by Angela Hunt
Caitlyn waved her hand. “But you said this tribe doesn’t move, on account of the fruit trees.”
“Perhaps.” Emma stared out at the natives, a watchful fixity in her face. “They could move seasonally and return to this spot.”
“I don’t think this group is nomadic.” Brushing sweat-soaked hair from his temples, Michael Kenway entered the conversation. “Did you see the defensive structure outside the shabono? Do you appreciate how thoroughly we were ambushed on the trail? These people know how to defend this location. They have been here a while.”
Emma opened her mouth as if she would object, then shrugged and cupped her chin in her hand. “We’ll see.”
“Look, Mom.” Caitlyn jerked her chin toward a woman who carried food on a wooden platter. “I think it’s dinnertime.”
“Thank GODWITS.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Alex’s stomach growled while the women fed their men and their children, then carried platters of food to the old man who had appeared in the jungle.
Delmar waved in a subtle gesture designed to capture their attention, then inclined his head toward the grizzled fellow. “Their shaman.”
The old man accepted food from the women, uttered a flat phrase that might have indicated anything from gratitude to displeasure, then spread chunks of meat and fruit over several palm leaves. When each woman had brought a portion from her family’s share, the shaman waved his hands over the food, then looked at Delmar and spoke in a voice that crackled with age.
Surprise blossomed on the guide’s face. “It’s for us,” he said, turning to the team members. “He says it’s all for us.”
Alex couldn’t recall when she’d been more grateful to be included in a meal. Drawing Caitlyn with her, she walked to the delicacies spread over the palm leaves, then knelt to gather a handful. Along with bananas and chunks of papaya, she picked up bits of brown meat that looked like tiny crab legs.
She winked at her daughter. “This does not look like an anaconda.”
Delmar did not hesitate to scoop up a handful and drop them into his palm, then he threw a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “If Senorita Simons were here, she’d probably identify this with no trouble. It’s tarantula.”
Caitlyn’s face blanched. “Mom, I don’t think I can—”
“Eat it,” Alex commanded, adopting her own mother’s voice as memories of ancient food arguments floated to the top of her thoughts. Her mother had always insisted she eat lima beans, and Alex decided long ago that no food could possibly be as dreadful as mushy tree frog–colored beans.
“This other dish,” Delmar continued, digging out a handful of soft gray mash from a gourd, “is monkey brain. These chunks are stewed monkey meat, but I don’t think you’ll find it very delicious. Monkeys are very skinny animals—no fat, no flavor.”
Alex gave her daughter a stern look. “Eat a little bit of everything, but don’t touch the brain.”
She had good reasons for her warning, though this was not the time or place to share them. Research had proven that encephalopathies were transmitted more readily when people ate infected brain tissue. Though she’d heard nothing about mad monkeys, one couldn’t be too careful in an area where humans were infected with anything resembling a “shuddering disease.” She’d seen no signs of the disease among the people of Keyba Village, yet Shaman’s Wife had contacted it from something in the area . . .
Without commenting further, Alex returned to her place by the fire and tried to savor the food in her palm. The fruit was delicious and the meat . . . interesting. At home she would have eaten more than this for an appetizer, but no one had taken a generous portion. The shaman, in fact, hadn’t eaten a single bite. The palm leaves before him, once laden with food, were now shiny with fruit juice and nothing else.
Alex froze, her hand halfway to her mouth, when she realized she and her friends had literally stripped his plate. Looking up, she caught Delmar’s eye. “The shaman—will he eat later?”
The guide glanced at the old man. “I doubt it. They seem to have enough for everyone, but not much extra for outsiders.”
As her blood ran thick with guilt, Alex lowered her hand. “He shared with us—should we share with him, or would that be a breech of etiquette?”
“You’ll need every bite to keep up your strength, señora.” A wry glint appeared in the guide’s eyes. “I suggest you save your pity and concentrate on survival. He is an old man, and you are starving.”
While Alex’s conscience wrestled with her raving appetite, Kenway approached the old man, then knelt respectfully and offered the food remaining in his hand—a banana and two long tarantula legs. The old shaman smiled, his face creasing in a toothless grin. Clapping Kenway on the shoulder, he accepted the food and began to eat.
“It’s amazing we got anything at all,” Emma murmured. “The law of the jungle does not usually encourage such generosity.”
“Maybe this tribe has managed to advance beyond the law of the jungle.” Alex looked around the circle. “Think about it—the other tribes know them as healers, and that signifies some sort of advanced learning. Maybe they have found more cures, or discovered some substance that provides nutrition and enables them to do more than live hand to mouth. Perhaps this tribe is an anomaly—when the others stopped learning, something enabled this group to keep adding to their store of knowledge.”
Olsson stopped licking monkey grease from his fingers long enough to gesture at the crude wooden structure around them. “How advanced can they be, Alex? They haven’t even discovered the wheel.”
Spreading her hands in a gesture of appeal, Alex looked to Emma for an answer, but the anthropologist offered only one comment: “Time will tell us.”
17 APRIL 2003
4:35 P.M.
Michael finished his meager meal like the others—with a licking of his fingers and vigorous wiping of his hand upon his trousers. Several of his group stood to wander through the shabono after dinner, and no one made a move to stop them, not even when Bancroft walked to the exit and disappeared.
He frowned, not understanding their position. They were obviously not captives, and they had just been treated as the shaman’s honored guests. Though the Keyba warriors had been quick to attack the natives who guarded them on the journey, they had not made a single threatening gesture toward the new arrivals.
He noticed something else, too—beneath the paint all the men wore, none of them were tattooed. Ya-ree must have been something of an oddity in this place.
Sitting with his legs crossed and his arms folded, Michael watched the natives move through the routine of a dying day. A group of men gathered in an empty space, two of them playing drums while others danced in what must have been entertainment. One man played a reed instrument of some sort, but instead of producing a melody, the horn hooted a single note that served more as rhythmic punctuation than harmony. Mothers jiggled their babies on their knees and watched the cavorting men, their eyes glowing as the drums beat in a steady rhythm and the warriors shuffled in the circle. At one point the shaman pulled on a headdress of feathers and leaves and joined the dancers, but instead of shuffling, he stood with uplifted hands, chanting as he looked toward the sky that had gone pink in the long rays of sunset. A younger man joined him; they clasped arms and danced together in the light of the setting sun.
Emma recognized the significance almost immediately. “His son.” She gestured to the younger man. “The heir apparent, as it were.”
Michael glanced over at Alexandra, who sat a few feet away with her knees hugged to her chest. Her gaunt cheek rested upon a bony kneecap, and she had turned her face toward the fire, which deepened the shadows beneath her eyes.
“Are you all right?” He tossed the question to her in as casual a voice as he could manage.
“Fine.”
“Really?” Leaning back, he reclined on his elbows until his lips were only inches from her ear. “This won’t sound
very gallant, but you’ve been looking a bit knackered.”
The thin line of her mouth clamped tight for a moment, and her thin throat bobbed once as she swallowed. “If that’s Brit-speak for exhausted, well, who among us isn’t?”
“It does mean exhausted, but I really meant to say you look ill.”
Her eyelids came down swiftly. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t think so.” He stared at her, willing her to open her eyes. “I may be a little slow, Alexandra, but I put the pieces together several days ago. I know you have FFI.”
Her lashes flew up; her eyes flashed a warning. “Don’t say a word.”
“I wasn’t planning on broadcasting it. But you’re going to need help getting back to civilization.”
“Maybe I’m n-n-not going back.”
She lifted her head then, peered around the gathering, then dropped her chin to her knees when she spied Caitlyn playing with a little girl in her mother’s lap.
Michael drew a deep breath. “Have you told Caitlyn?”
“I don’t want her to know. I came out here to find an effective treatment. If I don’t find it in time, I’ll—well, maybe I’ll stay and hope some of their good fortune rubs off on me.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I may be. Look at these people—they’re healthy.”
“They may not be infected.”
“Shaman’s Wife is. And if they can help her, they can help me.”
He stared at her, simultaneously alarmed and amazed at the echo of hope in her voice. He had doubted that Shaman’s Wife would live until they reached Keyba Village, yet in her half-hysterical mood Alexandra was almost daring these people to do something for the poor woman. He believed this tribe knew how to halt the shuddering disease, but nothing short of a blooming miracle would restore health to the fragile native.
He looked up as Delmar insinuated himself into the space between Alexandra and the fire.
“Delmar,” he said, knowing Alex would be grateful for the change of subject. “We need to ask the shaman about our patient. She’ll not live more than a day or two, but perhaps he can show us some way to make her life easier? One of the women attempted to feed her, but I’d be surprised if she ingested more than a tablespoon of mashed banana. She will soon be completely unable to swallow.”
Watching the warriors, Delmar nodded. “When the dance is done, I’ll speak to him. It is time we talked to him about why we have come.”
Finally, the dance slowed. As it did, Michael noticed that none of the dancers had snorted any sort of hallucinogens during the ritual. Parents for a Drug-Free America could endorse this group. If not for the dancers’ nudity, this performance would have been rated G.
When the warriors had dispersed, Delmar gestured to the shaman. The old man approached slowly, a pleasant smile on his face, then sank to the ground before Michael and Delmar. After giving Michael a look of frank curiosity, he turned his attention to the translator.
Gesturing broadly, Delmar spoke, then pointed to the sick woman on the travois. The old man listened, hesitated a moment as if to be sure Delmar had finished, then answered in the same rough language the guide had used.
When he had finished listening, the guide turned to Michael. “I told him we brought the woman to this place for healing while the Angry People hold one of our tribe for exchange. He understands this, but I’m not sure I understand his response. The language is like the Angry People’s, a blend of other tribal tongues, but he uses words I’ve never heard before.”
Interrupting, the shaman pressed his hand to Delmar’s arm and began to speak again. Michael recognized the tone—his coworkers in Iquitos spoke Spanish to him in exactly the same way, as if they were talking to a slow-witted child.
“He says,” Delmar translated, keeping one eye on the shaman as he spoke, “that the spirit of sickness lives in everyone from birth, and everyone knows this. It lives in the Angry People, and it lives in this people, too. Those who do not approach—I think that’s the word, but I can’t be sure—the keyba will sicken and die with the shuddering disease.”
The shaman continued, the guttural words pouring out of him as he pointed around the shabono, then he lifted his hands and looked up as if he were describing some wondrous sight.
“Even their children,” Delmar translated, “are taught about the disease that lives within them and the importance of approaching the keyba. So from an early age parents train their children to be strong, they teach them how to walk the keyba.”
“Walk?” Alex interrupted. “Are you sure that’s the right word?”
Delmar asked the shaman a question; the old man grinned as he responded.
“Yes, like a monkey in a tree,” Delmar answered. “The children must know how to walk the keyba. And when they are old enough to act for themselves, they approach the keyba, and there they are healed forever.”
Something about the word forever rankled Michael’s nerves. This mysterious ritual might have something to do with halting the destructive activity of prions, but these people were far from indestructible.
Alexandra looked at the shaman with skeptical eyes. “Does this keyba heal only children?”
Delmar repeated the question; the shaman shook his head.
“Adults, too,” Delmar explained. “Any woman or man who is willing to approach the keyba will be cured.”
Alexandra crooked her finger at Michael, then filled his ear with an angry whisper. “There’s no proof of anything here, Kenway. If they cure healthy children, how do we know they were sick in the first place?”
“He said they cure adults, too.”
“Adults who can walk the keyba. That doesn’t sound like they’re curing anyone who is seriously sick.”
He shook his head in exasperation. “A while ago you were ready to stay here forever.”
“That’s before I knew they were curing people who probably aren’t even sick.”
“Ya-ree was sick. You saw the photo—”
“Your patient might have come here in the early stages and left while he was still ambulatory. This keyba treatment might not have helped him at all.”
Leaning back, he considered her words. She had a point—they had no proof that anyone of this village had ever been infected with a prion disease. As far as he could see, Shaman’s Wife and Alexandra were the only sick people within miles of this place.
Alex would require more than hearsay evidence to be convinced these people could help her.
He gestured to Delmar. “Does the shaman know Ya-ree?”
The shaman flinched at the question, and Delmar threw Michael a warning glance. “It is taboo to speak another man’s name, especially if he is dead.”
“Sorry—I keep forgetting about that. So ask him—” Michael hesitated, carefully choosing his words—“if he knows the man with many tattoos—the man who is not here now but once was. Tell him we have come because that man told us about this place.”
Delmar translated; the old man’s face spread into a wide grin. He clapped his hands as he answered.
Staring into the fire, Delmar translated. “He says the Great Spirit of the keyba told the tattooed man to go to the shabono of the nabas. He suspected that is why we have come.” Scratching his head, the guide gave Michael a dubious smile. “It’s as if we were expected.”
“I don’t get it.” Alexandra crossed her arms. “Is this keyba their god? Is he a spirit or a totem somewhere out in the jungle?”
Delmar asked the question in a respectful voice, and the shaman looked directly into Alex’s eyes as he replied.
“He says,” Delmar translated, shifting his weight as the shaman stood, “that if you are not too tired, he will take you to see the keyba. But we must go now, or it will be too dark for us to venture out.”
“So it’s a tangible thing.” Emma, who’d obviously been listening from where she lay by the fire, sat up and brushed sand from her sleeves. “These people are so different from the other tribes. Mos
t indigenous groups in this region are pantheistic; they worship spirits of the trees and animals, but these people—”
“Are genuinely unique—and probably not nomadic.” Michael grinned as he stood, savoring this small victory. “Whatever this keyba is, it must be terribly large in order to inspire such awe. So this group remains in one place in order to worship it.”
Emma pushed her lower lip forward in thought. “I suppose stability could account for their quality of life, but only to a degree.”
“I didn’t see anything that looked like an idol when we came in.” Alexandra reached out, silently asking for Michael’s help as she struggled to stand. “No totems, statues, or rock formations.”
Michael bent as he offered his hand, shielding her from Emma’s view.
Apparently oblivious to everything but her own thoughts, the anthropologist stared past the opening of the shabono. “It may be located in a sacred grotto. You wouldn’t want to lose your god if an enemy tribe came raiding, so you would hide him in a sacred place. You’d want him close, but not too close.”
The shaman took two steps, then turned, a watchful expression on his face.
“He’s waiting,” Delmar said, leading the way.
With Alexandra clinging to his arm, Michael nodded. “We’re coming.”
As Alex, Emma, and Michael moved through the shabono, Caitlyn, Baklanov, and Olsson rose and joined them.
Michael ducked to clear the low entryway. After passing through the long tunnel—the alana, the shaman called it—they stepped out into the field they had crossed after leaving the jungle.
Michael moved carefully through the fruit trees, conscious of Alex’s faltering steps at his right side. To any observer they must have looked like two friends walking arm in arm; only he and Alexandra realized how completely she clung to his arm.
“Are you all right?” He kept his voice low so Caitlyn wouldn’t hear. The girl moved ahead of them, running through the waist-high grass with a stick, beating out the flying insects that had settled in for the night. “Perhaps you should stay behind and rest.”