The Canopy
Page 13
“You speak as if these natural forces have personalities.”
“They do, Doctor.” A bit of a blush rose to the older woman’s cheeks. “Trust me.”
“What about you, Dr. Kenway?” When Alexandra looked at him, he was surprised to see a smile twinkling in her eyes. “Do you believe in spirits?”
“Of course I do.” He returned her smile in full measure. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, part of the triune God. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—Jesus the Son, God the Father, the Holy Spirit? I hear they’re very big in the United States.”
An easy smile played at the corners of her mouth as she lifted her glass. “Indeed, they are—at least on those TV channels that play bighaired, hellfire-and-brimstone Bible-thumpers all day long.”
Michael watched the muscles work in her long, slender throat as she brought the lemonade to her lips and swallowed. “What about you?” he asked when she had lowered her glass. “Are you a believer?”
She chuckled softly. “In hellfire and brimstone?”
“In God.”
“I do love the way you Brits say that—Gah-awed, as if he deserves his own pronunciation. Sounds more holy that way, I suppose.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Didn’t I?” She cast him a glinting glance, then picked up her fork and poked at the uneaten catfish. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, Dr. Kenway. I’m an agnostic on the verge of becoming an avowed atheist. Only a reasoned dose of humility keeps me from making a full declaration.”
Folding his hands, he turned in his chair. “Was that so hard to confess?”
“It wasn’t a confession; it was a simple statement of fact. If I seemed reluctant to share it, it’s not because I’m ashamed. It’s because now you’ll feel you have to convert me.”
“I can’t convert anyone. I leave that sort of business to the Spirit— the one you dismiss so lightly.”
“Sorry.” She pressed her fingertips to her chest in a display of pretended modesty. “It’s not easy, particularly in the Bible Belt, but someone has to represent logic and reason.”
He lifted his glass, silently absorbing her comments, then tilted his head and addressed everyone at the table. “Did any of you study the Elizabethan period at university?”
Olsson grunted; Emma shook her head and smiled, obviously entertained by the ongoing debate.
Alexandra responded to his question by making a face. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the Elizabethans had a soundly Christocentric view of the planet. They believed that through God’s revelation to Adam, human beings once understood everything about the natural world. This knowledge was lost in the intervening centuries due to the corruption of sin, but the Elizabethans believed it could be recovered as people listened to God and the Almighty revealed new fields to be researched.”
“God and research.” Emma smiled at Olsson. “Not often do we hear those words linked together.”
Michael ignored her comment. “In keeping with this philosophy,” he continued, “the Elizabethan explorers believed that since God knew sin would corrupt the planet, within nature he planted cures for every disease that would befall mankind.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” Alexandra answered, “almost comforting. But weren’t your Elizabethans the same people who believed the earth was flat?”
Michael smiled. “You’re thinking fifteenth century. The Elizabethans lived in the sixteenth.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. But while you were learning about your Elizabethans, we were studying Benjamin Franklin—you know, the American patriot who once said, ‘He that lives upon hope will die fasting.’”
“And your point is?”
“Your Elizabethans died without finding every cure, didn’t they? And as I recall, some of their so-called cures were fairly horrific. Bloodletting, for instance.”
Resting one arm on the table, Michael bit back his rising frustration. “My point is this: The explorers of that age believed God loved the world so much that he provided remedies for sin, for loneliness, and for disease. Christ came to save the world from sin and restore mankind to fellowship with God, but to believers fell the task of thoroughly exploring the earth to find the cures for disease. That shared conviction fueled one of the greatest periods of discovery the world has ever known.”
“How convenient.” Emma’s voice went dry. “They should have concentrated on discovering free love, painkillers, and hallucinogens— they would have solved the problems of disease and loneliness without getting into a lot of God-talk about salvation and sin.”
“My point—” Michael repeated, but Olsson cut him off.
“You are trying to tell us that a cure for brain diseases might lie in the jungle. Fine. We are searching for it.”
“But if a hidden tribe already knows of the cure?”
“How do you know they know?” Emma’s bright blue eyes sharpened. “You cannot mount an entire expedition upon the word of one muttering Indian.”
Looking around the table, Michael forced himself to speak in a calm and even tone. “I know Ya-ree came into the hospital suffering from sepsis, fever, and massive dehydration. Eyewitnesses saw him walk out of the jungle. Later I heard him speak to our clerk, and she found him coherent. Furthermore—” fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out one of the photos taken by the electron microscope—“I know my patient’s brain looked like this.”
He flipped the photo toward Alexandra, whose smile froze as she picked up the black-and-white image. Olsson and Emma continued to jibe in lowered tones until Alexandra looked at Michael, hope and confusion warring in her eyes.
“We could save ourselves years of searching for the needle in the haystack,” she said, tapping the edge of the Polaroid against the table.
Michael sat back as the woman dropped her defenses. Judging from her manner, he had assumed Alexandra Pace was as stubborn as Pharaoh’s heart, but apparently she wasn’t totally unyielding.
“I don’t know about you all,” she turned her smile upon the others, “but I don’t want to waste a single moment looking at monkeys through binoculars if I could be investigating something with real promise.”
Emma’s jaw went slack.
Alexandra tapped the photo with her index finger. “Make no mistake, this is spongiform tissue, and those rods are infectious proteins. The odds of finding a case like this are astronomical, but if Kenway is right—” Her eyes suddenly swiveled to meet Michael’s. “You’re sure about all this?”
He met her gaze head-on. “I was with the man who took that photo this afternoon. And I hand-carried the slides from the autopsy room to the university in Lima.”
“And you’d swear this man was ambulatory when he came out of the jungle?”
Michael considered. “My witnesses had no reason to lie.”
“Then, friends,” Alexandra looked at the others, “I think we should investigate further.”
“I don’t suppose I should discount the opportunity to discover a lost tribe.” Emma’s spidery hand drummed the tabletop. “There are few uncontacted tribes remaining in Amazonia, and none I know of in Peru. If they exist . . . well, why not? I suppose I should welcome the opportunity to search for them.”
Michael studied the expressions of those around the table, then settled on Alexandra’s face. “I came here,” he said, “because I believe my patient spoke the truth. Even if I’m wrong, can we afford to ignore the possibility that I might be right? Research is about testing theories and taking risks.”
“You say we.” Alexandra’s voice went as cool as the smoke off dry ice. “Yet you are not a researcher.”
“I’m interested in prion diseases.”
“Why? Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies are not widespread in this part of the world. Every expert I know in the field of prion research would say your patient was an anomaly, the one-in-amillion case of sporadic Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
Michael felt memories stirring at the center
of his gut, but fought them down. “TSEs caused a stir in London in the mid-1990s. I was caught up in . . . everything.” He cleared his throat to push past the lump that rose whenever he thought of that troubled time. “I’ve seen what damage variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease can do. I’d give my life to find a cure, even an effective treatment. If we could find something to stop prions from wreaking havoc in the brain, these patients would not have to die.”
Alexandra’s eyes seemed to weigh his sincerity and his motives, then she placed her hand on her daughter’s head in a protective gesture. Lifting a brow, she flashed a smile around the table. “What do you say, friends? Should we move our fieldwork into the jungle?”
Emma leaned forward, her hands pressed together. “I’d love to.” She tilted her head toward the next table. “But Kenneth Carlton’s paying the bills.”
She had no sooner spoken the pharmaceutical manufacturer’s name than the American rose from his place at the next table.
“Count me in!” he called, walking to the empty space between Michael and Olsson. He dropped his arms to the backs of their chairs, then leaned into the gap like a coach intent on calling the next play. “We could send for a few additional team members and mount an expedition within a week. Any of you who want to come along would be welcome.”
Alexandra gave the man a smooth smile. “I didn’t realize you were listening, Mr. Carlton.”
“Hard to ignore such a spirited conversation.” Utterly unembarrassed by his eavesdropping, the man straightened and propped his hands on his hips. “My dinner companions were talking about dull topics like fishing and trading. But this—” He lifted a brow at Alexandra. “Horizon Biotherapies will finance the entire expedition. Give me three or four days to augment our team, then we’ll set out to search for this mysterious tribe. Given the relatively small search area, how could we miss them?”
Michael parked his elbow on the table. “It may not be such a small search area. We don’t know how far my patient had traveled before he was wounded.”
Olsson looked up at Carlton. “Still . . . a wounded man could only run so far in twenty-four hours. We could probably do a thorough canvass of the area in a couple of weeks. A native tracker could help us find the tribe in even less time.”
Emma snapped her fingers. “Sign me up. My work with the Yagua can wait.”
Olsson hesitated, scratching at his beard, but the anthropologist placed her hand on his shoulder and spoke in a stage whisper. “The Tree People. Perhaps an undiscovered botanical species with unexplored medicinal benefits.”
Olsson jerked his head in a nod. “All right. I am in.”
Michael lifted his head to catch Carlton’s eye. “I’d like to go along. If they survived years without me at the hospital, I’m certain they can cope if I’m gone a few days.”
“That seems only fair, since you brought us this momentous news.” Carlton looked at Alexandra, who had slipped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Will your daughter be joining us, Alex?”
“Mom?” The girl, who had been following the conversation with wide eyes, clasped her hands in a begging posture. “Please, can I go? It’ll be so much fun.”
Alexandra cast Carlton a “gee, thanks” look, then gave her daughter a rueful smile. “I don’t know if you should go, hon. It’s the jungle.”
“This is the jungle!” Caitlyn waved her hand to indicate their surroundings. “Besides, how can I get into trouble if you’re with me all day? I’d be safer in the jungle with you than hanging out here at the lodge with the Somerville sisters.”
Alexandra did not look convinced, but her gaze shifted to the empty table where two tired-looking Americans had eaten dinner and slipped away.
“While Caitlyn would undoubtedly enjoy a trip through the jungle—” Alexandra met Michael’s eye—“how can we guarantee her safety? After all, your patient suffered a spear wound.”
“I’ll bring in a security team,” Carlton promised. “I know an ex–Navy SEAL who lives for this kind of gig. I’ll have him on the next plane to Lima, but I need you, Alex, to give me 110 percent on this one. If that means we bring your kid along so you can keep an eye on her, then that’s okay. Let her come.”
For an instant Alexandra seemed to waver, then she gave Carlton a nod of assent. “All right. But we have to keep a reasonable pace. Caitlyn’s strong, but I’m not going to risk her breaking a leg on some kind of jungle obstacle course.”
“I’ll tell the military warrior to go easy on us. You’ll be safe—you have my word on it.” Grinning, Kenneth Carlton went back to his table to share the news.
As the others at his table buzzed with the news, Michael noticed that Alexandra said nothing, but stared at her untouched dinner, her face a pale knot of apprehension. Her eyes flickered toward him. “What have I done?” she whispered.
“You have taken a step of faith.” He lowered his voice to match her tone. “Congratulations.”
“I’m trusting you.” She pronounced the personal pronoun as if it were distasteful. “I can’t believe I’m about to take my daughter into the jungle because you think I should.”
“It’s not me you’re trusting.” Michael set his fork on the edge of his plate. “The photo convinced you, I think.”
“It’s crazy.”
“It’s probably the sanest decision you’ve ever made. You heard the facts and responded to them with logic and common sense.”
One of the servers paused at Alexandra’s elbow, his arm extended for her plate, but Michael put out a hand to stop him from taking it.
“You’d better eat.” He turned to face her. “You’ll need your strength in the jungle.”
She looked at him, the corners of her mouth tight with distress and her eyes slightly shiny. He expected another sharp retort, but her reply startled him more than any comment he might have imagined.
“You may be right,” she said, picking up her fork.
3 APRIL 2003
11:52 P.M.
ALMOST MIDNIGHT, AND THE SANDMAN AND I ARE NOT on speaking terms. Caitlyn sleeps with her favorite stuffed monkey across the room: I can hear the reassuring slow sounds of her breathing even through the insect chatter that pours through our screen walls. Today I nearly convinced myself that my insomnia stemmed from my excitement over the upcoming excursion into the jungle . . . but I am no longer a child. It has been years since excitement kept me awake.
Still, I can’t help but wonder how much of my insomnia is the result of my illness and how much may have been exacerbated by my knowledge of the disease. If I did not know about the symptom, if I did not recognize and prepare for it by supplying my bed with notebooks, flashlight, and other quiet entertainments, would I sleep easier? Or would I drive myself crazy with frustration and fear?
Impossible to tell—one of those “if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?” types of questions.
(I can attest to the fact that a tree falling in the rainforest does in fact make quite a loud sound. Last night Caitlyn was awakened by what I thought was some sort of fireworks celebration—a long series of loud popping noises, rustling, then a tremendous crashing finale. I soothed Caitlyn and she went back to sleep; this morning Lazaro told us that a tree had fallen in the night. The popping sounds were snapping roots and vines that had staked their lives on the stability of the tree. Now the lodge staff will use the carcass—already Lazaro has planned to make two canoes from the mighty trunk. I hope I am as useful when I can no longer stand upright.)
Perhaps it is fear that hammers at my subconscious and keeps me awake. Perhaps it is complete exhaustion. My teammates have all gone to bed. Wiped out from the heat and a full day of canopy work, they have been silent and in their darkened bungalows for hours. I’m sure they think I am asleep, too, though this morning Deborah Simons did ask if my mattress was uncomfortable. Apparently I have dark circles under my eyes. I haven’t really taken the time to look, and that small mirror in the bathroom does not tempt me to linger. . .
My mother used to tell me to read the Bible when I couldn’t sleep. While I wouldn’t mind reading a Bible now—for completely different reasons than the ones she had in mind—I doubt there is a copy to be found in the lodge, unless Deborah Simons has packed one in her luggage. The lodge library, composed exclusively of books left behind by previous tourists—is heavy on Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Nora Roberts. Not a volume of Holy Writ to be found.
Nothing dull enough to lull me to sleep except my own journal, which serves at least to stand in the place of dreams. Here I can sort through the day’s events, record random thoughts, and—though I hate to admit it—record the progress of my deteriorating condition. If Life plays a winning hand before I hit my lucky streak, this journal may serve as the definitive record for another researcher.
Perhaps even my daughter.
Because if I am not successful, I do not doubt that she will be following my example, studying my journals, peering into every microscope until she finds the answer. If she does read this, I want her to know that I am allowing her to go with us into the jungle for only one reason—the simple need to cherish each remaining moment I have with her. When life has a foreseeable limit, every day becomes priceless.
One thought, oddly enough, comforts me. Dr. Michael Kenway, who dropped in on us yesterday, implied that he believed creation holds the answer to every disease on the planet—the almighty God apparently gave us the task of finding the cure and placing the proper key in the appropriate lock. In the same vein, Baklanov says that each bacterium requires a perfect match with the proper virus before it can be defeated. There are patterns in nature, designs I have not considered . . . but I find my mind opening to them now.
If there is a cure for encephalopathies in the jungle, I will either find it or go to my grave searching.