The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  “Let him paint you,” the guide called, his voice firm and final. “Without paint, in their eyes you are shamefully naked.” His voice lowered to a somber tone. “We are about to partake in some sort of ceremony. If you are not painted, you will be cast out of the shabono in disgrace. I think you know what can happen to outcasts.”

  Sighing in resignation, Olsson sat motionless as the shaman dabbed white streaks on his forehead. At the other side of the circle, the old woman dipped her fingers in a clay bowl and streaked the women’s faces with blue mud.

  The women, Michael noticed, seemed to be coping well with the strain. Emma watched the proceedings with the frank curiosity of a scientist at home in her field. Deborah wore an expression of bewilderment, but her hands did not shake and her voice did not tremble. Worry had etched fine lines between Alexandra’s brows, and though Caitlyn squeaked when the old woman’s fingers smeared paint over her cheeks, the girl did not cry out.

  Michael closed his eyes when the paint pot approached. Though everything in him wanted to stand and beat a path back to civilization, he could do nothing but wait.

  Looking up, he stared into the eyes of the old shaman and felt a shock of recognition—the man’s eyes were hazel, as Ya-ree’s had been. Another link.

  The drums continued throughout the painting ritual. When the old man and woman had finished, the painted man handed his gourd to a child, then began to dance around the fire. The others joined in, following his example as he whirled and stomped and jerked to the pervasive rhythm of the drums.

  As the men lost themselves in the dance, Bancroft leaned toward Michael. “Whaddaya say, Doc? You think those vines on your wrists are loosening?”

  Michael flexed his arms, then winced as the stinging vine attacked his skin. “Sorry. The devilish thing is as nasty as ever.”

  “All right, then.” Bancroft lowered his chin, his eyes following the dancing shaman. “We could still try to take some of them out. If I made like a human battering ram, I could probably lay the old guy flat and take out a couple of others. One of the women could untie your arms in the confusion, and—”

  “Forget it.” Delmar gave the chiseled guard a narrowed glinting glance. “You will make things worse. Wait and see what the shaman wants of us.”

  “You’re a fool, Bancroft.” This blunt observation came from Emma, who stopped smiling gamely at the dancers long enough to shoot daggers at the guard. “We came here in search of Kenway’s tattooed patient’s tribe. Look around—we have found it! Sometimes things don’t go the way we planned once we enter the field.”

  Bancroft began to sputter. “You think this is a simple change of plans? Carlton is dead, lady! Lauren is dead! We’ve lost Chavez and probably Fortier—”

  “Hush!” Alexandra leaned forward, her eyes blazing. “May I remind you there’s a child present?”

  Bancroft cursed, then scrubbed his hand through his hair and muttered under his breath. Michael had to admit Delmar and Emma had a point. Though waiting undoubtedly went against Bancroft’s gung-ho nature, they were not being tortured or otherwise mistreated. But it would be wise to remember that these natives had no compunctions against killing.

  “Dr. Kenway?”

  He looked down to see Caitlyn looking at him, her brown eyes wide. The enthusiasm she had exhibited earlier had disappeared.

  “Are you okay, Cait?”

  She nodded, then lowered her voice to a ragged whisper. “Do you think they’re going to eat us?”

  Michael forced a laugh. “I certainly hope not. I don’t think a group as cheeky as this lot would be very digestible.”

  Her eyes widened farther, then a slow smile lit her face. “You’re funny, Dr. Kenway.”

  “Hmm.” Michael shifted his gaze back to the twirling medicine man. “Your mother wouldn’t think so. She thinks I’m a little mad.”

  The girl leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. “She thinks that about nearly everybody.”

  They fell silent as the day brightened. Shadows that had lingered in the western compartments of the shabono fled away as sunlight came pouring over the rim of the truncated roof. The drums raced, sending the dancers spiraling in faster, tighter steps, then the shaman dropped to the sand and knelt there, his chest heaving in exertion.

  The other dancers quieted, the women and children crept closer. The drums continued, but in a softer, slower beat. Michael found himself holding his breath, anticipating whatever significant moment had to follow.

  The painted shaman, who had appeared utterly spent only a moment before, rose to stand at the edge of the fire. From the sand he picked up a branch, then held it out and walked before their group like a salesman displaying his wares.

  Michael could see that an iridescent green powder filled a bowl at the end of the stick. Comprehension seeped through his confusion— this was no ordinary branch. The shaman held a pipe.

  With great flair, the shaman inserted the hollow end of the pipe into his nostril, then closed his eyes as another warrior covered the bowl with his mouth, then blew the powder through the pipe with one powerful breath. The shaman stiffened, his face contorting into a painful grimace, and for a horrified moment Michael feared the man had overdosed on whatever substance filled the bowl. Then the native staggered two steps forward and sank to the earth, staring into nothingness.

  “Delmar,” Michael whispered as loudly as he dared, “care to explain any of this?”

  “It is a trance,” Delmar explained. “He has taken the ebene and called upon the spirit of his animal. Now he is roaming through the jungle, seeing everything the animal sees.”

  Bancroft snorted. “Hogwash.”

  “No, no, there is great truth in the traditions of spiritualism.” Emma leaned into the conversation. “There are forces in the world far older than human civilization. What you are seeing is a practice reaching back to the beginning of human history.”

  “It’s evil.” Michael hadn’t meant to speak so abruptly, but the words slipped from his lips. He glanced over to see Alexandra gaping at him—whatever for? Couldn’t a man be politically incorrect when life and limb were at stake?

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinions to yourself,” she hissed, glancing warily at the warriors who seemed to have forgotten their captives. “I think we’re supposed to watch this—maybe even appreciate it.”

  “I’ll never be able to appreciate what I’m seeing now.” Steeling himself to her disapproval, Michael looked around the circle. “The world is full of spirits, good and evil, but you cannot acknowledge them without also acknowledging God, who is above all. Spirits either serve God, who is good, or Satan, who is evil. By binding these people to drugs and evil spirits, Satan has endeavored to be sure they will never know the truth.”

  “Do you mind?” Alexandra’s weary voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’re teaching a Sunday school lesson while Delmar is trying to prevent us from becoming hors d’oeuvres.”

  Emma pushed pearly beads of perspiration into the fringe of white hair on her forehead. “Dr. Kenway, I suggest you open your mind to reality. The mind-set you’re exhibiting has caused the annihilation of countless tribal groups.” A strong note of reproof underlined her voice. “When missionaries enter a village, they usually insist the people wear their clothing, worship their God, live according to their standards. Because they bring valuable tools and medicines, they are welcomed. But they also bring diseases for which the natives have no natural immunity. I happen to think that religion as you describe it is another ailment for which the natives have little resistance—and it destroys native life even more completely than disease.”

  Shifting her eyes from the transfixed shaman, Emma turned the full heat of her glare on Michael. “Where is your good and loving God when tragedy strikes through the actions of Christian missionaries? Don’t you find it ironic that the same religion you claim offers eternal life all too often brings death to these villages?”

  Michael opened his mouth to reply,
but the shaman, who had not stirred since kneeling in his trance, suddenly began to move in twitchy, epileptic jerks. Michael tensed, convinced the man needed medical attention, but when the pace of the drums picked up, the shaman responded in tempo. As the beat increased, the medicine man stood and danced, shuddering and twitching in an invisible world that reeked of demonic influence.

  The old man swirled, jerking like a marionette on a string before Alexandra, then he bent at the waist and pitched forward, landing on his hands with his face only inches from Michael’s. The man’s eyes filled Michael’s vision, his pupils dilated and skin flushed, then he opened his mouth in a scream so piercing Michael had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears. A torrent of words followed the scream, a fluid language completely unlike the guttural tongue the natives had spoken before. For a moment Michael wondered if he had descended into some sort of private hell, then the shaman’s outburst ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The drums stopped. A churchlike stillness reigned over the shabono, with nothing but the morning cacophony of jungle birds to disturb it.

  Michael glanced around, hoping to spy something that might help him make sense of the situation. Delmar provided the answer.

  “He says,” the guide whispered, his voice flat and faint, “that his wife is sick and you bewitched her.”

  Michael felt his jaw drop. “Tell him I did nothing of the sort. I am a doctor. I try to make people well.”

  Delmar lifted his head, about to translate, but the shaman danced away, screaming new words in a steady stream. The drums began to pound again, other warriors joined in the shaman’s warbling and even the women wailed, their voices lifting to—what? The noise went on and on, lancing the silence, piercing the shabono and the jungle so that even the parrots in nearby trees took flight. The noise built to a deafening crescendo, then abruptly ceased as the shaman crumpled to the ground at Michael’s feet.

  Again, the drums stopped. Thick silence fell over the roundhouse; not even the babies cried.

  After a long moment, the shaman lifted his head and turned to meet Delmar’s gaze. The old man spoke, the sounds guttural and incomprehensible, yet Delmar replied, nodding occasionally to emphasize his halting words. On several occasions the two men seemed to shout at one another, and twice Michael thought he recognized the name Ya-ree.

  Finally the shaman tilted back his head, stood, and walked toward an alcove built into the side of the roundhouse. The others watched him go, then the assembly broke up. The women returned to their work and their children; the men sharpened their spears and chipped stone to make spearheads.

  Michael stared at the stone in one man’s hand. Another proof! A stone spear had wounded Ya-ree, and those weapons did not exist in the jungle near Iquitos.

  Behind Michael, Bancroft leaned toward Delmar. “Were you able to communicate with the old man?”

  Delmar snorted softly. “We were both speaking baby talk, but yes, I think we understood each other.”

  “Then what in the world is he doing with us? And when is he going to cut these cursed vines from our arms?”

  Delmar lifted his gaze to meet Michael’s. “He asked your purpose in coming here. They do not often see white men—I don’t think this generation has seen any.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said we came in peace, but we sought a tribe of healers. He cursed the name of the healers, he said his people ate the souls of the healers’ children. But when he asked how we knew about the healing tribe, I told him about the man you treated in the hospital. He knew him; Kenway’s patient was an outcast from this tribe. He then asked why we needed healers if we had a healer among us; I said you cured some diseases, the jungle cured others. We came in search of jungle medicine.”

  The guide’s face clouded as he glanced toward the area where the shaman had retreated. “He knows of the healers—he says they are the people of the keyba.”

  Michael glanced at Alexandra, eager for her to hear this confirmation of his story. “That’s right. My patient spoke of the keyba.”

  Delmar did not seem to share his enthusiasm. “This shaman will let us go to them only if we take his sick wife with us.”

  Michael glanced toward the compartment into which the shaman had disappeared. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  “He said she has been taken by shuddering disease. It is widespread among their people.”

  Michael met Alexandra’s eye. This might be a prion case . . . or it might not. But Ya-ree’s “shuddering disease” had definitely involved prions as an infective agent.

  “Why doesn’t he take his wife to the healing tribe?” Alexandra asked. “He might discover a cure for his entire village.”

  “The old man would not admit it,” Delmar answered, “but I suspect he is too proud to beg the healers for help.”

  “He loves his wife.” Michael searched Alexandra’s face, wishing he could reach into her thoughts. “The power of love leads people to do unusual things.”

  He waited, looking for some softening of her eyes or mouth, but she remained focused on the matter at hand.

  “There are others with the same illness,” she whispered, lifting her hand to discreetly point into the crowd of natives. “See that man with the herky-jerky gait? And the woman sitting near the entrance—some sort of palsy is affecting her arms.”

  Michael studied the villagers in question, then nodded, silently agreeing with her tentative diagnosis. “Impossible to know for sure, but if the shaman’s wife is infected, others could be.”

  “The shaman cares most for his woman,” Delmar continued. “If the people of the keyba heal her and she returns, they will release—” He glanced around the circle.

  Alexandra reached for her daughter’s hand. “Who?”

  “Whichever one of us stays behind as a hostage.” The guide’s heavily lidded eyes flickered for a moment. “It must be a woman, the shaman says, for if they lose a woman, someone else must take her place.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Bancroft strained at his bonds again, then winced as the vicious fibers stung his skin. Red-faced, he gave Delmar a look of pure menace. “Give me five minutes out of this spiteful string, and I’ll beat the desire to bargain out of all of them.”

  “If we don’t agree,” Delmar’s voice was grave, “they will kill all our men and keep the women.” His mouth curled in a slight smile as he shifted toward Alexandra. “As capable as you ladies are, I do not think any of you could find your way out of the jungle alone. All our equipment is lost, along with our weapons.”

  “I still have a knife.” Michael spoke in a hoarse whisper, almost afraid to reveal the ace in his hand. “It slipped into my pocket, and they must not have seen it in the shadows.”

  Alexandra’s eyes widened as she stared at his belt. “For once, the reverend doctor is making sense.”

  “That’s all we need.” Bancroft jutted his jaw. “Alex can take the knife and quietly cut us loose. We’ll sit still, waiting until they’re distracted—”

  “There are more than fifty men here,” Olsson interrupted. “There are only nine of us. And they have weapons.”

  A swift shadow of anger swept across the burly guard’s face. “They are Stone Age primitives! And they’re only five feet tall!”

  His face brightening, Baklanov entered the argument. “Olsson makes a strong point. They had no trouble bringing us down at the camp, did they? Fighting makes no sense. Even if we broke free, how do we know we will not be speared through the back as we try to find our way out of this place?”

  Bancroft’s nostrils flared. “I am not going to sit here and let a group of pygmies terrorize me!” He looked around the circle. “How many of you agree?”

  Michael watched as Bancroft searched for agreement among the men. Baklanov and Olsson lowered their heads, while Delmar lifted his gaze to the sky, refusing to meet Bancroft’s eye.

  The ex-SEAL licked his lower lip. “So we do n
othing, then. You’d rather sit here and let that pint-sized medicine man tell you what to do—”

  “I’ll stay.” Every eye turned when Deborah spoke. Hugging her knees, she turned her face from the fire. “Stop arguing. There’s no reason for anyone to be hurt. I’ll stay behind.”

  “Forget it.” Bancroft stared at Deborah as if she’d suddenly sprouted another head. “We leave no one behind.”

  Alexandra reached out, placing her hand on the other woman’s arm. “We can’t leave you here.”

  “It’s all right.” Tears filled Deborah’s eyes as she gripped Alex’s hand. “Y’all have other commitments; I have no one waiting at home. What will the world miss if I don’t make it out? A horse-fly head count?”

  “Deborah, no.” Alexandra shook her head. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do. And who knows? Perhaps I can do some good here.”

  Emma scooted closer to the entomologist. “Deborah, you don’t know what you’re saying. These people consider women mere chattel; the men will try to claim you as their personal property as soon as we walk away. I have heard things about the hardships native women face—” She shuddered slightly. “The stories would curl your hair. You simply cannot remain here; it’s too dangerous.”

  Tilting her head back, Deborah blinked up at the open sky. “I’m not afraid. I’m stronger than the native women, and I outweigh most of the men. Besides, I think I have a few tricks up my sleeve—enough to convince them to maintain a respectful distance for a few days.”

  “I do not recommend this.” Delmar shook his head. “I cannot leave a white woman in a native village.”

  “You have no choice.” Deborah’s voice had gone soft. “If we resist them, some of you will die along with these people. I don’t want anyone to die. Besides—” a tentative smile touched her mouth—“y’all are planning to come back, right?”