by Nahum Megged
The following morning, I went past the soldiers’ camp and found the trail in the forest leading to the cave. I took food that was intended to suffice for a few days, especially since the old man was accustomed to making do with little nourishment. The cave was empty. The old man was gone. In the center of the cave, on a small platform intended for the placing of offerings, I saw a bundle of arrows decorated with colorful feathers — a symbol of gratitude. The old man had returned, or had been taken by his people, to the forest. A new story was now unfolding.
13
A Three-Way Encounter
A week or so had passed, and the military camp had vanished into thin air.
“You and your friends should be very happy,” the colonel had told me a few days before he left the town with his soldiers. “Once again, the government is demonstrating its weakness. They let me know from the capital that the forest is peaceful again and we must return to our base. But my forces will remain in a state of readiness. I have a feeling some foreign country has interfered, but I can’t prove anything.”
I couldn’t hide my joy. Once again, the helicopters landed in the town square, this time to take the soldiers away. The townspeople breathed a collective sigh of relief. An Indian attack was not on the horizon, and the new plague that had disguised itself as the cure, had been vanquished.
A few more days passed, and Don Pedro wilted in a terrible heat wave. The gods had captured the winds and placed them in sealed containers. The sun blazed and burned and burdened, sucking the very life out of the townspeople. People fainted in the streets, and the clinic was bursting with patients. In the houses of the rich, the police station, and the sole hotel in town, the ceiling fans worked day and night. The lucky few had their artificial wind, but the use of even that many fans had compromised the supply of electricity, irregular as it was. The generator strained and creaked, announcing that it too would soon faint and collapse, further interrupting contact with the outer world. A new kind of darkness had come over people’s faces.
I went to visit Francisco and found him almost naked, hiding in the shaded part of his office, drinking hot water. Breathing hard, he cursed the colonel for bringing about the heat wave as revenge for having to retreat with his soldiers, the Indians who had sent the heat wave to the town with their prayers, and the gods who had imprisoned the winds in their vessels.
As soon as he could stand, he handed me a piece of paper. It was a telegram intended for Dr. William, Jr., that had miraculously managed to come through during the few hours when the electric power was on. The telegram was from the law offices. The attorneys mentioned that various rumors about the events in the forest had reached the newspapers. There was talk of a local rebellion, of white people being slaughtered, their hearts eaten, and various other horrors. The attorneys had requested Herbert or one of his messengers contact them as soon as possible and provide them with a reliable description of the situation.
I quickly drafted a short document, supposedly from Herbert, Jr., in which I wrote the following: The rumors are nothing but. For the time being, our biggest problem is a terrible, unbearable heat wave. There is a good chance the heat wave is related to the greenhouse effect or the burning of rainforests. I asked Francisco to send the telegram as soon as the electricity came on.
Every morning, I headed out to the river to bathe in one of the small coves the boats do not enter. One morning, after bathing in the river, I turned toward the forest bordering the town, as I always do, to take a walk among the trees. To my surprise, I found the old marikitare’s hut, as if it had never been set on fire and destroyed. I found the old man sitting next to the sole tree that had survived the flames. A hammock hung between the branches of the tree, and Marina was lying in it. I was astounded to see them together. I did not know which of them I should approach first, or even if I should disturb them with my presence. I got the feeling they had been talking and did not want anyone to eavesdrop on their words, so they chose a place where only the forest spirits were listening. But the old man noticed me standing there and motioned for me to approach.
The old man and the young woman smiled at me, as if that three-way encounter was natural, even though I imagined I could see something of an apology in Marina’s smile. In any event, they did not act as if I had interrupted anything. Each seemed lost in their own thoughts.
“This heat is unbearable,” said Marina, and the old man agreed with a nod.
I sat on an alligator-shaped stool and felt a sudden little breeze. “Still, it’s a little nicer here than in town,” I said, speaking of the weather, just like them, to get over the awkwardness.
The old man offered me a drink from a clay pitcher then handed it to Marina. It was as cool and fresh as spring water. A few minutes later, my senses began to cloud. I thought at first it was the effect of the terrible heat, but then I felt a familiar dizziness and nausea and realized I had been drugged. With my last remaining strength, I pulled myself up and vomited repeatedly. Then I lay flat on my back and felt my clothes being stripped from me until I was completely naked. I felt the coolness of the grass, and the terrible heat and nausea began to fade. A pleasant dizziness carried me away on its wings.
Soon I was flying in the sky, mocking the heat-stricken earth beneath. I reached a cave where birds and flying animals were imprisoned, all looking for a way out. A snake with the long wings of a flying fish sprang from a stream coiling in the depths of the cave and ascended to the ceiling. It found a small hole there and escaped through it. I, having grown wings just like his, followed after, emerging from a mound shaped like the petals of a flower.
The snake disappeared, and I flew by myself into the sky on my wings, now numbering four, and as transparent as a dragonfly’s. I floated in illuminated water gushing from a vast jug held by an invisible hand. I swam closer to the rim of the jug. Waterfalls of light rushed down from it. I could not enter the jug, as the mighty flow of water was pushing me down.
I merged with the yellow-white stream, falling into an abyss. Carpets of color danced around me. Bright red struggled with white and yellow, a blue that hid in blackness gradually approached me until small lakes, surrounded by golden sand, swallowed my flight into them. In the pools, swordfish fought with rainbow fish and as the snake coiled around them, the commotion of the battle ceased. I felt as if I had grown gills and no longer needed air, yet still, my four wings carried me up until I was outside the water again, hunched, collecting seashells, ripples lapping at my feet.
I opened my eyes. The old man and the girl looked at me as if I had just emerged from the land of the dead. I drank thirstily from the water Marina handed me. I sat back down, feeling as if I had just returned from a journey into the infinite. The shaman wanted to know what I had seen. With confused words, I recounted everything I had experienced lying on the floor.
He looked at Marina and said, “The rain is about to return.” The leaden skies cofimed his prophecy. “The winds have spoken to you,” said the old shaman. “They told you something you will understand with time. Meanwhile, the good tiding is that sunlight will soon become water. I only hope it won’t be the water that sweeps away everything in its way.”
I gave him an exhausted smile, and Marina offered to help me home. We sipped some more water and began the short walk back to town. A few minutes later, we could already see them on the horizon — black clouds riding white lightning. An unexpected tropical storm was making its way toward us. The torrential rain struck before we managed to get back home and washed away the last of the oppressive heat.
Drenched to the bone, we sat on the porch, delighting in the breeze cooling our bodies.
“It is not only the ways of gods and weather that are strange in this part of the world,” I said. “The people also have their mysterious ways. How did you know the marikitare had returned?”
“It’s a long story,” Marina answered. “We’ll find the right time to talk about it
later.”
And once more, we were silent, allowing the rain, which occasionally gusted into the porch, to caress our bodies. I touched her hand, and she responded by stroking mine. And while our hands spoke and our eyes were turned to the rain, I suddenly saw the converted man who had brought the sack with the snake that had bitten the boy. He went to the stairs leading from the jetty to the house but did not climb them. The boy ran to us, his face full of panic. Unable to speak, he simply pointed at the man, who was holding a woven bag tightly.
I took my hand from Marina’s and went out in the pouring rain to face the stranger. The water blurred my vision. I walked down the stairs and took the path to the river. As soon as the stranger noticed me, the struggle began. I grabbed the bag and tried to snatch it from him. He pushed me away with great force. I slipped on the wet stairs, almost losing my footing, but I held on to the bag. A fist that landed on my face ended the struggle, and he jumped into his boat and quickly disappeared. I felt my blood mixing with the splashing water. A piece of paper was all that was left in my hand.
The boy waited for me at the entrance and quickly brought me a chair. With a steady hand, he cleaned the cut next to my mouth. I held the torn piece of paper. Some of the writing on it had been erased by the water. I immediately recognized it by the handwriting and the type of paper. It had been torn from William’s journal that I had seen or hallucinated while with the Yarkiti. Only one word was still legible, written in the handsome, clear handwriting, so unlike the hand that had composed the journal I had found in the museum. “Moon” was the word. Based on two other letters, still readable, I assumed it related to a new moon.
Marina came into the room where the boy was tending to me and cried out when she saw my injury. I told her I had slipped down the stairs to the river.
“I should have warned you how dangerous the stairs can be in the rain,” she said softly, and I thanked her in my heart for accepting my explanation. A few minutes later, Marina went to her room.
The following day, while sitting in my room and writing in my journal, the boy knocked on my door and let me know the old marikitare was asking to see me. When I went out, I found all the servants, including Tourki and the boy, hiding their faces with one hand, as if a holy spirit had manifested in the house. They waved their other hands in circles, like in an initiation ceremony.
Marina came as well. Possibly she had heard the noise and understood its origin, or maybe she too had been alerted by one of the servants.
“The gods will clear a path for you,” I told the old shaman.
He smiled. “They have. And as you can see, I even managed to come here.”
Marina looked at both of us with loving eyes. “Yankor told me how you saved his life,” she said, and that was how I learned the name of the old marikitare, who confirmed her words with a nod.
“I heard someone had attacked you and came to check on you. I can help, if the spirits allow me to,” said Yankor. He took a feather from a small pouch and trailed it between my eyes and close to my mouth, which was still a little swollen. “You are under the influence of a spell; it’s a good thing that your animal is powerful,” he said and stepped into my room.
He asked Marina for fire, took some strange substance from his pocket, and placed it on a stone incense holder. He wet the substance with a red liquid he poured from a flask, lit the incense in the holder, and a potent smell filled the room. While toiling over the incense, the old man murmured and mumbled, occasionally speaking in raspy voices and jumping like a toad. The irises vanished from his eyes, a whiteness spread through the windows of his soul. The pungent smell blurred my senses, but I decided to fight the influence of the drug this time and managed to do so. The smoke had spread, but I was still awake.
“If only you hadn’t resisting entering the world where everything is already known, your animal would have discovered important things,” said Yankor, “but the animal remained awake and watching and is unwilling to tell its story.” He sat, closed his eyes, and began to blink. Then he got up, looked at Marina and said, “His wounds will all heal before a day is gone. Care for him as if you were his wife.” He checked the pulse in my wrist and said, “Soon, very soon, you will go back.”
“Go back where?” I asked.
“To your friends in the forest. You will need to help them. Difficult days lie before them.” As usual, he offered no further explanation.
Marina came to me, held my hand and said, “I won’t let you leave me here in the town by myself. Stay, or let me come with you!”
I stroked her head and said nothing.
Strange sensations came over me as soon as the old man left. Now and then, I heard my name and was convinced a woman was calling me. I asked Marina if she could hear the voices too. She shook her head.
“I closed my eyes,” I told her, “and couldn’t decide who was calling me, you or Yakura, my friend, young and wise, with the face of a beautiful woman and the soul of a goddess. I thought you were both calling me together. Voices joined as one, the voice of the forest depths and the voice of the world beyond this one, but I heard more than a voice… I had a feeling a shadow was following my every footstep in the house, that someone was peeking at me through the windows, watching me. But going to the window, I couldn’t see anyone.”
While we were both silent, my eyes downcast and Marina staring at me, Francisco came to see us.
“Do you remember the messenger from the forest who introduced himself as Mr. William’s representative?” he asked. “They found him dead in his boat. A small arrow was stuck in the back of his neck. The boat was found a few miles from town, very close to the place where the river bends and the trees kiss the water. The police say there are no hostile tribes there, and it must have been a stray arrow shot to hit a fish or an animal.”
And while Francisco told his story, I saw Yankor’s face for a moment, smiling. His smile was ambivalent, and I thought I could understand some of its meanings. The hand that lifted to strike you is still out there, the smile seemed to say, even though the messenger is no longer on this end of existence. The old man drew something with his feather, then completed the drawing with a gesture that seemed to say “Do not worry, you are being protected.”
At night, the Noneshi visited me again. Just as he had done during my nights in the forest, he did not wait for me to fall asleep and emerged from hiding as soon as I closed my eyes. This time his face was clean of war paint, and he tried to signal something to me with his hands. I opened my eyes to capture him, but he found refuge in the hidden world. I closed my eyes again, and he was revealed to my shut eyes.
He tried to tell me something, but I did not understand the words. While looking at him with closed eyes, I saw a woman wearing a thin white gown standing by the door. The Noneshi was looking at her as well, but she did not sense his presence. Was it Yakura? It couldn’t be. No daughter of the forest would wear such a garment. She stepped into the room. It was Marina who entered the space shared by the Noneshi and me. She continued to advance toward me, ignoring the Noneshi, stepping on his foot, going right through the dark transparency of his body. The Noneshi vanished. Marina lay beside me and began to caress my face. With my eyes closed, I reached out with my hand to touch her. It wasn’t a shadow or a vision. It was Marina herself who lay with me in my bed. I opened my eyes and confirmed what my hands had felt. And once again, we sank into the world of myths and legends.
14
The Book of Destiny
In the morning, I felt wonderfully light. The rain had stopped, and Marina slept in my bed. This time she wasn’t in a hurry to slip away. She was still sleeping when I left the room. The wind carried me on its wings and woke my desire for the open road.
At the police station, I found the chief of police sitting stone-faced next to the radio, waiting for transmissions that did not come. He seemed relieved to see someone he could share his troubles with.
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br /> “I haven’t heard anything from a few of the miners camps for the past few days. I don’t know why. There might be a malfunction, although it’s possible something terrible has happened. The rebellion we were in such a hurry to forget might be spreading.
“I can’t report this to the district, because then that colonel would return, or another colonel, even worse than he was.” He looked at me, as if waiting for my advice. “Besides, a few days ago we received a request by an anthropologist working on behalf of some institute with a fancy name. He wants to tour the forest with a team of photographers. The district has asked for my permission, but I can’t authorize the arrival of more foreign nationals when things are unstable and unclear.
“However, unless I reply, the anthropologist will probably go higher up the ladder, and her request will end up at army headquarters. You can imagine what would happen next…”
I felt two opposing forcing fighting inside me. On the one hand, the police chief’s words supported those of Yankor, who had prophesied dark days awaited the townspeople. On the other hand, likely because of Marina’s visit to my bed, I felt I could be on the verge of better times. It had been many years since I’d last felt so full of joy and life. I had drunk my fill of sorrow, but now, when I finally enjoyed my own little happiness, dark clouds were quickly approaching, threatening to drown me and everyone tying their destinies to mine.
When I got home, Tourki handed me a note. I thought it was from Marina, but when I opened it, I discovered a different handwriting, extremely neat, with angular, upward slanting lines befitting a person of great confidence. I would appreciate it if you could come to the hotel, room No. 12. It is a matter of life and death. Me.
I asked where Marina was and was told she had left the house. I went off to the hotel and asked where the guest staying in room 12 was. The manager told me the rooms could be accessed only by those residing in them. “This rule gives the hotel guests a sense of security, and ensures this establishment doesn’t turn into a different one entirely,” she warned me. I asked her to call the guest. After a few minutes, a young woman came out to see me, wearing a hat in which a small, solar-powered fan had been installed. Obviously, the fan did not work inside the lobby. She had fair hair and green-blue eyes. She was short but well built. I figured her to be in her forties.