The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  Turning to drink in other bizarre images, she flinched at the sight of Kenway’s open eyes and froze as an odd sense of guilt surged through her blood. “What?”

  “Can’t you sleep?” His voice, soft enough not to disturb the others, vibrated with a note of tenderness.

  She waved away his concern. “I haven’t slept in d-d-days. I can’t seem to stop thinking.”

  “Would you like company . . . while you think?”

  She managed a choking laugh. “You need your sleep, Kenway.”

  “So do you.”

  “Yeah . . . but I’m superwoman, haven’t you noticed? FFI patients are able to carry a sleep debt far greater than the average person’s. If the military could b-b-bottle my energy and isolate the side effects, they’d be—” she faltered before the serious look in his eyes—“invincible.”

  “I could stay awake with you. We could talk . . . and watch the sun come up.”

  Inexplicably, tears stung her eyes. Grateful that her face lay in shadows, she shook her head. “We’d only argue and end up waking the others. Go to sleep, Kenway, and save your strength.” She forced the next words over a sudden constriction in her throat. “You might have to help them carry me down.”

  The moonlight shone full on his face as he leaned forward. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  Biting her lip, she lowered her eyes. She hated to admit weakness; even as a child she had been a poor loser. But someone needed to know the full truth, and Kenway already knew more than the others.

  “I’m not sure I’ll m-m-make it,” she stammered. Tears began to course down her cheeks, but she was not weeping; this was merely an overflow of pent-up emotion.

  “Symptoms?” His voice became clinical, detached.

  “Muscle weakness. My strength is gone.”

  “Anything else?”

  Shaking her head, she coughed softly as Bancroft stirred. Halfasleep, he looked at her. She wriggled her fingers in a stiff wave, then he grunted and closed his eyes.

  “I think I overexerted myself on the climb,” she whispered. “I’ll try my best to make it down tomorrow, but I’m not sure I can do it.”

  His concerned expression relaxed into a smile. “I’ll help. Never fear, Alexandra, we’ll get you down.”

  He had slipped an arm around her then, probably thinking that the tactile comfort would encourage her to rest, but even though he dozed after a few minutes, Alex remained awake and alert.

  She took several samples of leaves, bird droppings, and tree sap, smearing the sand in her palm-leaf pouches. At one point, desperate for something else to do, she had chewed several kapok leaves, halfhoping that a mega dose of whatever curative chemicals they might contain would leach into her bloodstream and work the miracle Kenway seemed to expect. But the leaves had a bitter taste, and Olsson had once warned her that bitterness was nature’s way of saying don’t eat.

  By the time the glowing dials on her watch reached 5:30, the birds had begun to chorus and the bats had flapped their way home. Alex crouched low as those warm-blooded creatures flew in to roost, then flinched as a silvery Amazon parrot swooped down to perch on the rim of the nest. Tilting his head at her, he released a tentative squawk, then spread his wide wings and flew off to another branch.

  “Sorry if we took your spot,” she murmured, a little fascinated by the thought of displacing a bird. “We’ll be gone soon.”

  The parrot’s squawk must have penetrated the others’ consciousness, for Kenway, Olsson, and Bancroft began to stir.

  Raking his hand through his hair, Kenway squinted into the brightening horizon. “Is that the sun?”

  “What else?”

  Olsson scratched at his chest, then pushed himself upright. “We’d better tend to Shaman’s Wife, then. Didn’t the old man say something about her having to touch the morning light?”

  Were they serious?

  Though she believed the men were taking the situation far too literally, Alex moved out of the way as Kenway and Bancroft placed their hands behind the sick woman’s head and shoulders, then gently lifted her into an upright position. The sheltering leaves Alex had draped over the woman’s body fell away, revealing a shrunken chest and a body so thin she could count every rib—

  She’d look like that in a few weeks if they didn’t find a cure.

  Olsson folded his long legs, moving them out of the way.

  “We cannot assume the cure comes from the sun, the atmosphere, or the tree,” Kenway said, his broad hand holding the woman’s head upright. “So we must expose her to everything she would have encountered had she climbed up here on her own.”

  Leaning her elbow on the nest, Alex propped her cheek on her hand, silently watching as the men supported the desperately sick woman. Shaman’s Wife was awake and groaning in earnest now, vainly trying to communicate—what? A frantic desire to be left alone?

  The eastern horizon brightened as beams of sunlight shot past the canopy’s border and illuminated a cloudless sky. The black-and-gray landscape bloomed with color; the parrot Alex had glimpsed a moment before flew by again, now clothed in brilliant shades of crimson and blue.

  While they waited, the sun ascended like a blazing fire, chasing a blanket of mist from the eastern jungle canopy. Its rays shot up to the sky and ricocheted into the kapok nest, banishing the shadows from the fluttering emerald sea. Her friends’ features flushed to the healthy hues of life, colors flashed, warmth enveloped them, and Alex felt a sudden tear roll down her cheek.

  If only for this moment . . . the climb had been worth the effort. She couldn’t say why the sight moved her, but perhaps such experiences weren’t meant to be dissected.

  She wasn’t the only one affected by the extraordinary sight. Their patient’s continuous moan crested and exploded in a guttural sob, then the woman’s lips parted and a word spewed from her lips: “Tck!” When her body began to tremble, Alex tensed, afraid the woman was seizing. Then those hazel eyes widened, her mouth dropped, and the arms that had hung limp for days twitched and lifted, fingers splayed, toward the sky.

  Alex choked back a cry.

  As the sun pushed its way over the horizon, the woman’s body calmed. The tremors stopped jarring her frame, her arms relaxed, her bent, useless legs straightened and separated to support the woman’s weight as she stood. Kenway and Bancroft, who had held her upright during the sunrise, pulled away as the woman took a tiny half-step, then sank to a kneeling position. The unintelligible sounds she had begun to form shifted into words, still unfamiliar, but words nonetheless.

  Peering around the woman’s shoulder, Alex stared at her face. The sagging skin under the eyes had lifted, the hollow cheeks had plumped, the slack mouth now curved in a smile.

  Alex sat in a paralysis of astonishment as the woman began to sing a tuneless chant that seemed strangely appropriate for the situation.

  By the time the sun had crested the forest canopy, the woman stood on her feet, thin and weary, but living. Staring at her patient, Alex struggled to absorb one undeniable, unbelievable fact: The decline of Shaman’s Wife had not only been halted, the woman had been restored.

  “I’m looking at a bloomin’ miracle,” Kenway murmured.

  Alex could not disagree. Something in the tree—or in the combination of tree and grass and sunrise—had apparently healed a fatal, incurable disease.

  20 APRIL 2003

  6:00 A.M.

  Though he knew he looked like a grinning simpleton, Michael couldn’t keep a smile off his face. The inhabitants of Keyba Village had welcomed Shaman’s Wife with the same enthusiasm they had exhibited the day before in the boy’s tree ritual. Now they were bent on celebrating one of their enemy’s miraculous encounters with the Spirit of the keyba.

  He and the others had begun the descent shortly after sunrise, and Michael had found that descending the huge tree was far easier than ascending. Bancroft had carried Shaman’s Wife, and Michael had descended with Alexandra, joined to her by a length of vine tied from he
r waist to his as a safety support. By resting at intervals, they’d made it safely down without mishap.

  Now moving throughout the excited crowd, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of wonder on the shaman’s face. Reaching out to catch Delmar’s attention, he asked if the woman’s healing had surprised the shaman.

  “No,” Delmar answered, “but he was astounded that you nabas could get the woman safely into the keyba.”

  Michael had to admit the old man had a point. Each time he had to slip his prusik loops from one vine and tie them on to another, he had wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. The search for a cure had driven Alexandra up that tree, and Olsson was eager for any botanical adventure. Bancroft’s strong drive to serve had compelled him to join them, but he, Michael Kenway, had climbed the monster specimen out of concern for two terminal patients . . . only one of whom had been healed.

  Now he could admit the truth. At the hospital he routinely signed DNR orders for patients who weren’t nearly as close to death as Shaman’s Wife had been last night. And while he cared for her as any man ought to care for a fellow human being, his concern for Alexandra had been the motivating force that compelled him to climb that tree.

  He looked toward the place where the women of Keyba Village had gathered around Alexandra and Shaman’s Wife, their questing hands fingering the Indian woman’s hair and Alex’s cotton blouse. While Alexandra smiled blandly in confusion, Shaman’s Wife spoke freely, her eyes wide and her voice lilting.

  Michael elbowed Delmar. “What are they asking her?”

  Cocking his head, the guide listened for a moment. “They want to know if she wants to stay in this village or go back to the Angry People.”

  “And her answer?”

  “She wants to stay, of course.” The interpreter’s eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “You must convince her to leave. If you want to see Deborah again, the shaman’s woman must return to her tribe.”

  Michael winced under a sharp sting of guilt. The miracle he had just witnessed had so completely filled his thoughts that he had nearly forgotten about their promise to return Shaman’s Wife to her people.

  Looking at her now, though, he knew they had made a promise they should not keep. The woman fairly glowed with joy, and the gentle ministrations of the other women had evoked a smile that lifted years of suffering from the woman’s countenance. He could no more send her back to that primitive, hate-filled tribe than he could give a sweet to a starving child and return it to a barren desert.

  He stole a glance at Alexandra, who staggered among the women like a sleepwalker. She looked at them with vacant eyes and nodded automatically while the morning sun highlighted the lines and dark shadows around her eyes and gaunt cheeks.

  Reality swept over Michael in a terrible wave—Alex couldn’t understand why whatever had miraculously cured Shaman’s Wife had done nothing for her.

  Grappling with questions, he moved to the shady solitude offered by a banana tree. He had just taken a seat and begun to evaluate the morning’s experience when Olsson, Bancroft, Delmar, and Baklanov approached.

  The hulking soldier came right to the point. “We need to leave,” he said, kneeling in the grass. “We can’t risk having Deborah stay in that awful village another night.”

  Michael leaned back, momentarily distracted from his troubling thoughts. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Baklanov and I have all the samples we need for now.” Olsson patted his pockets. “Our data-gathering methods have been laughable, but we can always return with proper equipment.”

  “I, too, am eager to return.” Baklanov smiled as his eyes drifted to the still-celebrating villagers. “But with the proper provisions, I could happily spend a month in this village. These people have joy.”

  “Gentlemen,” Michael gestured toward the women around his glowing patient, “do you honestly think we should send Shaman’s Wife back to that horrible place? Look at her—that is not the face of a woman who wants to return to a village of sickness and starvation.”

  Turning, Baklanov’s jaw dropped. “I would have sworn she was at least fifty years old.”

  “She’s more likely twenty,” Michael answered. “The illness put those lines on her face.”

  Bancroft’s squint tightened. “But we gave our word.”

  “But do we owe honor to a dishonorable enemy?” Baklanov posed the question. “Perhaps we can approach the camp, create a distraction, and steal Deborah away. We may not have weapons, but we are five civilized men.”

  “We are not five soldiers,” Olsson pointed out. “And we are traveling with two women and a child.”

  Baklanov lifted a brow. “We could even the odds if some of the warriors from Keyba Village came with us. They are expert with these primitive weapons—”

  “Absolutely not.” Michael crossed his arms. “You know these are peaceful people. We do not have the right to involve them in our struggle.”

  “Why did we make that promise in the first place?” Bancroft’s question snapped like a whip, making them all flinch.

  “It was the only way,” Olsson muttered. “They wouldn’t have let us go otherwise.”

  Michael hung his head as the truth rose up to mock him. Why had they agreed so easily? To save their necks—and because they thought they’d be returning the same woman. Though he had earnestly believed in the existence of the healing tribe, he had not believed they could heal anyone as desperately ill as Shaman’s Wife. Help her, perhaps. Heal her? Never.

  His words came out hoarse, forced through a tight throat. “The bargain seemed . . . reasonable at the time. And Deborah was willing—”

  “Because she believed we’d come back for her as soon as possible.” Bancroft’s broad-carved face twisted in anger. “Why are we even debating this? Deb needs us, and we need to go get her. If we have to take Shaman’s Wife back to her people, then that’s part of the deal. If she wants to leave after we’ve gone, that’s her business.”

  “You think they would let her leave?” Michael met Bancroft’s angry gaze straight on. “They’ll kill her before they let her go. We all saw how they treat their women.”

  “I think we should return to our base camp at the lake, then go back to the river.” Every eye swiveled in Delmar’s direction as he spoke for the first time. “How do we know Dr. Simons is still alive? She may not be.” His face darkened. “You do not know these tribes like I do. If she resisted any of their commands, they would punish her. If she is still alive, she is probably wishing for death.”

  “We are not going back to the river until we have attempted to rescue Deb Simons.” Bancroft spoke in a flat authoritative tone, probably the one he had used to command his SEALs. The tone proved effective with civilians as well, for no one argued.

  Scratching at his chin, Delmar shrugged. “Whatever you say. But if you want to avoid bloodshed, you will have to convince the shaman’s wife to come with us.”

  20 APRIL 2003

  10:30 A.M.

  Escaping the scene of celebration, Alex retreated to the shadows of the shabono, then found a quiet space under a hammock. Leaning against the bumpy wall of woven saplings, she pressed her hands to her face and closed her eyes.

  Every nerve in her body was screaming, and her brain crackled with the need to rest. During one semester in college she had taken amphetamines to stay awake during finals week; the drugs had made her brain hum with alarming efficiency for a few hours, then she had crashed into the sleep of the dead.

  Her mind was no longer humming—she could almost feel the crack and snap of misfiring neurons. Like an overheated engine, portions of her brain were on the verge of explosion. Visions of dead cells, clumped together with spatters of glial material, floated across the backs of her eyelids. Her brain had become a messy minefield, her thalamus a certain disaster. She would have freely surrendered her right hand in exchange for the ability to drop into a coma, but her body would not cooperate. Too many thoughts raced through her
head, too many visions rolled like a movie in her mind.

  And to further fuel her frantic thoughts, this morning she had witnessed a miracle.

  The healing of Shaman’s Wife had to be an illusion, a hallucination resulting from her disease. She could have dismissed the entire treetop experience—and would have, without a qualm—but the others had witnessed it, too. Furthermore, unless she had completely misread their faces, they had been as stunned by the experience as she.

  Even the reverend doctor had been unable to explain what had happened.

  Pressing her fingertips to her temple, Alex felt the slow throb of dilated blood vessels beneath her skin. Since descending the tree, her senses had become overly acute—every sound echoed like a gunshot; every scent threatened to turn her stomach. Perhaps this hypersensitivity had exaggerated her perceptions of Shaman’s Wife’s healing; perhaps the woman did not really glow with health and happiness.

  Somehow—through some trick of her disease or some otherworldly aspect of the jungle—she and her companions had stepped through the equivalent of Alice’s looking glass. Perhaps they were not in the village at all, but still in the treetop, drugged by the scent of some exotic vine that induced a creepy virtual reality and played tricks on the mind.

  Her questing fingers pinched the skin at her cheek until she winced. She registered pain, all right. And scents from the unidentified roasting creature over the fire did fill her nostrils, as did the stale scent of perspiration from the overhead hammock. Caitlyn had embraced her with arms that felt substantial, and the water someone had offered in a gourd had splashed over her lips and tasted delicious on her tongue. . .