The Amazon Quest (House of Winslow Book #25)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Well, I didn’t eat any more stew! As a matter of fact, I went out in the jungle and threw up. I didn’t tell them why, but I didn’t linger for long. I don’t think the Guapi are cannibals, though. They never talk about it. As a matter of fact, they get upset when they hear about other tribes that have that practice.”

  Emily had watched as the women prepared the monkeys. Omala had gutted them, then turned them over to the women. They had stirred the fires and gotten the flames burning high, then they singed and scraped off the fur, which left the skin to be eaten with the meat. Ian told them with a smile, “The tail goes to the lucky hunter. It’s supposed to bring good luck.”

  When the meal was served, Emily very carefully chose a piece of the bird that Omala had shot and killed rather than monkey meat. The women had also roasted ears of corn in the embers and offered her something that looked like a banana.

  Emily and Wes made out very well and noticed that Ian also avoided the monkey meat.

  “Have you ever tasted monkey?” Wes asked Ian.

  “Sure, it’s not bad,” Ian said with a straight face. “Tastes a little bit like a fox.”

  Wes stared at him. “When did you ever eat a fox?”

  Ian laughed. “I never did. I was just teasing.”

  After the meal the three of them expressed their thanks, which Ian, of course, translated. Then they left to go back to their camp to sleep for the night.

  It was early, so Ian built up a small fire to drive away the insects with the smoke, and they sat around and talked for a time. It was a peaceful night, and once something grunted out in the jungle.

  “Is that a jaguar?” Emily said nervously.

  “I think it’s probably a pig. How’s your story coming?”

  “I don’t know. I’m making hundreds of notes, but I’ll have to wait until I get home to put it together.”

  “Same way with pictures. I can’t really develop them here, so I don’t know what I’m getting. The only thing is to take as many as I can.”

  “These people seem so gentle,” Emily said. “Are they really as violent as you say?”

  “They take a different view of life,” Ian said. He thought for a moment, and then he said, “When I first came here I didn’t know the language too well, of course. I was learning it. One warrior made advances toward his neighbor’s wives while he was away hunting. Somehow it got around, and the husband made a deadly poison out of jungle shrubs. That night at a hunting feast, the man who had done the deed joined them. He didn’t see any expression on the husband’s face, so he thought he was safe. He drank some of that thick, souplike drink, the native beer, and everybody else drank, too. But a few minutes later . . .” Ian slowly picked up a stick and poked at the fire. It sent golden sparks high in the air, and then he tossed the stick in and continued, “A few minutes later he was on the ground doubled up with pain. The men just looked at him casually, and he died right there. The corpse was dragged away and left in the jungle.”

  “How awful!” Emily shuddered.

  “You’ve heard it before. Remember the old song ‘Frankie and Johnny’—how he was her man, but he done her wrong. So she shot him.”

  “That’s just a song.”

  “No, it’s not,” Wes broke in. “It happens all the time.”

  Emily was glad for the blazing fire. It made a burning, golden point in the darkness that surrounded the hut and the two tents.

  Finally she said, “I think I’ll go make a few notes. Good night.”

  As soon as Emily was gone, Ian said, “I’ve never known a woman like her.”

  “Neither have I,” Wes said. He was watching Ian carefully and started to speak, but then he changed his mind. “Good night,” he said. “I think I’ll turn in.”

  Ian Marlowe sat staring into the fire for a long time. He seemed fascinated by the leaping flames and made a lonely, solitary object there in the middle of the jungle. Finally he arose and put out the fire and went to his tent.

  ****

  The following day Emily rose early, had a quick breakfast that she cooked herself, and walked to the village. She planned to spend the whole day taking notes on what happened and what the people did that day in their daily routines. As she walked around, she noticed that the men and boys were lying in their hammocks with their feet dangling over the sides. Hunters were out already, so nothing seemed to be happening. Some of the women had begun to roast meat over fires, and she wrote down descriptions of the various members of one of the families. One was a very beautiful young girl, no more than ten or twelve, with liquid black eyes and a ready smile. Her teeth were white and would be the envy of any girl in America. Emily did not know her name, but the girl followed her around all morning. Emily also kept the baby monkey with her. She had named him Woodrow Wilson, and when Ian asked why, she had said, “Look at that long face. He looks like Woodrow Wilson.”

  Ian found this amusing, but the Indian girl begged to hold the animal, and Emily surrendered her. She had noticed that the Guapi had an enormous number of pets, including many birds that had been trained to come at the owner’s call. One of them, a small black-and-yellow bird, came when the girl whistled, perched on her shoulder, and pecked gently at the girl’s lips. The child held the monkey in one hand and stroked the bird. The little girl wore only a cord, and Emily could not get over how nakedness was the rule of the day.

  “Would you like to have the monkey?” Emily asked her.

  The girl nodded with a smile when Ian translated the question, and then he said, “You’ve made a friend there.”

  The day went quickly for her, but later in the afternoon Emily was startled by what sounded like a quarrel. Ian had returned from his hunt and came to stand beside her. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It sounds like they’re having a domestic quarrel.”

  Ian watched for a while and listened and then nodded his head. “You see that woman over there? The tall one. She’s one of Etor’s three wives. She feels she didn’t get an equal share of the game that the hunters brought in.”

  Emily watched and expected to see a shouting match, but instead the tall woman moved out of the cooking hut and built up a fire outside.

  “What’s she doing, Ian?”

  “She’s showing that she’s all alone. You watch. She’ll keep her back to the others.”

  Emily was amused at the woman, who did keep her back turned. The others paid her absolutely no attention. “She’s like the old story of an ostrich poking his head in the sand and thinking the hunters can’t see.”

  “It’s the way they have around here. No one would think of disturbing another person’s privacy. It’d be nice if we had that kind of system in the States.”

  “I think many of these people’s customs are wonderful. That’s one of them. You love these people, don’t you, Ian?”

  Ian turned to look at her. “I told you once that I could only love myself before I met Jesus. Now, strangely enough, I can love these people and even those who are unkind to me.”

  Emily blinked, for although he had said no more, she felt that he was speaking of her own bitterness toward him. She could not answer but turned and walked slowly away.

  Ian watched her and then turned away himself, wondering what was in her mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sarita

  The morning sun brought a red glow to the waters of the Amazon. Emily stood back beside Ian while Wes moved closer to the still figure of Omala, who stood ankle-deep in the brown waters that curled around him. Emily and Wes had come to watch how the Guapi were able to hunt fish with a bow and arrow, and now all of them stood still, as if frozen in a tableau. Emily glanced toward Ian, who stood quietly beside her, his eyes fixed on the hunter, and through her mind came thoughts of the earlier days she had had with him back in Richmond. The memory troubled her, and she shook her head slightly and stared at the still figure of Omala.

  The air was full of the spongy odors of the jungle—th
e smell of decaying vegetation but also of exotic flowering plants of all sizes and shapes, a rich aroma that surrounded the Guapi as water surrounds a fish.

  Suddenly Omala drew the bow back and aimed at a pool at least thirty feet away. Emily squinted her eyes, trying to see something, but she could not even see a shadow among the rocks. But apparently Omala did. He loosed the arrow, which skimmed low across the water, so low that Emily thought it might flatten out and skim across the surface as a flat stone. But somehow a flash of silver stirred the pool. The water splashed, and Omala rushed forward to grab the arrow and lift up a foot-long fish that was skewered on it. Wading back, he jerked the arrow out, and putting the fish to his mouth, he crushed its backbone with his teeth, and the fish grew still.

  “That was incredible!” Emily exclaimed. She nodded and smiled at Omala, who smiled back and said something.

  “He says that he’d like to share the fish with you.”

  “What kind is it?” Emily asked, moving closer.

  “It’s called an acara-acu.”

  It was a colorful fish, brown and orange, with shiny scales.

  “It looks like an ocean fish—something you would see in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Wes had come up and snapped a picture of Omala holding the fish in his hand. “Ask him to bite it again so I can get a better shot,” Wes urged.

  He waited until Ian had translated his words, and then Omala dutifully raised the fish to his lips. Wes snapped the picture and grinned. “That’ll be a good one,” he said.

  “I don’t see how he speared that fish. I couldn’t even see it,” Emily remarked.

  “Neither could I. I think you have to be born here to acquire these skills. Have you got enough shots, Wes?”

  “I think so.”

  “Come along, and we’ll see a few more interesting sights,” Ian said.

  As they walked along the riverbank, Wes asked, “What’s the biggest fish in the Amazon River?”

  “It’s what the people here call a piraiba. It’s a catfish, but bigger than any you’ve ever seen.”

  “How big do they get?” Wes inquired.

  “They can grow over ten feet long and weigh more than five hundred pounds.”

  “Five hundred pounds! That’s a monster!”

  “They eat dogs that get careless and swim across streams. Some of the natives have claimed they even take small children who are bathing.”

  Emily shivered at the thought. “I don’t even like to think about a thing like that!”

  “Neither do I,” Ian said. “Death comes easily out here in the Amazon.”

  They had reached the group of women catching small fish in basket traps. The party stopped and watched as the women waded out in the deep mud, dragging small baskets through the muddy waters. From time to time they would pull them up and pitch the fish shoreward. When they landed, small girls would collect them and crack their spines with their teeth to kill them as Omala had the larger fish. Then they would make a cut just below the gills, and with one motion the entrails were ripped out and discarded.

  Wes took pictures of the girls as they wrapped the fish in green banana leaves to cook them. Emily had tried them and found them to be delicious.

  A young man had been standing staring at the river. Suddenly he let out a cry and plunged below the surface.

  “What’s he doing?” Emily asked.

  “Going after something,” Wes said. He got his camera ready, and after what seemed like a long time, the boy came out holding a turtle overhead.

  “Those are good,” Ian remarked. “I think they’re my favorite food.”

  Emily took notes as rapidly as she could on the various kinds of fish, including a spotted catfish that Ian said was called a pintado. They also saw a man coming in with a fish that weighed over seventy pounds. This was the paiche, the most common fish in the river.

  Wes stayed to take more pictures, but Emily and Ian walked back toward the village. For some reason it had grown very difficult for Emily to carry on a conversation with Ian. She knew that somehow she would have to resolve the wall she had put up between her and Ian, but so far she had not been able to. At the root of it, she knew, lay the bitterness that she had carried for years. Just the night before a realization had come to her with a shock. In the darkness of her small hut, she had knelt beside her bed and struggled with her own thoughts. Prayer seemed impossible, and finally she had cried out, “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know if he’s really changed or not, and I’m afraid to trust him!”

  As she knelt there, something had come to her that she had never dreamed of. There was no audible voice, and she could not be certain that it was something the Lord was saying to her. The thought that rose in her was like a faint whisper in her spirit. It was not in words, however, but just an impression, and it amounted to a bitter truth. I don’t want to find out that Ian has really changed. The thought had come to her so sharply and with such force that she had knelt for a long time struggling with it—and then came another impression. She suddenly felt that she was taking some sort of awful pleasure in harboring her bitterness against Ian!

  “No, that’s not true.” She had spoken the words out loud, but the thoughts and the impressions had remained with her. Now as she walked along beside Ian, she tried to shove those thoughts away. It couldn’t be true that she was enjoying the bitter thoughts that she still held against him! It just couldn’t be!

  Ian did not appear to be aware that she was having a struggle. He spoke easily about the life of the village. Indeed, he had been most helpful in assisting her to gather material for the article she was going to write. If there was any discomfort in their conversation, it was not on his part.

  A voice caught the attention of the pair, and they turned to see Noki, the chief, striding toward them. Ian greeted him and listened as Noki spoke at length. When he paused, Emily asked, “What is it?”

  “He says his wife is sick.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “He doesn’t know, but he wants me to come pray for her.” Ian turned and studied Emily. “Would you come with me?”

  “I . . . I suppose so, but I’ve never had much experience with praying for someone who is sick like this.”

  “I’ve had some, but you never know what’s going on. Come along. We’ll see if we can help.”

  The two followed Noki until they reached his house, and when they went inside, they found the woman, whose name was Peor, lying pale and motionless in her hammock. Ian began to ask questions, and Noki answered them in short phrases. Ian put his hand on the sick woman’s brow and then took her pulse. He turned and there was a humor in his eyes. “It’s not serious,” he said.

  “What is it?” Emily asked quickly.

  “It amounts to the fact that Noki has been paying more attention to one of his other wives than to Peor. It’s really all in her head.”

  “You mean she’s not really sick?”

  “She thinks she is—and sometimes that’s about as bad as being sick. I think she’s making a scene to get his attention.” A grin swept across his lips, and he said innocently, “Women do that from time to time.”

  Emily shot an angry glance at him, but she did not answer for a moment. “Men do the same thing.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Well, what will you do?”

  “Well, we’ll pray for her, of course, but the chief’s not really a believer. I keep telling him about Jesus, and he says he’s got to see a miracle of some kind.”

  Emily was rather shocked at this. “What kind of miracle?”

  “He hasn’t been very specific.”

  The conversation went on for some time and was interrupted when Malu, the witch doctor, came in. Emily listened as the witch doctor and the chief talked and noted that the witch doctor was quite friendly with Ian.

  “Isn’t he suspicious of you and your religion?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s a
pretty sharp old fellow. He’s like doctors in the States who sometimes know that they can’t do anything, but they go through the motions anyway. We’ll watch him. It’ll be something for you to include in your story.”

  Emily stood back and watched as Malu rubbed some sort of ointment on the patient’s stomach and palms and feet. He tied a cotton thread around her elbows, wrists, ankles, and toes, and then Malu turned and muttered some words.

  “He wants us to leave the room. Come along,” Ian said as he moved outside. “He doesn’t want to give away trade secrets. What he’ll do is exorcise the yolok.”

  “An evil spirit?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. It’s part of what they call their magic around here. Somehow a yolok gets into people and brings an evil spirit.”

  Soon loud cries from the sick woman began to rent the air, and Emily shifted her feet nervously. She waited for Ian to speak, but he stood there quietly leaning against the side of the house and said nothing.

  Finally Malu came outside, and his dark eyes glinted. He held out something in his palm, and Emily leaned forward to see a small black pebble. She listened as the witch doctor explained, apparently, his powers to Ian and then left.

  “Well, that black pebble was the yolok. Now, let’s go back, and we can pray for Peor.”

  Emily followed him inside and found Peor sitting up. She seemed to be better and sat still as Ian prayed for her. She smiled then and reached up and took his hand and said a few words.

  “She’s grateful for the prayer,” Ian said. He turned and nodded to Noki, who smiled, and then the two left the hut.

  “I wish Wes could have taken some pictures of that,” Emily said.

  “He’ll have plenty of chances. This sort of ritual by the witch doctor goes on all the time. These are very spiritual people,” Ian remarked as the two walked along between the huts that were scattered at random across the open space. The children, as usual, were playing games, some of them with their pets, while others kicked a ball made out of what appeared to be cotton.