The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  At times like this I am tempted to pray—driven to pray, actually— but since I have disavowed the God worshiped by most of the civilized world, I shall have to invent my own. I believe I will call upon the God of Desperate Women in Tropical Straits: GODWITS, for short.

  I’m a little out of practice with prayer—my mother never insisted on it, even at meals, and I’ve never been a member of an organized church. So here goes my first attempt:

  May you help me, GODWITS, to maintain my sanity and preserve my strength. May you send sleep. And if you cannot do that, direct my steps so we find the cure we seek. May it be genuine, and available, and applicable to my situation.

  For I have never been quite so desperate in my life.

  Well, that’s it. I don’t know what else to do with prayer except offer an animal sacrifice, and it’s too dark and dangerous to venture out in search of a willing creature. Besides, I think GODWITS frowns on such things. Sacrifices are so . . . messy.

  Time to roll over and count . . . caterpillars. Not even my fevered imagination can envision a leaping lamb in this place.

  7 APRIL 2003

  10:45 P.M.

  After relieving himself in the darkness, Michael took two steps toward his hammock, then paused. Chavez dozed in the clearing, his face tinged a faint red by the low fire, but another light flashed across the circle of their camp. For an instant Michael recalled Ya-ree’s words: A light guided me through the forest.

  Hunching forward, he peered past his hammock and realized that the light came from near the women’s hammocks. The glow was too concentrated to be fireflies, and too perfectly round to be a flame . . .

  His stomach tightened as his fist closed around the knife sheathed at his belt. Should he alert Chavez? The weapon in the guard’s hand would be far more effective against an enemy than Michael’s hunting knife, but alerting Chavez might prove suicidal. Michael didn’t know much about guns, but Bancroft had been more than willing to talk about the exceptional firepower of the H&K MP5 snuggled in Chavez’s lap. Michael had come away from the discussion with respect for the gun and the quick reflexes of the men who carried it, even though Chavez now dozed in an upright position.

  Keeping one wary eye on Chavez, whose finger rested entirely too close to the trigger on his weapon, Michael crept through the low underbrush, then halted, feeling suddenly silly.

  The light did not shine near a hammock, but within it. One of the women had turned on her flashlight, but to do what? Read?

  Spurred by curiosity, he moved toward the shining circle. In its reflected glow, he recognized Alexandra Pace, who was concentrating on something in her lap.

  He crept forward until he stood a few paces from her hammock, then quietly asked, “Can’t you sleep?”

  She jumped with such force her hammock shivered. “Kenway?” Her voice sharpened as she shone the blinding light in his eyes. “Good grief, what are you doing out there? You scared me to death.”

  “Take that away, will you?” He waited until she had lowered the flashlight, then glanced toward Chavez, who had not stirred. “And lower your voice. You’ll wake our sleeping sentinel.”

  “Fat chance. He’s bone-tired; we all are.”

  “So why aren’t you asleep?” He glanced at the glowing dial on his watch. “It’s quarter to eleven.”

  She snorted. “That’s early for me. The evening news hasn’t even come on in Atlanta.”

  “But you’re on jungle time now, and the sun’s been down over four hours.” He moved closer to avoid waking the others. “Everyone else is dead to the world.”

  She snapped shut the book in her lap, then stared up at him. “What are you getting at, Doc?”

  “I—I’m not making a point. I merely thought to inquire about your well-being.”

  “I’m perfectly fine, thank you. And quite ready to sleep.” To emphasize her point, she clicked off the flashlight, leaving them in total darkness.

  After a moment, she laughed. “Better give yourself a second to let your eyes adjust before you go stumbling back to your hammock.”

  Michael blinked at the darkness, waiting for vague outlines to reappear. “Thank you, I will.”

  When she spoke again, a note of humor had entered her voice. “What brings you out of your snug little bed at this hour?”

  He grinned, glad she couldn’t see the blush that burned the skin beneath his incoming beard. “When nature calls, you know. . .”

  She laughed, a surprisingly gentle sound in the warm night. “You should have planned ahead. Caitlyn and I made sure we took care of all that before we climbed into our hammocks. Then again, they say girls are easier to potty train than boys. Has your pediatric experience proven that true?”

  “Indubitably.” He stared into the darkness, wishing her face would appear so he could see if she was still teasing. Either this exasperating woman had found yet another way to twist his words into a miniature battle of the sexes, or she was making surprisingly pleasant conversation.

  When she didn’t launch another salvo, he relaxed. He was about to bid her good night and creep across the circle when a sudden thought occurred. “Alexandra?”

  She groaned. “You still there?”

  “You and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to set things to rights if I can. Of all the people on this team, you and I are best suited to work together. I’d like to be your partner, not your adversary, but whenever I approach, you bare your fangs—”

  “My what?”

  “Pardon the unfortunate metaphor. But please.” He lowered his voice. “If I have done something to offend you, tell me now so I can apologize.”

  Her flashlight gleamed and rose to shine in his face. He squinted and looked away, but after a moment she dropped the beam to his chest.

  “You look sincere. A lot more sincere than Carlton.”

  “I am.” He pressed his hands together in a penitent’s posture. “And while I can’t speak for Mr. Carlton’s intentions, I want us to have a go at a partnership. What do you think?”

  In the reflected light he could see her eyes shining like silver, but she did not answer.

  “Was it the way I arrived? I’ve already apologized for the chopper’s blowing your group about—”

  “How like a man! You think the simple act of saying ‘I’m sorry’ will make everything all right?” Turning to face him, she pressed her hands to the mosquito netting like a caged lioness. “Have you considered the possibility that I simply don’t like you?”

  Michael blanched. “I suppose that’s your prerogative. I’m sorry, I never imagined—”

  “The thought never occurred to you, did it? Oh, I know how you doctors are. You think everyone should like you, respect you, admire you. You wear your white coats like you’re some kind of divinity and strut around like you hold the power of life and death in your hands. Well, I’m a doctor, too, Kenway, but I don’t work in a hospital and I don’t treat patients.”

  He lifted his eyes to the dark canopy. “Thank God.”

  “What?”

  He waved as if to ward her away. “Take care, Dr. Pace, I’m sorry to have bothered you. Go back to your reading or writing or whatever you were doing. If you should need me—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Fine, then. Good night.”

  Reeling from the encounter, Michael crossed the circle of darkness, calling out a chipper “Good night” to Chavez, too. The man jerked out of his sleep, clutched his weapon to his chest, then nodded slowly as Michael lifted the netting on his hammock and climbed inside.

  Settling back into the embrace of his bed, he folded his hands under his head and took deep breaths, trying to exhale away the stress of his encounter with Alexandra Pace.

  What on earth had made that woman so hostile? She had confessed to bad experiences with men, yet she didn’t seem to have any problem getting on with Baklanov, Carlton, or Olsson. She seemed quite chummy with nearly everyone on the team, and she really did adore that
little girl.

  So . . . out of all the people in their expedition, why had she focused her hostility on him?

  11 APRIL 2003

  3:49 P.M.

  Here is water.” Signaling a halt, Alejandro Delmar held up one hand and pointed to a flooded area with the other. “We will take a break. Fill your water bottles now.”

  Groaning, Alex swung her backpack to the ground, then extracted the water bottle and filter. She put out a hand, about to rest her weight on a tree, then hastily withdrew her arm when she remembered the threat of ants and other stinging insects.

  She was so tired her nerves throbbed. For five days they had trudged through the alternately rainy or steamy jungle without seeing a single sign of human life. For the first two days Alex had enjoyed talking to her companions—each expert on the team offered a different and interesting perspective on the wonders around them. By the third day, however, her body had grown weary and her tongue heavy. They ate little—mostly fish, monkey, and grubs, supplemented by portions of rice from Chavez’s pack of emergency provisions.

  She did not need a scale to know she was rapidly losing weight— the lightweight slacks she had chosen for the trip now gaped at her waistline, and her pack rubbed against a bone at her hip that had not protruded when they left Yarupapa. Deprivation would affect everyone, but the others were not resisting a debilitating disease.

  She tried to eat as much as possible at every meal, but she couldn’t ask for more without alerting the others to her declining condition. Most of the team members joked about the benefits of eating fish and jungle roots for a few days; Deborah Simons declared she’d come out of the jungle as slender as she’d been when she graduated from college. Duke Bancroft, who had been spending a lot of time with Deborah, kept insisting that he should have been the Navy SEAL represented on the Survivor TV show.

  Alex was beginning to wonder if she’d have the strength to walk out of the jungle under her own power. The first stage of fatal familial insomnia usually lasted about four months, but in her weakened condition, who knew how long she could continue with relatively mild symptoms?

  She let her backpack fall to the ground, then squatted on it, bracing her elbows on her knees. A seam of fatigue opened in her mind as she tried to formulate a prognosis.

  Second-stage FFI, which usually lasted about five months, would add hallucinations and profuse sweating to panic attacks, faltering muscle movements, and increasing insomnia. The third stage, which usually continued for about three months, would bring total insomnia and neuroemaciation, or extreme weight loss. Compounded with the scant diet she’d been eating since their advent into the jungle, she would quickly waste away. The fourth and final stage, which could last as long as six months, would involve a total lack of motor control. Like her mother, she would become mute, she would lapse into a coma, and she would die. If her illness followed the typical course, she’d be dead within eighteen months.

  Unless they found a cure among the members of the healing tribe.

  She pressed the back of her sweaty hand to her forehead, then jumped when Delmar shouted. She looked up to see him kneeling a few feet away by the water’s edge. The others hurried forward; after a long moment, she summoned her energy and rose to join them.

  Delmar had spread the grass from a patch of soft mud firmly stamped with a pair of footprints.

  “Indian tracks,” he said softly, brushing a train of leaf-cutting ants away from the indentation.

  Carlton shouldered his way to the front line of observers. “How can you tell?”

  Tracing the mounded dirt with his fingertip, Delmar pointed to a gap between the first two toes. “There is a space here. This is a man who does not wear shoes.”

  Bancroft pulled the GPS from his belt and squinted at the display. “We’re at 71.8 degrees longitude, 2.5 degrees latitude.” He grinned at Alex. “Getting closer to the Equator all the time.”

  “And closer to Colombia,” Emma Whitmore added. “The border is the river called Putumayo.”

  “This doesn’t look like much of a river.” Bancroft scanned the flooded land around them, then gave the group a sheepish grin. “As if I would know what constitutes a river in these parts.”

  Olsson stepped forward, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “How do we know this footprint belongs to one of our healing Indians? If there’s a possibility this man belongs to some other tribe—”

  “There are no other recorded tribes in this region.” Emma lifted her head to meet Olsson’s gaze. “Is it possible this is a hunter from a recognized tribe? Of course, but it’s highly unlikely. We haven’t seen a man-made trail in days.”

  “I agree.” Delmar stood, one hand stroking his bare chin as he turned and stared into the underbrush. “This is a fresh footprint; the man who made it passed this way less than two hours ago. We will follow his trail, and I must ask you to walk single file behind me. Be quiet as you go, please, lest we frighten the others away.”

  “The others?” Carlton lifted a brow. “How do you know there are others?”

  Delmar’s square jaw tensed. “If there is one, there are others. And they will see us before we see them.”

  Reflexively, Alex turned to look for her daughter. Caitlyn had spent the day walking with Deborah Simons, who had entertained her with stories of insect oddities. Now Simons’s face had gone sober. She caught Alex’s eye and nodded, silently acknowledging the shift in the prevailing mood.

  Moving quickly, Alex knelt to let water flow through the filter into her water bottle, then stood and added a couple of chlorine tablets for good measure. After calling Caitlyn to her side, she positioned her daughter behind her, then hoisted her pack and prepared to face what she hoped would be the last leg of their journey.

  “Will it be long now, Mom?”

  “I hope not, honey.”

  As Delmar led them out, Alex inhaled deep breaths, overcome by a mingling of hope and exhilaration.

  They walked for twenty minutes through an area noisy with squawking parrots, then halted behind Delmar’s uplifted hand. As the group shuffled forward, the guide pointed to a patch of greenery through which Alex could see something black shining in the sun.

  “Water.”

  “Is it the Putumayo?” Carlton asked.

  Delmar shook his head. “I think it is a lake. Our rivers are brown, not black.”

  Alex wasn’t certain why black water had to be a lake, but she slipped an arm around Caitlyn’s shoulder and followed the others as Delmar led them into a clearing. The terrain had changed since they found the footprint, the tall trees giving way to shorter cousins, the empty ground filling with sprawling shrubs and brush. Delmar’s machete flashed rhythmically until the foliage bowed before him.

  Upon reaching the water’s edge, the guide turned to Carlton. “From this place our native launched his canoe and moved out. He was not alone.” The guide pointed to the soft earth, where a series of footprints marked the sand. Alex could also see a smoothed trough that could have been made by the launching of a canoe.

  Stepping into a patch of blazing sunlight, she gaped at an open expanse of black water filled with lily pads as big as beds. Delmar was right; they had reached a lake bordered by land on at least three sides. Directly across from where their group stood, however, a tree-covered knoll rose from the inky waters.

  Emma Whitmore crossed one arm over her chest while her free hand absently plucked at a curl by her ear. “Is that an island?”

  Delmar’s forehead creased. “That would explain many things. These people have remained secluded because they do not live on the river.”

  Whitmore shook her head. “I don’t buy it. They may live on an island, but this lake wouldn’t have stopped them from reaching other tribes. Five days is not so great a distance.”

  Carlton crossed his arms. “I thought all the bodies of water in these parts drained toward the sea.”

  “Not all of them.” Delmar picked up a stick and traced a serpentine path
on the muddy ground. “Each year the rivers in the forest bend on their way to the sea. The water constantly moves against the riverbanks, wearing away the curves and moving soil. Sometimes a sharp turn becomes so narrow the water cuts through the earth and leaves a bend behind. The water that remains in that place becomes a black-water lake. No current moves there, and the land does not dry out like the flooded fields. Strange animals live in black water. Maybe strange people live here, too.”

  Squatting on the shore, Alex rested her chin on her closed hand and hoped the others would mistake her weariness for concentration.

  “What sort of strange animals?” Deborah asked.

  “Hoatzin birds,” Delmar answered. “Electric eels, caimans, and many kinds of fish.”

  “I know about hoatzin birds.” Caitlyn’s voice sang over the adult rumbles like a piccolo in a brass band. “They have claws on their wings, so they can climb back into their nests if they fall into the water.”

  Kenway laughed. “That’s fascinating, Cait.”

  Alex closed her eyes. Did the man genuinely like Caitlyn, or was he merely trying to annoy her mother? For the past five days she and Kenway had managed to avoid confrontation by avoiding each other. Caitlyn, though, had followed the man like a shadow, her stuffed monkey swinging from her arm as she and the doctor chattered almost nonstop.

  “So—how do we cross this lake?” Carlton asked. “Can we build some sort of canoe?”

  Delmar grunted. “One canoe takes one week to build. Two canoes take two weeks. We would need two canoes.”

  Bancroft stepped forward, a grin brightening his sweaty face. “I can build a raft out of logs and vines. Easy. If everyone pitches in, we can build two rafts tomorrow and cross to the island tomorrow night.”

  “We cross when the sun is up, not in darkness,” Carlton insisted. “We will need to see what we are approaching. So let’s make camp for now, get some rest, and tackle the project tomorrow.”