaman, a position he never relinquished; one he jealously guarded.
The old man glanced quizzically at Teman-e, wondering why he approached so hastily, skipping the usual formalities.
“I must speak with you! I have seen what I do not understand. I am frightened of what it means for our people!”