When Time is Cracked and Trees Cry_A mysterious novel that takes you deep into a Magical tour in the secrets of the Amazon jungle and the psychological depths of the human soul

by Nahum Megged

We washed in the nearest brook, then returned to the village to change our clothes. I went to my own hut, and Marina went to Yakura’s. After I was dressed, Yakura came to my hut. I asked her if she knew how Marina and I had returned from the forest. At first she shook her head as if I were asking to know too much, then she said two women had seen us running back to the village as if escaping from the storm, bent and protecting our faces from the pouring rain. She hadn’t seen anything but after being told what had happened, she decided to visit us in the morning to see how we were.

  I found it hard to believe her. If we had indeed run through the rain, which I could not remember, our clothes should have been soaking wet, yet they were completely dry. I smiled at her as if to say If you do not want to, or cannot tell me the truth, then don’t say anything. I held her hand, and she did not reject it. She treated me as she had before we had found Marina, like a loving daughter. I knew that I had to be careful with my every movement. The woman with me in the hut was the virgin of the god. A rash act, a misinterpreted look or an inappropriate movement might end in an unexpected way.

  “How will this all end, Yakura?” I asked. “Will I ever know all the things that are currently hidden from me?” The question was uttered spontaneously, as if in desperation.

  The young — yet ancient — woman leveled her eyes at me and said, “It is not always good to know everything. Only when you reach the Tepoi, or on your journey there, do you see and know everything.”

  We sat silently. After a few moments that lasted an eternity, she broke the silence and told me that night they would eat the bitter dates she had brought from the forest and summon the spirits, including the spirit ruling over war and peace, the one who was supposed to bring the men back home. It had been a while since the distant drums had spoken any news about them and she was worried.

  Yakura took her hand from mine and left. I felt happy without really knowing why. Before my first night of forgetfulness with Marina, Yakura had never presumed to enter my hut without first making the appropriate noise asking my permission. Now, to a certain extent, my home had become hers, and the girl felt uninhibited. I took out my journal to write in it, and to my annoyance discovered both of William’s pens were gone. Had I hallucinated them, or was someone trying to undermine my confidence in my own sight and memory?

  I went out to the village and found Marina, practically giddy. Her lost backpack had been found. Someone had brought it to Yakura’s hut. All her clothes were there, the flashlights and medicine. The backpack must have been in a safe, dry place. The sleeping bag attached to the backpack was found as well, not that she had need of it in the intense heat.

  I kept losing things, while Marina kept finding them. When Yakura and I had found her, she had nothing but a small bundle of clothes tossed not far from her. The large backpack had not been there. I guessed we weren’t the only ones who had visited that accursed place, and that nameless other visitor might come back to surprise us.

  There was a lot of commotion in the village. Overnight, a new building had risen in its heart. It reminded me of the large round house near where the village’s ceremonial center used to be. Spirit decorations that had inexplicably survived the great flood were hanging from the leaf walls. A snake skin, which brought to mind the vision I saw in my hut, was hanging on the east wall. Next to a tall wooden pillar — I couldn’t understand how they had been able to cut it down and bring it there — was the sculpture of the dog I had already forgotten. Leaves were scattered on the floor, putting forth a potent, yet pleasant scent, much like jasmine. Between the supports of the building, gates had been marked to invite the spirits to enter. And everything had been performed under the guidance and supervision of one wonderful young woman, the wife of the god.

  I held Marina’s hand. “This will be a ritual the likes of which we have never seen,” I whispered to her. “I hope it works, and all the men return from their journey of vengeance.”

  Lightning marked a trail of fireworks in the sky and a series of explosive thunderclaps followed. Still, as if they had found a cure for all their troubles, the villagers didn’t seem to be bothered by the coming storm. Like good hunters, they would trap the spirits, and this time, those powerful hostages would act on their behalf. Looking around, I discovered the ancient walking stick I had seen in the round house. It was close to the structure’s central pole. Everything was ready, as if the night elves from the fairy tales of my distant culture had worked all through the night to make the impossible come true.

  Daylight was dying. The children wore clothes only adults would normally wear, clothes made of skins and tree bark. On their faces, they wore masks woven from the stalks of a plant that grows next to the spring. The exposed parts of their bodies were painted black, red, and brown in patterns of spiderwebs, or snake tracks curling across a sandy terrain. Feathers that hung above their little heads portrayed the spirits, while other feathers, which surrounded their eyes, would look at the spirits when the time came and participate in the redeeming dance.

  Without saying a word, Yakura came to me, took off my clothes and began to paint my body. An unpainted body would be captured and taken by the spirits when they left the village. Two other women undressed Marina and began to paint her as well, marveling at her shapely body. When the painting was complete, I put on my shorts and saw that Marina was in no hurry to get dressed; the revealing nakedness, with paint serving as garments, had made her feel more comfortable than the clothes taken from her backpack.

  The men began to drum. There were only two of them, but it sounded as if an army of drummers beat its rhythms across the forest. Night had descended. Torches were lit. The masks and painted bodies made the place appear detached from reality, as if everything were reflected in the waters of the spring, and the flowing water did not allow the images any rest. They were constantly moving, with an incessant, shivering fear, because everything was possible and anything might happen. In the center of the circle was a large pumpkin vessel containing the ashes of the dead. Next to the vessel, on large leaves, the banana paste had been placed with the flour of the bitter dates beside them. Those found worthy would see, with the aid of the flour, images from fantastical worlds. The unworthy would be immediately taken to the Tepoi awaiting them at the border of all being.

  The ashes, banana paste, and date flour were mixed together and the viscid mixture was poured into smaller pumpkin vessels. Fearfully, I swallowed the contents of the pumpkin placed before me. Marina held her pumpkin and ate from it as well, but it seemed that she felt no apprehension at all.

  A minute or two later, my senses began to dull. I was seized by nausea and my head began to spin. I wondered if I were approaching the moment I had come to the forest for. I could no longer see what the others were doing. The drums began to pound. The piping of bamboo flutes punctuated the beating of the drums, and the children-spirits came to the center of the structure, wailing, and I saw — yes, I actually saw — the spirits coming inside through a gate that had opened in the ceiling! A hand gripped me, but I pushed it away and ran outside to vomit. I threw up repeatedly, wishing I were dead.

  With my last remaining strength, I went back into the structure. The villagers and spirits were engaged in a dance that had something of the ascension of the soul in it. The place shook as if an earthquake had struck the forest. Two women were making the dog with bright eyes dance, and Yakura, or Marina, covered part of her naked body with the snake skin and danced. Like me, many others ran outside to vomit. The leaves under my feet rippled as if tiny creatures were dancing there as well, beneath the floor.

  Everyone was in a deep trance, climbing a ladder of light that had been sent from the skies peeking above the forest clearing. And the drums woke the thunder, and rainwater began to paint its own paintings on our bodies. And there they were. No, not the spirits, the spirits hadn’t come by themselves! Xnen and the company of warriors were standing at the opening of the structure
— the lost men of the tribe. Had they returned? Had they all returned? And beside them, unbelievably, stood the Mashko youths, members of the tribe that, according to the writings in the bizarre journal, had once been Yarkiti as well. Just a few days before, these young men had invaded our camp to kidnap the women, now they were back as friends.

  When the thunder of the heavens and the drums on the earth joined their sounds, the noise abruptly stopped. The sky held back for a moment as well. Xnen had returned, and the warriors and Mashko youths were back with him. Or it was the narcotics in the dates seeing them and not my own eyes — transforming wishful thinking into reality.

  I recognized Marina among the women and saw she was just as afraid as I was. I pulled her with me and went out to wash in the little pool just outside the camp. We removed the paint and sweat from our bodies and cooled them from the fire of the bitter dates still burning inside them.

  “Marina,” I told her when we emerged together from the water, “we should leave the forest tomorrow and go to your town. You could hear news about your mother, and I’d be able to speak with my children. I fear we mustn’t stay in the forest. If we spend any more time here, I’m afraid we might lose what little remains of our sanity.”

  We went to my hut together. Marina fell asleep, but I simply couldn’t. The pounding of the drums drifted into the hut, mixed with the lashing of the rain that had redoubled its angry attack on the earth. From time to time, I felt painted faces were looking at us through the doorway. I don’t remember if I had seen them with my eyes open or closed. Then the Noneshi was standing in front of me, but I wasn’t alone. If only Marina would open her eyes, we could see him together.

  He had changed his decoration. A pale powder replaced the war paint on his face, and his black eyes stood out through the pallor. Who knows from what realm he had come this time? And he wasn’t alone,

  you were with him, your hair disheveled and cascading down your back, wearing a white dress with Egyptian drawings on the edges. He had gone to you in your place of rest and taken you out, that is why his face was pale. But you were not pale. You examined the young body lying next to me, so much like yours in the distant past, and briefly it seemed you had entered it and it was you, and my body was young again as well, and I was about to sail into youthful dreams, the dreams of a man who has all the time in the world ahead of him.

  The Noneshi sat, put down his weapons, and motioned with his hand that I should wait. Wait for what? And the images began to be confused with each other. Both of them, the Noneshi and the painful memory, had been drawn from the depths of the night and they flew together, a white eagle hovering with them, and they climbed the eagle’s wings and took flight.

  “Are you leaving me?” I cried out in my mind. Perhaps that is how forgetfulness begins — with confused images and darkness. I heard a noise at the entrance, the rhythmic handclaps the natives make to ask permission to enter. In a whisper, I asked for my visitor to wait a little. I rubbed the cobwebs from my eyes, chased away the taste of bitter dates from my mouth, and joined Xnen, who was waiting for me outside.

  “We were worried about you,” I said, and silence followed my words. “We thought you were at war, but the spirits Yakura commanded have returned you to us.” I wanted to ask so many questions. I knew his journey was completely different from the one I had imagined, that he had walked down other roads and covered other distances, and even the enemy had suddenly turned into a loving friend. Our camp was larger now, and the many youths who had joined us would help build a new village, the village after the flood.

  Xnen looked at me and guessed my questions. His story began to flow, even though now and then he stopped it to go back or forth in time. The order of the stories did not match the order of the events.

  They set out, and Omauha appeared before them. The younger men, who weren’t familiar with the god, wanted to shoot him with their poisoned arrows. Nave! There’s a Nave in front of us! they shouted. And Omauha, after identifying himself by name, led them down strange and numerous paths. They crossed the river separating the Yarkiti and the Mashko. The drums of Omauha’s spirits announced to the expanses who was coming and who was leaving.

  “And we didn’t know where the Mashko who had defiled our camp were, and we asked Omauha and he calmed us. ‘You will soon see.’ We sent a young warrior back to the camp and an alligator helped him to cross the many waters, and an animal emerged from the deeps and attacked him with arrows, and you,” he addressed me, “saved him with Nave magic, and he remained to guard the camp not far from you.

  “And we reached a large river and didn’t know how to cross it and asked Omauha or his spirit. We looked at the river and saw ourselves trembling, and behind us were the Mashko youths, behind and among us. I turned to face them. The boys were standing with their weapons aimed at us. We cried to Omauha, ‘Where have you taken us? Did you bring us into the forest to die?’ And Omauha commanded us to look into the water again. And the Mashko turned and looked into the water as well. And their faces and ours joined with the same ripple, and we all realized we were the same people, the Yarkiti turned to Mashko, or the Mashko turned to Yarkiti.

  “We all put down our weapons and embraced and Omauha smiled. ‘There will be no more bloodshed between the sons of Omauha’s shin. Everyone will hunt together, everyone will build together, and everyone will stay away from the Nave and be wary of them.’ ‘And where is your camp?’ we asked those who had become us, and they told us they no longer had a camp. The flood had washed it away, and they were all who remained of the four camps of the tribe. The children, the elderly, and the women had all died, swept away by the many waters, and they now had to rebuild the world. And so, desperate, they had turned to our camp and on their way met Omauha, who guided their way and gave them good counsel, but still, blood had been spilled. You already know the rest of the tale.”

  I was used to their stories, and knew it was difficult to know how much of them was true. The vihu, the yage, the bitter dates, the ceremonial tobacco — all created stories. And after the stories had gotten into their heads and came out of their mouths, no one could know what was dreamt and what was actually seen.

  I had a feeling only a little had been told and many truths had been hidden in Xnen’s story. And I thought I succeeded in solving a few of the story paths. I looked at Xnen and saw that he had aged many years over the course of only a few days. It is not an easy road down which the spirits lead those who return to their homes.

  And then he told me something he had never told me before, that he’d seen the god, who had turned, just like in the days of old, into a guide leading them through the great maze of the forest. And that god had led them to their surviving enemies and had formed an alliance between the survivors of the flood, and potentially that alliance would save the forest. And even if the story was born from the vihu, yage, or bitter dates, it still meant that the god had appeared when he was supposed to and acted as he should have. It was beyond my comprehension.

  We continued to speak. I told him about my dreams and visions and about the journal belonging to the Nave who had probably been in the village, and about the painted parchments that were supposed to be hidden in some mysterious pit in the mountains of the god beyond the forest. I also told him about the magnificent Yakura, who had managed the village in his absence, about my wish to leave the forest with Marina and take her to her home, and about my hope to return to the forest, when the right moment came, and rejoin the Yarkiti.

  Xnen did not appear surprised by my words, nor by my wish to leave the forest with Marina. He promised that his men would escort me to the great river, to where I had hidden my boat in the foliage. He told me they went there from time to time to check the boat and chase away the plants and animals that had settled on it.

  “You could return to the Nave’s distant world,” Xnen told me, “but the day will come for you to return to us. You are our ally, and I have
a special plan that we must enact together. Don’t worry, we will stay here. With the aid of the Mashko we will build our camp where our previous one used to be.” Then he told me about the fowl he had met on his way, the likes of which he had never seen, about strange animals that showed up and spirits he had spoken with while flying to other worlds.

  “And Omauha, what does he look like?” I dared to ask.

  He said he was not allowed to tell me, but the spirit of Omauha had promised to remain close to the Yarkiti and shepherd them through the difficult time waiting ahead. The Nave desired the forest and who knew how much longer the forest would remain safe for its dwellers?

  “And Omauha will take Yakura to be his wife?” I asked.

  Xnen smiled and said nothing.

  The next morning, Marina and I set out. A short while later we were walking down the path to the great river, which is sometimes as wide as the sea. A difficult journey awaited us. We would need to survive the rapids threatening to drown us and the alligators chasing anything moving in the water. I hoped the engine had not been damaged by the ravages of time and weather. Inside the boat, hidden from the rain, were the fuel tanks with enough gasoline to take us to our destination: a place that was not far as the crow flies, but our travels would be long and dangerous on the serpentine curves of the winding river.

  A group of young warriors armed with bows and spears accompanied us to the river. A couple carried our backpacks. I carefully held on to the journals, which contained everything that had happened to me, whether in reality or in the realm of the imagination, in my dreams and delusions.

  Marina would return to her normal life and her old friends, and I would find peace as well. I would get back to being myself, to my own age, and would tell my children across the ocean that I was still alive at this end of the world. And maybe, when everything settled down and I felt the time had come, I would return to the forest that forgets nothing but causes men to forget, and I would know, once again, that dreaming is being.