by Angela Hunt
“I’m tired, that’s all.” A bright flame of defiance lit her eyes. “I’ve come a long way to see this . . . thing.” She lowered her gaze. “But thank you for the help. I knew . . . I knew I could count on you.”
He lowered his gaze, remembering how hostile she had been at their first meeting. He had almost resolved to maintain a safe distance from her, but people weren’t always what they appeared to be in first meetings, were they?
Following the shaman, they strode casually through the field and its clusters of fruit trees. Michael noticed the length of their shadows on the grasses; if they did not soon find this keyba, they’d be moving about in darkness—not a pleasant thought, despite the round moon already shining in the eastern sky.
The shaman stopped and lifted his hands, his head snapping back as he stared upward with rapt attention.
“Keyba,” he said simply. When Michael reached the old man’s side and followed his gaze, the word needed no translation.
The object of the shaman’s veneration was not a stone, an idol, or a totem, but a tree—a gigantic specimen towering above a buttressed trunk that sent thick gray tentacles snaking through the earth at their feet. He had noticed the solitary tree when they approached the village, but after so many days in the jungle, the sight of yet another tall tree had not left much of an impression.
Milos Olsson was the first to speak. “Not keyba,” he said, his eyes traveling up the length of the enormous tree. “The English word is kapok, otherwise known as Ceiba pentandra.”
“In Brazil, we call it sumauma.” A note of wonder filled Delmar’s voice. “We have many such trees, but none like this. Truly, it is the largest I have ever seen.”
“The Yagua call it ceyba.” Emma walked forward, one hand rising to her hip as she looked up. “And it has long been associated with legends.” She shook her head. “I should have known. Shamans have invoked the spirit of the kapok tree for generations. The plant is an important part of indigenous culture, for not only is it used for medicine, but for communication.”
Michael turned to look at the anthropologist. “How so?”
The woman’s face spread into a wry smile. “We call it the jungle telephone. See those roots? They’re hollow, for the most part. And when they are beaten with a club, the sound echoes for miles.”
Delmar grinned. “It is true. When I was younger, I once lost my bearings in the jungle. I found a sumauma tree and called for help— men from a nearby village arrived within the hour.”
Michael laughed softly. At least he now knew why Ya-ree had referred to his tribe as the “Tree People.” They lived in the shadow of this sky-scraping tree.
Alexandra’s hand tightened on Michael’s arm. “But if our theory is true . . . how does this keyba cure people from prion diseases?” She shifted her attention to Delmar. “Will you ask the shaman if his people eat it?”
The interpreter asked; the old man giggled before responding.
“The animals eat the seeds,” Delmar translated, turning back to Alex, “but not the people.”
The shaman repeated a phrase he’d said earlier, beating the air with his hands to emphasize his point.
“He keeps saying they walk the tree,” Delmar said, his tone dry and weary. “They walk the tree to approach the keyba.”
“They climb it?” Alex tipped her head back until her chin jutted toward the darkening sky. “I don’t see how they could.”
“It would seem they do.” Michael gestured toward the west, where the sun was sinking toward a livid purple cloudbank piled deep on the horizon. “If you wish to talk further, I suggest we carry this conversation inside by the fire. In another ten minutes, the mosquitoes will be so numerous we’re likely to be carried away.”
“And other animals,” Caitlyn added in a matter-of-fact voice. “Jaguars are nocturnal, and I think I saw feline tracks in the dirt around the tree—”
“Then by all means, let’s get moving.” Smiling at the girl, Michael extended his hand, then led her and her mother back to safety.
17 APRIL 2003
6:00 P.M.
They did not talk any more that night. Alex had a thousand questions to ask the shaman, but night had settled over the community by the time they reentered the shabono. Mothers rested with their babies; children dozed or snored in their hammocks. Looking at the little ones, Alex felt the pang of nostalgia—as a young mother, twilight had been one of her favorite times of the day. Caitlyn had been an active toddler, and nighttime meant a few moments of quiet with her sleepy child followed by an hour or two of silence when she could collect her thoughts.
She smiled at one young mother, then moved to the spot her group had claimed as its temporary quarters. Someone—probably the women who had remained inside while they trooped out to see the keyba—had deposited several woven hammocks by the fire. She bent and picked one up, then sighed in relief to see that there were more than enough. No sharing beds on this part of the adventure, thank goodness.
“I’m so tired I could sleep on the sand,” Emma murmured, studying the rope at the end of her hammock.
Alex didn’t answer, but followed Baklanov to a pair of poles that looked strong enough to support at least a trio of hammocks. She glanced over her shoulder to check on Caitlyn, but her daughter had already strung her hammock beneath Michael Kenway’s.
Alex lifted a brow, then quickly looked away. She ought not feel so cynical about the doctor—he was, after all, a good man; she’d seen proof of his kindness on several occasions. And if anything happened to her in the jungle, he’d most likely be the one to escort Caitlyn back to civilization.
Feeling hollow, drained, and utterly lifeless, she hung her hammock between the two poles then lowered herself into it. She had hoped to question Olsson about the kapok tree, but her mind had thickened with fatigue and clouded with confusion.
She lifted her head and leaned out of her hammock long enough to be sure Caitlyn was sleeping soundly and safely, then she dropped into the aromatic bed and let her heavy eyelids fall. Hanging one foot over the edge of the hammock, she let its weight act as a pendulum, rocking her like the proverbial baby in the treetop.
Unfortunately, this baby couldn’t go to sleep.
Though her body ached with weariness and her muscles screamed from the strain of the journey, questions haunted her brain, firing a restless cerebrum with adrenaline. She took deep breaths, commanding her body to rest while her neurons fired.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . .”
If the stories she’d heard from Michael and his jungle patient could be trusted, the kapok tree obviously had something to do with the cure for brain diseases. The shaman of the healing tribe had also attested to the story. But how did the curative act? The shaman said they did not eat the seeds, but perhaps they seasoned their food with the bark or some other substance from the tree. Perhaps the cure wasn’t ingested orally, but absorbed through the skin. After all, the shaman had said they walked the tree, and Olsson’s research had proven that canopy leaves were thicker and more potent than those growing in the understory. Plant physiology changed in the awesome heights of the emergent layer, and from what she could tell, the kapok tree was king of the canopy. This specimen stood several meters away from any other sizable tree, but the other kapoks she had observed stretched higher than neighboring trees.
She rolled onto her side and rested her cheek on her hand. The kapok outside this shabono had to be at least as tall as a twenty-story building. The seeds raining from this tree would travel for miles; the wind would take those fluffy balls and fling them far through the jungle.
If that were the case . . . then the seeds must not hold the cure, or other people would have surely discovered it. So the curative agent had to come from the tree itself—this particular tree, which differed from all the others in only one observable aspect—it stood alone.
Perhaps the tree’s solitude had affected it in some way. Other kapoks might not possess the agent for healing brain
diseases because other nearby trees somehow negated it. In one of their talks on the trail, Olsson had mentioned that trees could communicate on some level—certain species seemed to be able to warn each other of an approaching disease so the others could develop resistance. And while trees of differing species fought for every inch of available sunlight in the canopy, crowns of the same tree species at the same height never overlapped each other. Crown shyness, Olsson had called it. Mutual agreement.
But this tree had no companions, no competition. It had grown to a monstrous height and breadth, so perhaps it had managed to manufacture something its kapok cousins lacked.
Then again . . . maybe the answer did not lie in the tree, but in these peculiar people. Emma had already observed how they differed from neighboring tribes. Though they were undoubtedly primitive, their lives possessed a grace and gentility that testified to a more elevated social system. What had her psychology prof always said? Altruism is a virtue only the well-fed can afford.
Perhaps these people had discovered a kapok cure for brain diseases because they had more leisure time in which to experiment. Perhaps their discovery sprang from sheer serendipity, the blind luck of some ancient shaman.
On the other hand . . . perhaps the cure she needed was a microscopic entity that had nothing to do with the kapok. Large trees like this one hosted hundreds of other organisms—epiphytes such as bromeliads and orchids, birds, frogs, sloths, and untold numbers of insects. Perhaps the cure for prion diseases came from one of these parasitic life forms. When diseased natives “walked” the tree, their journey inadvertently brought them into contact with the cure.
The curative agent might be microscopic—a spore, perhaps, inhaled as a person climbed through the canopy. After the exertion of climbing two hundred feet, the climber would be breathing deeply, sucking in oxygen and whatever airborne particles existed in the emergent layer.
When she rolled onto her back, she found that her fragmented thoughts had somehow crystallized. Baklanov could help her find an answer. Perhaps the cure was a bacteriophage they’d discover in standing water within the throats of bromeliads high in the tree. Though he no longer had a microscope, they could take away samples for study in a proper lab.
The challenge would be finding a way to transport the fluids.
Energized by the idea, by the time the sun sent its first rays into the opening at the center of the roundhouse, Alex felt as though she’d swallowed five cups of coffee. As soon as the native women began to stir, she rolled out of her hammock, nearly fell on her unsteady legs, then pulled herself up and leaned into the hammock where Baklanov slept.
She shook his shoulder. “Valerik—you awake?”
The man shuddered slightly, then opened his puffy eyes and blinked. “Alex?”
Giving him a weary smile, she massaged her temple, where a headache had begun to pound. “Can you think of a way we could transport soil and water samples from this place? I was thinking the cure for these prion diseases might be a phage found up in the kapok tree.”
Brushing his shaggy bangs from his forehead, the scientist sat up. “Do you never sleep, Alex? Such a question, at such an hour—”
“It’s important. I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and it makes sense. What’s so different about this tree? People climb it. For whatever reason, people climb it, and they climb it as children. I think that during the climb they might be exposed to something that can arrest the growth of prions and stop the disease in its tracks.”
Rising up on one elbow, Baklanov rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then raked his fingers through his hair. “The liquids might be difficult, especially if we want a pure sample.”
“What if we boil some sand, drain it, then saturate it with water from the kapok tree? We could wrap the soil in boiled palm leaves. If we tied them with twine, we might be able to get them out of here before the leaves begin to decompose.”
A flicker of respect moved in his eyes. “That might work. Bacteria thrive in moist soil. A little manure will encourage growth—”
“I’ll leave you to think on it.” She patted his shoulder and turned to leave, but he caught her by the elbow.
“You don’t look well, Alex.”
She forced a smile. “That’s no way to compliment a woman.”
“You are pale—and thin.”
“So are you, my friend. Now get up and let’s get busy. Today we need to find a way into the top of that tree.”
He grunted as she moved away to wake Caitlyn. Before reaching her daughter, though, she saw Michael Kenway bending over the travois and the still form of their patient.
Prickles of unease nipped at the back of her neck. Had Shaman’s Wife died during the night?
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Michael lift a gourd to the woman’s lips. She was still alive, then. For Deborah Simons’s sake, they needed Shaman’s Wife to survive.
Alex walked to the place where Caitlyn slept, then knelt in the sand. Before waking her daughter, she glanced at the travois and wondered what, if anything, they would be able to do for a woman in the last stages of encephalopathy.
If her theory proved true, an application of the curative agent found in the tree canopy would halt the disease, not restore the patient. Kenway kept insisting that his jungle patient had been completely cured, but she had seen the photograph of Ya-ree’s brain tissue, and no one with that many spongiform areas could be considered healthy. Perhaps the alleged “cure” halted the progress of the man’s disease before he had lost the ability to walk and talk.
Still, for Deborah’s sake, she hoped something could be done for Shaman’s Wife. If they could halt the disease and get the woman to a hospital with access to IV fluids and a feeding tube, the woman might actually live a few more months in relative peace.
Alex looked at her fingers, which struggled these days to fasten the button on her trousers.
She’d give her right arm for a treatment that could halt her disease. She could learn to cope with the muscle weakness, the stuttering, even the tremors that would inevitably arise.
Anything would be better than dreading the inescapable course ahead.
18 APRIL 2003
5:59 A.M.
Michael took his patient’s pulse, wiped a dribble of water from her chin, and realized that Shaman’s Wife had grown weaker during the night. If some sort of magical curative compound mingled in the air over this place, it had not yet affected this woman.
If a cure actually existed.
He looked up as the sound of children’s giggles reached his ear. A mother and two little girls were walking toward him, a bowl of fruit in the woman’s hands. She presented the bowl with a grave air and Michael accepted it, hoping he wasn’t unwittingly participating in some sort of courting ritual. Nothing happened when he took the bowl; the woman only smiled shyly and led the little girls away.
Unusual, to find generosity in such a primitive culture. They had certainly seen no sign of it among the Angry People.
He picked up a piece of papaya and held it dripping between his fingers, wondering how he was supposed to feed his patient. She could barely swallow, let alone chew, and he risked choking her if he tried to force feed even a small piece. Alexandra had been able to mash bananas to an easily swallowed consistency, but papaya had more substance.
A woman and her toothless infant provided the answer. Michael watched as the young mother slipped a piece of papaya into her own mouth, chewed it up, then spat the nearly liquefied fruit into a gourd and offered it to her child.
Well, when in Rome. . .
Michael bit off a chunk of the papaya and began to chew. Its solid texture reminded him vaguely of cantaloupe—a bad cantaloupe, but a melon nonetheless. When he had chewed so long he feared swallowing the food out of reflex, he picked up the empty water gourd and followed the mother’s example.
An hour later, he wasn’t sure his patient had actually received any nourishment, but she’d had her mouth well-rinse
d with papaya juice.
He looked up as Alexandra approached with Delmar and the shaman. Stopping by the travois, the old man greeted Michael with a smile and a respectful bow of his head.
Alex sank to the ground near Michael, then gestured for Delmar and the shaman to follow suit. “We need to ask him about Shaman’s Wife. I knew you’d want to be a part of this conversation.”
“Good idea.” Propping his hand on one bent knee, Michael looked at Delmar. “He knows we brought this woman to them for healing?”
Delmar nodded. “He knows.”
“Will you ask him, then, if the keyba can help her?”
Delmar spoke to the shaman, who answered with many gestures and grimaces, then slowly lowered his hands.
The Brazilian shook his head. “He says she is too sick. She cannot approach the keyba.”
“So it doesn’t always work.” Alexandra uttered the words in a hoarse whisper, as though they were too terrible to speak in a normal voice.
The shaman must have intuited her meaning because he spoke again, repeating certain phrases and gestures. Michael watched in bewilderment as the old man’s hands pantomimed reaching upward again and again.
The old man’s hands fell into his lap as his eyes rose to meet Michael’s. Those hazel eyes were filled with infinite distress . . . and something that looked like pity.
18 APRIL 2003
7:00 A.M.
Alex stared at the ground as discouragement ripped at her heart. She hadn’t realized how much she had hoped the healing tribe could help this woman. If they could halt her decline or even set her on the road to recovery, Alex and her team could examine the treatment and extrapolate a protocol that would offer the first glimmer of hope for prion patients.
But the shaman had been emphatic in his opinion, and the man had spent his entire life in service to the keyba. If anyone knew the limits of the treatment, he did.