by Angela Hunt
“I have.” Kenway’s voice vibrated with sudden resonance.
“Where?”
A half-smile curved his mouth. “A baptism at a little church in Chingford. There was no tree climbing involved, but the same sort of sentiments were expressed.”
Couldn’t the man put religion out of his mind even for a moment? Snorting in exasperation, Alex took her daughter’s hand and led her in search of fruit for breakfast.
19 APRIL 2003
10:00 A.M.
After again attempting to feed and hydrate his patient, Michael tended the woman’s bedsores with juice from an aloe plant, then left Shaman’s Wife to rest by the fire. Exiting the shabono, he found Olsson, Bancroft, and Baklanov in the clearing by the kapok tree. Heaps of leafy vine lay tangled on the ground before them, and Baklanov was smoking what appeared to be a colossal cigar.
“Had to find something to smoke.” He gave Michael a wry grin. “Nasty habit, I know.”
Michael stared at the bits of grass protruding from the rolled leaves between his teeth. “Is that . . . doing the job?”
“Tastes terrible,” Baklanov admitted. “Maybe it’ll cure me from my addiction.”
Michael laughed, then gestured toward the foliage on the ground. “I hope you haven’t enlisted these men to make cigars for you.”
“We’re making rope,” Baklanov answered. “For your grand experiment.”
“The children have become enthusiastic helpers.” Olsson grinned as he tied one section of vine to another. “They’ve been collecting vines all morning. Emma has the women helping us strip the leaves.”
Michael glanced toward the field, where Emma and Caitlyn sat with a group of women and young girls. Caitlyn was singing, and though the natives couldn’t understand a word of the song, they giggled whenever she finished with “Pop! Goes the weasel!”
Picking up a strand of vine, Michael tested its strength, then glanced around for any other sign of villagers. After the sunrise ceremony this morning, the men had gathered their weapons and gone out to hunt; only a few remained in the village for defense. Several of the women were picking fruit from the trees in the field, but most of them had gathered to help the nabas.
They had complete faith . . . which was more than Michael could say of himself at the moment.
“Can we really do it?” Michael shifted to face the botanist. “You’ll have enough vines?”
The flat line of Olsson’s mouth relaxed. “Sometimes I think the jungle is nothing but vines. This liana grows everywhere, and at the right thickness, it is quite pliable. Climbing might be a little slow because the vines will not be as smooth as a rope, but I can think of no reason why the liana would not work. The prusik loops should slide right over them.”
Bancroft grunted as he pulled a knot tight. “I don’t know much about climbing trees, but I can’t stand the thought of what might be happening to Deb in that other village. So if something in this tree will help Shaman’s Wife, I say we take her up there and get it.”
Michael ran his hand over his jaw to hide his smile. It was true, then—Bancroft had strong feelings for Deborah Simons. He would never have predicted that the burly ex-SEAL would fancy a scholarly entomologist, but one never knew what emotions resided in the secret places of a man’s soul.
Stepping directly in front of Olsson, Michael lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “You know we have to do this tonight. Our patient is fading quickly. Though they’ve been quite generous, this tribe can’t afford to have us living with them many more days. The shaman has been sharing his food and the families their hammocks, but you know the old saying—fish and visitors reek in three days.”
A brief smile twitched in and out of the tangles of Olsson’s beard. “I understand. In any case, the lack of equipment limits our options. We will attempt this climb tonight and consider leaving tomorrow.” He glanced toward Bancroft. “Getting us out of here will be your job, I suppose.”
Bancroft jerked his head in a grim nod. “Happy to do it. I’d like to find our way back to our base camp before we approach the other village— we could use any supplies we can find. We might locate one of the GPS devices, and if we can even pick up a couple of the weapons or machetes—”
Michael shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on ever seeing those machetes again. I’ve a hunch we’ve inadvertently done our bit to bring the Angry People out of the Stone Age. They’ll probably be searching for other nabas now, in hopes of obtaining more weapons.”
“They might be looking for us.” Bancroft verbalized an unspoken thought that had been hovering at the edge of Michael’s mind. “Think about it. We left with six of their warriors and their shaman’s woman. When we return without any of them. . .”
Michael watched as the burly soldier struggled to get a grip on his emotions. “Do you think we’re wasting our time going up this tree?”
“Do you?”
Michael recoiled from the man’s worried eyes and tried on a smile that felt a size too small. “I’m not sure the keyba can help her—she may be past the point of recovery. But we’ve come all this way, we’ve made sacrifices, and we’ve got to try.” He hesitated as Bancroft’s eyes seemed to focus on something far away. “Do you agree?”
The guard’s throat worked. “I don’t know, Doc. I figure I’ve done more illogical things than this in my lifetime. For Deb’s sake, we’ve got to try something, and if this works, it’d be a sight easier than putting one of the other women on the travois and trying to bluff the enemy before we attack.” A trace of unexpected vulnerability shone in the man’s eyes as he met Michael’s gaze. “I think it’s crazy to carry a sick woman up a tree, but the shaman of the Angry People sure thought it would work. So I’ve been praying it will.”
Michael fingered a length of vine. “I didn’t know you were a praying man.”
“Born and raised Catholic. I guess some things you never really outgrow.” Bancroft cleared his throat. “I haven’t been to Mass in years, but some of our recent conversations started me thinking. Maybe I’ve been a little too forgetful of God, but I know he hasn’t forgotten about me. He’s pulled me out of too many scrapes I never should have escaped—”
“Kenway!” Alexandra yelled from the entrance to the shabono, interrupting the conversation. “The shaman needs to talk to you!”
A broad smile found its way through Bancroft’s mask of uncertainty. “She’s calling you.”
Michael grunted. “So I hear.”
“She likes you, you know.”
“Surely you jest.”
Grinning, the soldier stripped a section of vine with his closed fist, then opened his hand and watched the shredded leaves flutter from his palm. “I call it like I see it, Kenway, and I know what I see. She’s crazy about you. And I figure the feeling’s mutual.”
Excusing himself with a roll of his eyes, Michael squared his shoulders and strode toward the shabono.
Surprising, what emotions could awaken in the secret places of a man’s soul.
19 APRIL 2003
10:28 A.M.
Crossing her arms, Alex tried to disguise her irritation as the doctor came into the roundhouse, sunlight glinting off his dark hair. Though the native women were now more accustomed to his presence, they actually twittered when he passed by. The doctor ignored them, but Alex knew he had to notice—and was arrogant enough to pretend he didn’t.
What quality about him fluttered feminine hearts? The long hair? None of the native men wore anything longer than an ear-length bowl cut, and not many men in the States or England wore their hair long these days, either. Kenway’s collar-length mane, while suiting him perfectly, did seem a little dashing and avant-garde.
Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt, like hitting a wall. Why was she thinking about a man when her mind should have been occupied with more important issues? She had to be experiencing a sort of dementia. Delusion, maybe. She’d be hallucinating next.
Raking her hand through her hair, she joined Delma
r, the shaman, and Kenway at the sick woman’s bedside.
Sinking to the ground, Michael looked at the shaman with an uplifted brow.
Alex drew an irritated breath. “The shaman says he has to talk to her,” she snapped, “before you can take her into the tree.”
Michael shifted to meet her eyes. “So he asked me for permission?”
“Apparently he thinks you have authority over her—maybe he thinks she’s your woman.”
Kenway gaped in surprise, then turned to Delmar. “Please tell him he may speak directly to her. And if you wouldn’t mind translating, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
Heedless of the eavesdroppers, the shaman took the woman’s limp hand and began to stroke it with gentle fingers. Slowly and softly he spoke while Delmar translated: “Great mercy is given to you, sister. The nabas have agreed to do what you cannot. They will carry you into the keyba where others have walked, and when the sun rises again you will be touched by the rays of first light. If your spirit is willing, the Great Spirit of the keyba will speak to you, filling your shabono with light and healing.”
Alex crooked a brow. Her shabono? Was he referring to this roundhouse? There’d be trouble if the tribe planned to adopt this woman as they had adopted Michael’s patient.
The mute woman did not speak, but a tide of fear washed through her eyes.
“If you let the light touch you,” the shaman finished, lowering the woman’s hand to her chest. “You will see with new eyes and honor the Spirit of the keyba in all you do.”
The woman did not answer, but a tear slipped from one drooping eye and slid down a shrunken cheek.
Glancing toward the sunlit center of the shabono, Alex saw that the sun had begun its climb toward the center of the sky. Clearing her throat, she stood and wiped sand from her palms. “Are the vines nearly ready?”
“Very nearly.” Michael nodded his appreciation to the shaman as he stood. “It’s going to be an arduous climb, so if we’re going to set out, we’d best go as soon as possible.”
“I’ll be ready.” She turned to find Caitlyn, but Michael caught and held her arm. When she turned, his face had darkened with unreadable emotions.
“Are you sure you ought to go? It’s a hard climb, and you’re not well.”
“I’m well enough.”
“Are you?” He hesitated, then released her arm and swiped his wrist across his perspiring forehead. “I could look around up there for you. I could take samples. You needn’t risk this venture.”
“Worried, Kenway?” She allowed a smile to creep across her face. “I thought you believed in the keyba. I could have sworn that earlier you were daring me to make the climb.”
“Maybe I was—I mean, I do believe there’s something up there. But I’m not sure I’d advise you to risk your life climbing two hundred feet on a few jungle vines in order to find it.”
She stood, watching him, and could not stop herself from pondering what had motivated this expression of concern. Could he be doubting his own faith in the story that had brought them to this place?
She lowered her voice. “Have you forgotten that I risk my life by not climbing that tree? If there’s a cure and I find it, I’ll halt my disease sooner.” She caught his eye to give emphasis to her words. “I’m at the point where every d-d-day counts.”
“What if you climb and find nothing? Or what if you fall?” His voice, like her nerves, was in tatters.
She closed her eyes and looked away, simultaneously pleased and irritated by his concern. He cared . . . she knew it as surely she knew the sun would rise on the morrow, because no man would risk getting close to a dying woman unless his feelings were genuine and strong.
But he was also wavering in his conviction and she needed him to be strong. For once in her life, she needed someone to offer something inviolate and immutable, something that would not fail.
“I appreciate your concern more than you can know.” She placed her hand on his arm. “But in remembering that I am weak and exhausted, you have forgotten that I am also desperate. I can make the climb. I will make the climb.”
A short silence followed, in which her words seemed to hang in the emptiness as if for inspection, then he nodded.
And as he walked away, her thoughts turned to the God of Desperate Women in Tropical Straits. . .
On occasions like this, she needed something bigger than GODWITS. She needed someone who could heal her brain, restore her body, and refresh her weary soul, but she had no idea where to find him.
Moreover, she was almost positive he didn’t dwell in the top of a kapok tree. climbers—Alex, Michael, Olsson, and Bancroft—would climb up the tree and spend the night in the canopy of the kapok.
According to Alex’s calculations, the climbing party began their ascent three hours before the sunset. The plan was simple—four
Because he was the most experienced climber, Olsson would ascend first. Once he reached the canopy, he would attempt to fashion some sort of platform where they could sit throughout the night. Alex would climb next, burdened only by pocketfuls of sterile soil wrapped in palm fronds. Bancroft would follow with the sick woman strapped to his back, while Michael brought up the rear. While they were aloft, Baklanov, Delmar, and Emma would finish their research with the Keyba tribe and prepare for the journey home.
Alex had privately drawn Baklanov aside a few moments before venturing out of the shabono. “I asked Kenway to take Caitlyn back to the States if anything should happen to me in the jungle,” she’d whispered. “But if anything should happen to us while we’re up in that tree—”
“I will see to your sweet daughter’s safety.” Baklanov slipped a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “One should offer no less to a friend.”
After saying good-bye to Caitlyn, whose eyes shone bright with unshed tears despite an attempt at nonchalant bravery, Alex waited with a length of liana in her hand. Olsson had worked out an ingenious method of scaling the tree. Using a slingshot he’d fashioned from elastic and a forked branch, he had propelled a vine-wrapped rock over the first accessible branch.
“It’s a simple process,” he’d told Alex as he reminded her how to tie a prusik knot. “When you reach that branch, I’ll have another vine waiting. Just untie your prusik knots from the first vine and attach them to the second. Slow, yes, but it will work.”
“Ready, Alex?” Olsson’s voice startled her from her reverie. “All clear.”
Releasing the liana that served as the main climbing rope, she picked up the slender lengths of vine Olsson had set aside for the prusik knots. She tied one around the rope for her left foot, then another for her right. When she was set, she grasped the line with her free hand.
“Good luck, Alex,” Bancroft called. “You can do it.”
She couldn’t look back. If she did, she’d see Caitlyn and Baklanov and Kenway, the man who had an answer for everything except what they might find in the canopy of this tree.
She slipped her right sneaker into the first loop, stepped into it, and felt the knots tighten around her foot. When she knew it would hold her weight, she slid the left loop several inches up the rope. “Here goes nothing.”
The world fell away as she swung into space. She had climbed before, but this felt different, more foreign. She clung to the vine as the wind whipped it, spinning her around and making the world below shift dizzily before her wide eyes.
She closed her eyes, then forced herself to look up. She would keep her eyes on the canopy and not allow herself to be distracted by the villagers, her companions, or the buffeting wind. Her life depended upon simple, single-minded concentration.
As the ragged sounds of her own breathing filled her ears, Alex wormed her way up the vine, only half-hearing the villagers’ admiring cries. She took her eyes from the lead rope once and realized she was climbing past a wasps’ nest bigger than a bear—after that, she kept her eyes on the vine, feeling her way upward. Her back ached between her shoulder blades, her eyes felt grit
ty, and her mouth had gone as dry as a desert.
She wanted to whoop in relief when she reached the first branch, but settled for a hoarse, “Finally!” Clambering aboard the wide limb, she let her trembling arms and legs hang over the edge while she flattened herself along its length. She could have closed her eyes and remained in that position all afternoon, but the sight of a determined line of ants spurred her to move again. Leaving the old prusik knots on the lower vine, she tied fresh ones to the second rope Olsson had left dangling, then began to climb again.
She took her time, knowing the others would also move slowly and cautiously. Parrots chattered in the foliage around her while a tarantula hung motionless, blending almost perfectly into the mottled brown bark. Sleeping fruit bats dotted one section of the mighty trunk, and the sight of them spurred her to pick up her pace—once night fell, the bats would wake and begin to hunt. While Caitlyn had assured her they didn’t often bite people, the thought of a blind bat tangling in her hair gave her the willies.
Down below her, she heard the villagers begin the rhythmic chant they’d picked up when they welcomed the boy after his night in the tree. Encouragement, Delmar had called it. Alex listened, trying to pick out words and phrases, but from this distance the vocal sounds escaped her. The rhythm, however, vibrated through the tree, and soon her arms and legs began to move in a coordinated fashion, steadily propelling her upward despite the tendency of her exhausted nerve endings to snap at each other.
By the time she reached the canopy, where the branches narrowed and climbing grew riskier, she heard Olsson’s welcoming voice. “Over here, Alex. You’ve almost made it.”
Looking up, she saw him above and to the west of her position, standing on a branch while he pointed to a trio of horizontal vines he had rigged between vertical limbs. “Walk on the lower rope, and hold tight to the other two.”
Alex gulped, forcing down the sudden lurch of her stomach. “You expect me to walk a tightrope?”