by David Faxon
Guardara, curious to hear, rose slowly, motioning him inside. Teman-e chose a fiber mat on the floor and sat facing him, breathing rapidly. The pungent odor of yopo, a hallucinogen used to summon shamanic spirits, wafted through the hut. Painted gourds, rooster claws and animal skulls hung from the walls. Dust covered everything.
“Be calm Teman-e. Tell me what you have seen.”
Teman-e told his story, and the old man listened with rapt attention, not asking any questions. He didn't doubt a man with this warrior’s respect, but concluded the vision should have been his alone to see. After all, he was the shaman. If others were to have his supernatural powers, he could lose respect, maybe his life. He meant to discourage pursuing this any further.
When Teman-e finished, he stared at the chief, looking for an answer. Instead, there were questions.
“Was your son with you?”
“Yes”
“And did he too see such a sight?”
“No, he was on the ground, and the bird made no sound as it fell from the sky.
“How do you know your eyes didn’t trick you or you weren't dreaming?”
Guardara's comment took Teman-e by surprise, as he expected wise counsel and advice. Instead, there was skepticism in the chief’s voice. In other matters, Guardara would not have failed to summon spirits to guide him. Teman-e failed to understand his indifference and continued his plea.
“This has great meaning. We need to understand. What I told you is true, I swear by our ancestors! We must go to where this creature landed and see what message it has for us.”
Guardara resented being told to do anything by anyone. He cautioned Teman-e strongly.
“Speak of this to no one! I will call the elders and tell them what you have said. We will decide what to do. Go to your woman and await my word.”
He closed his eyes in a gesture of dismissal, signaling the conversation was over.
Teman-e should have sensed Guardara’s reaction. Nevertheless, he was disappointed and immediately suspected the real reason behind the decision; resentment against whatever might compromise his position as shaman or the great power he held over the elders and tribesmen. Arguing was useless. Teman-e had to put the event behind him or suffer the considerable wrath of the tribal leader. He rose, bowed respectfully and returned to Naru who saw the distress etched on his face. He wanted to think, but at the same time, valued her opinion and comforting ways. He told her the story, describing it in great detail. She listened attentively, then asked simply:
“Are you sure?”
“I have never been so sure of anything in my life. As sure as I am that, somewhere in the jungle tonight, I will hear the scream of a jaguar.”
“Then take rest in your hammock, do as you must.”
Naru always made good sense. Her advice was meant to allay whatever disturbed her husband, yet she could have no idea of the tragic events that were now put into motion. Later, she served him food that he picked at absent-mindedly. When he finished, he said nothing further and went to his hammock. That night, he tossed uncomfortably and heard the jaguar scream louder than he could ever remember. He would leave before the sun rose.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Remote jungle, the Amazonas
Connery took a while to recover his senses. Water swirled around his head. Shallow enough that it didn’t interfere with his breathing. He was held by something weighty. He struggled, but whatever it was prevented him from moving. He tried focusing his thoughts. What had happened to bring him there? Why couldn’t he move? His mind was blank. Nothing clicked. It was all a dream, or had he died? If he did, this couldn’t be heaven- he was too afraid. Something else had paralyzed him; put him in this place. He cast his eyes downward, his brain registering a familiar item he had seen hundreds of times before. But what was it? He concentrated his thinking, almost willed the words to mind. In a millisecond it came to him, and with startling clarity, from nothingness to enlightenment. His seat buckle! Instantly, he recalled in vivid detail, the entire day's events. The mysterious object that held him secure was the seat of an airliner.
The air was thick, the smell of decay hovered, and mosquitoes tormented unrelentingly. He felt morbidly isolated, abandoned from anything human. He moved his eyes right, left, then above to where stately kapoks formed a canopy more than a hundred feet high, blocking the sun’s rays except for a few splashes of dappled light. The echoed cries of toucans and tropical parrots, chatter from monkeys, were the only sounds that broke an eerie silence. They seemed tranquil in comparison to city sounds, the constant honking of horns echoing off canyon walls.
Sensitivity in his limbs returned gradually, with it a level of pain he had rarely experienced. He wanted to cry out, shout for someone to help him, then became aware of movement. A Lora snake, its venom among the most poisonous in the world, dropped from an overhead branch into the water. He remained deathly quiet, not daring to blink as it moved closer to his face, at one point brushing its snout against his cheek. While not knowing the level of its deadliness, he sensed that if it struck, it would surely kill him. He held his breath, awaiting the stinging bite. But it never came. After several tense moments, the snake left in search of more inviting prey. The near deadly encounter convinced him that if he didn't move soon, he might become dinner for some jungle beast, or be snake bit.
He lifted his right arm to waist level, then grasped the seat buckle. It snapped open easily. Despite the force of ejection, it held him secure when he tumbled a hundred feet through branches and thicket, yet a simple upward motion released him. He could now roll onto his back, freeing his left arm, but it would take another twenty minutes to get out of the seat, into a sitting position. He bent forward, once again stifled a yell and grasped his side. He guessed two, possibly three ribs were cracked. Opening his tattered shirt, he saw a large black and blue bruise.
Two deep lacerations caused blood to cascade down his forehead into his eyes. Scalp wounds, even superficial ones, bleed profusely. A bizarre image came to mind. How would he appear to someone who stumbled onto him at that very moment, sitting straight up in the water, bloody, un-recognizable face? Like something from a freaking zombie movie! He reached for the cool water, splashed several hands full onto his face and head. This helped, but only momentarily. A piece of cloth torn from his shirtsleeve stemmed the bleeding.
An ugly cut to the fleshy part of his thigh opened the possibility of infection. That was a problem. But not the biggest. If he had broken bones in his ankles, or feet, he'd more than likely die right there. He pulled to a crouching position, intensely aware that the snake might return. He stood, first one leg then the other, wobbly, but upright. At least he could move. If he could do that, he could walk out of there to where he could get help.
There was no plausible answer as to why he survived. He could have slammed into any number of tree trunks and been instantly killed. Instead, he miraculously missed hitting large branches and landed in an area of soft, dense undergrowth. He crashed through at the correct angle, which allowed the seat to absorb the impact, plunged through branches then dropped into the stream. He thought about racecar drivers whose cars were totally demolished, the driver walking away from a pile of twisted junk, unscathed.
His tolerance for pain was high. He could deal with that. But where was he in this infinite expanse? He could be a mile from civilization, or five hundred. What about my cell phone? Without thinking, he reached for it, then came to his senses. He was out of contact, held prisoner in a limitless maze of vegetation.
His most urgent need focused on surgical supplies. Without them, there was no way to adequately close his wounds and prevent infection. Only one place held the possibility of finding medical supplies; the wreckage site. It had to be nearby, he reasoned, a half mile at most, but with jungle so thick, that would present no easy task, even for someone in the best of health. Beyond that, it made sense to return to the crash site, since it offered his best chance of rescue.
A strong odor of smoke drifted th
rough the trees. Maybe he was overly optimistic there was anything left to the plane at all. The jungle undoubtedly swallowed the wreckage. For search craft, it would be like trying to spot a life raft in the ocean at 3,000 feet. Sufficient fire and smoke, however, would attract attention. Hundreds of small planes were lost in the Amazon over the years, vanished forever in the great void. It was unlikely the same would hold true of an airliner with 225 aboard. Buoyed by the thought, he was confident that Search and Rescue would find the downed craft. But what if they didn't? What if he found it and there was nothing left, no supplies, no food?
Find solutions! Not reasons why you can’t get out of this mess!
His eyes fell to the stream where telltale blue, gold, and green ribbons from jet fuel floated on the water. What if he found where the fuel entered the stream- the point where it originated? From there, he might be able to locate the wreckage. But it was late; he was exhausted, in need of rest. He'd begin his search in the morning.
He wasn't entirely out of his element, since he had received survival training while in the Air Force. At the time, he remembered thinking how useless it seemed, something he never expected to need. Now it could save his life, and he would use everything at his disposal. He found a small clearing and took inventory; torn pants, torn shirt, belt, class ring, his keys and wallet. He remembered always carrying four Tylenol wrapped in tin foil and tucked in the wallet. They might dull the pain and allow sleep. He’d keep the tinfoil. It would come in handy for something, maybe a fish lure. Inside the wallet he found the card of the Brazilian businessman. He thought, He’ll have a long wait for me to attend that meeting.
He tore his remaining pant leg into strips for bandages. Next, he found a fibrous plant with long leaves that he wrapped around his rib cage and secured with the belt. But what if a wild animal attacked? He might have a fighting chance with a weapon, no matter how crude. To his right, he spotted a straight piece of bamboo. He managed to snap off a shaft about six feet long. For the next hour, he used a rock to fashion a sharp point.
Retracing his steps back to the stream, he cleared jet fuel from the surface then drank thirstily. It occurred to him after, that he could contract diarrhea from bacteria, but water was vital. Several hours elapsed since he had anything to drink. He was hungry too, but unfamiliar with the plants and strange looking fruits. Some could prove deadly. He didn’t want to add poisoning to his already lengthy list of physical ailments. He hoped to find bananas, or plantains. The stumps of banana trees, he remembered, contain a sap that is drinkable, but tastes horrible. Certain types of moss can also yield water. Those, and other small pieces of useful information, came back to him.
He decided to take dinner that night from the stream. With crude spear in hand, he sat waiting patiently for something, anything, to swim past. A half hour passed. Darkness crept over the jungle. He was about to give up, when a large snake swam toward him. The same one? As it came closer, he summoned his remaining strength, then thrust the pointed stick into its body, hoping it was sharp enough to penetrate. His ribs seemed ready to tear apart, but he caught it perfectly behind the head. Writhing furiously, it wrapped around the pole, trying to strike. He drove the spear in further, killing it.
He meticulously peeled the skin, then washed the blood and dirt from the white meat. Could he eat uncooked reptile? He'd force himself; there might not be anything else for days. He bit off three or four pieces and swallowed without chewing. Again, he thought of survival training, a week in the field when there was nothing to eat but insects. They weren't that bad as he remembered. Neither was the snake. His hunger satisfied, he rested and prepared for nightfall. He swallowed the four Tylenol, rubbed jet fuel on his body, using it as a repellent for insects, then propped himself against a tree. Surprised with his resourcefulness, he had kept his wits and did what was necessary. Tomorrow would bring plenty of people to the area, he hoped. And his rescue.
That night, the jungle swallowed him up, no moonlight or starlight penetrated the canopy, the darkness was total. There were new sounds all around, some from wild animals passing close. Surely, they had picked up his scent. Keeping his spear close, he spent the first night in fear of unknown creatures he couldn't see but was sure they could see him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twelve miles north of Teman-e’s village, a band of twenty men snaked their way through the tropical wilderness. With them were five captives, tied securely to one another, spoils of a raid the day before. Three women and two men walked single file on the narrow trail. The first man in the tethered group wore a hemp leash around his neck, held tightly by a muscular warrior who jerked it violently every so often, forcing the group to keep pace.
All five had noticeable injuries, the men far worse than the women who sustained only minor cuts and bruises. The lead prisoner suffered a large head wound. Blood streamed down his face and shoulders. His companion behind, had the broken remnant of a spear protruding from his leg. This caused him to fall frequently. For each delay, he suffered punishing blows from a tall warrior, his face painted to resemble a death’s head skull, the most feared man among the primitive tribes.
If the captives survived the long march, the men faced a lifetime of slavery and beatings. The women, in addition to cruel treatment, were to produce healthy male babies. Otherwise, they would be killed, or worse, banished, a death sentence that came slowly.
The warriors wore savage designs on their faces. Some completely black, some made to look like wild animals. They belonged to the Wakawakatieri, the most inhumane of all primitive tribes in the Amazon. They commanded fear and loathing by all who shared the remote regions. Believed to possess supernatural powers, they fought their enemies with fanaticism. Ten warriors could attack, and easily defeat, five times their number.
That day, far from their village, their mission was to find and kidnap choice women from other tribes, who fit their requirements; healthy, comely, with wide hips suitable for child bearing. Those captured faced approval or rejection from a tribal council. In addition to kidnapping women, they often killed as many villagers as possible, limiting the number of male captives. Wakawakatieri believed they drew personal power from killing their enemies.
On the eighth day of their sojourn, they found what they were looking for, a small place of only about a hundred souls. From the obscurity of the jungle, they watched patiently, sizing up the situation, making note of the ones they would kidnap, the number of defenders. Children played innocently, or clung to their mother's legs while the evening meal was prepared. Most of the younger men were on a hunt. The ones remaining were older, engaged in idle gossip. The Wakawakatieri waited a few hours by the river, all the while observing the women. There were three considered choice. They fell on the village, grabbing the ones chosen and killing the old men. One of the women fought desperately to prevent a warrior from taking her baby. He pulled the child from her, ran it through with his spear, seized the woman by the hair, and dragged her away.
Uxhomeb was a homicidal fiend who enjoyed using his physical advantage to intimidate and inflict pain on whomever he pleased. Invariably, he would have his victims killed ritualistically. He wasn’t above thrusting a spear into a pregnant woman if she was unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle of a raid. Indeed, he bragged openly about the abominations he committed. Even his own men risked unspeakable death if they disobeyed his commands. At six foot two inches, he towered above them. None came within eight or nine inches of his height. He hid behind a mask of paint, some days white, some days black; as if to conceal the fiend who committed horrible acts. Stained teeth, filed to points, completed the ghostly and fearsome appearance.
Mere rumor of his presence caused the abandonment of entire villages until the danger passed. Throughout the civilized and uncivilized worlds, men like him learned that violence always brings fear. Fear parlays into power. An age old, simple formula that always worked.
Uxhomeb’s attention turned to the prisoner in the rear who kept falling,
only to struggle to his feet under a torrent of blows. A wry grin appeared on his face as he signaled to quicken the stride. This caused the man to fall even more often and he held his hands near his head to shield himself from the blows he knew would follow. Once more, he tried to stand, but the broken spear- head penetrated further into his leg, now cutting into muscle.
Uxhomeb halted the group. Casually, he bent over the man, saying in a calm voice that if he fell one more time, he, Uxhomeb, would personally behead him. But only after he was tortured. At first, the man trembled, then recovered his composure, knowing that no matter what happened, his fate was already sealed. Better to get it over with. He struggled to stand erect. This would be his moment, his final act. He sneered at the chief, then spit into his face. Uxhomeb didn’t react immediately. When he did, his rage couldn't be contained. He ordered the man’s eyes gouged, then he would be burned alive. Several warriors seized him to begin the horrific torture. The other prisoners, blindfolds removed, were forced to witness the execution. Blood lust and revenge were satisfied for the time being. He signaled the column to move forward, kicking the burning corpse one last time.
The next day they came to a tributary where warriors and captives alike, paused to drink. As they slaked their thirst, an eerie silence caused them to pause. Something ominous was about to occur. Heads turned to the sky. Seconds later, the plane with Terrence Connery and 224 others, passed about five hundred feet directly overhead. All, except Uxhomeb, fell to the ground covering their heads, sure they were about to be killed by a monstrous creature. He stood in silence as the plane disappeared below the tree line then watched a ball of flames rise in the distance. He displayed no sign of fear, sensing only that this was something that could bring him extraordinary power. Because of the density of vegetation, he estimated it would take a while to locate it. He kicked the cowering warriors, told them to get on their feet. He would lead them to something remembered for generations.