The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  The shock of surprise held Michael immobile. He lifted his gaze, searching the sky for some bit of inspiration that might suggest words to comfort the girl, but everything that sprang to mind seemed trite and hollow.

  Caitlyn Pace was young, but she was no child. She had been masquerading behind a brave front for days, perhaps weeks.

  He swallowed hard, then rubbed his thumb over her thin shoulders. “How long have you known?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Ever since we came to the jungle and Mom started acting strange. But she’s getting bad, really bad. She pretends she’s fine, but she’s not.”

  Michael nodded. “Your mum doesn’t want to upset you. She’s working hard to find a cure, and we may be on to something. Shaman’s Wife was healed up in that tree.”

  “But what about my mom? She looks worse than ever.”

  The dreadful music of mourning seeped into the silence between them. Not knowing what else to say, Michael squeezed Caitlyn’s shoulders again, then released her. Before he could stand, she startled him with a question: “Was Shaman’s Wife special to God?”

  Michael lowered his eyes. “I’m sure she was.”

  “Then why didn’t he help her?”

  Blowing out his cheeks, Michael rubbed his hands on his thighs and tried to think. Behind him he could hear the whispering, crackling of the fire that rose above the grieving mourners, as though the flames were laughing. Sometimes he thought the entire jungle was mocking him.

  “I don’t know, Caitlyn. Perhaps he did help her, but in a way we cannot understand.”

  “I don’t get it.” Bending her head, she studied her dirt-encrusted hands. “Why would God heal her just to let her die?”

  Michael’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Why would God heal her. . .

  Why hadn’t that thought occurred to him?

  Tenderly, he pressed his hand to Caitlyn’s soot-smeared cheek. “There are many things about God I don’t understand, but I have learned to trust him. And I must thank you, Cait, for helping me understand something else.”

  She crinkled her nose. “What’d I say?”

  “Come.” He stood and extended his hand. “Let’s go share some leftover monkey meat with the shaman. I have a feeling he’ll be able to answer our questions—now that I know the sort I should be asking.”

  Though his empty stomach would have welcomed meat of any sort, Michael wasn’t surprised to discover that the evening meal was scanter than usual. With most of the day taken up in caring for the dead, no one had fished or hunted. If not for the capybara a woman had hung over the fire in early morning, there would have been nothing to eat.

  The women of the shabono split the large rodent into several pieces and shared it with their families. As was his custom, the shaman divided his portion among the expedition members who, in turn, shared their meager portions with him. Bancroft alone refused to eat, but sat against the wall, his bent head resting on his knees.

  Caitlyn didn’t even ask what they were eating, but nibbled daintily at the meat. The other villagers sat around their individual fires and stared into the flames or hunkered in their hammocks, waiting for sleep to ease their sorrow.

  The village dead included one man, one woman, and three children. Now one husband had no wife to care for his children and a wife had no husband to bring food for their little ones. Michael suspected that in time the two mourning families would merge, but not before time had partially healed the pain of loss.

  The shaman seemed particularly burdened with grief. He sat crosslegged by the fire, his eyes large and filled with shadows. Michael sat as close to him as he dared, then caught Delmar’s eye.

  “Do you think it’s proper . . . may I ask him a few questions?”

  Delmar waited a moment, then murmured something to the shaman. The old man closed his eyes, then inclined his head.

  “I’d like to know more about the Great Spirit of the keyba,” Michael said. “Does he have a name . . . and can this name be spoken without a loss of respect?”

  Delmar asked the question and a moment later the shaman replied in a string of syllables.

  “He says he would not have told you the Great Spirit’s name before today. But you have walked the keyba, and you have met the Spirit yourself. Your souls have been bound with these people because you have all shared sorrow on this day. So yes, he will tell you the Spirit’s name, though he is surprised you do not already know it.”

  Michael leaned forward as his blood quickened with adrenaline. “Tell him, please, that I do know the Great Spirit. But because I speak another language, I know him by another name. Might I know what he is called among those of Keyba Village?”

  Delmar asked the question. The shaman replied with one phrase: “Yai Pada.”

  The interpreter jerked in surprise. After staring at the shaman for a moment, he asked another question, a sharp one, and the shaman lifted his head to answer. Apparently not liking the answer, Delmar looked away, a cloud settling over his features.

  “What?” Michael prodded. “What did he say?”

  Delmar did not respond at first, but swiped at his forehead, where sweat had beaded in dozens of tiny pearls upon his skin. “The Spirit who dwells above the kapok is called Yai Pada,” Delmar finally answered. “The Angry People also know him, but they call him Yai Wana Naba Laywa. He is the Great Spirit, the one who created everything, including all the other spirits.”

  “I know this legend.” Emma Whitmore, who had been reclining in the sand with her eyes half-closed, sat up. “The Yanomamo speak of a spirit called Yai Wana Naba Laywa. They fear him.”

  Michael lifted a brow. “Does this spirit visit the Angry People, too?”

  A livid hue overspread Delmar’s face. “No. They know him as the unfriendly one, the unknowable spirit who eats the souls of children and steals them from their families.”

  “He eats children?” Caitlyn’s voice squeaked through the silence.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” From the dark corner where she had been resting, Alexandra spoke in a rough whisper. “It’s all imaginary. Mind games.”

  Ignoring Alex’s comment, Delmar narrowed his eyes at Caitlyn. “When a child dies, Yai Wana Naba Laywa sends a hawk to carry the child to his land. I know many shamans whose spirits have chased that hawk, but the land where Yai Wana Naba Laywa lives is bright and too hot to enter. It is a noisy place, they say, people are always singing there. They celebrate whenever they get new children to eat.”

  Struggling to hold his temper, Michael gave Caitlyn’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “I have heard much about this unfriendly god.” Emma brushed sand from her sleeves. “The Yanomamo say he created a big fire pit where all stingy people go when they die.” She chuckled. “Even the Yanomamo who refuse to follow Yai Wana Naba Laywa are generous with their food and shelter. No one wants to be thrown into the fire pit.”

  “Surely these are relatively new concepts to these people,” Alexandra said. “I mean, hell is a thoroughly Christian invention—”

  “Afraid not.” Emma’s gaze shifted to Caitlyn, then her eyes thawed slightly. “The Yanomamo believed in the fire pit and Yai Wana Naba Laywa long before their first contact with the white man. These ideas are as old as the jungle, and originated with the shamans who learned the ancient stories from the spirits who guided them.”

  Turning to see Emma better, Michael propped his elbow on a bent knee. “Have you had experience with these jungle spirits?”

  A sly smile curved her mouth. “So what if I have? I devoutly believe in the spirit world, Dr. Kenway, and have found it to be a place of beauty and delight.”

  “What sort of beauty can you find in a burning field?” Lifting his head, Bancroft wagged a belligerent finger in the anthropologist’s direction. “If these people are following jungle spirits who command them to abuse and murder each other, I fail to see the beauty in them.”

  Emma’s eyes went cold. “A strange comment, coming from a profess
ional soldier.”

  Bancroft jerked his chin. “War is one thing—this was a massacre.”

  “What you saw today was an act of war,” Emma continued, “the war for survival. Women are necessary for the propagation of a tribe. Our friend Deborah was obviously not willing to cooperate with the Angry People, so they returned her, hoping to trade her for the shaman’s woman. But that woman was also unwilling to cooperate.” She spread her hands. “As in all indigenous populations, a delicate balance exists between these tribes. One way to maintain that balance is through warfare. The people of Keyba Village killed six warriors from the Angry People when we arrived here. Today the Angry People killed five members of Keyba Village and Deborah . . . which, I believe, almost evens the score.”

  Alexandra had gone deathly pale except for the dark circles around her eyes. “They killed little children!” she objected. “This is not a game of tit for tat; it is sheer brutality!”

  “It is the way of the jungle.” Emma sighed heavily, then raked her hand through her white curls. “I don’t expect you to understand; sometimes you must accept these things. But if you don’t object when a jungle cat kills a turkey, you must also accept that neighboring tribes frequently kill to maintain the appropriate balance of power.”

  Having heard all he could stomach, Michael lifted his head. “These natives are not animals. And this village—” he lifted his hand, indicating the villagers around them—“is nothing like the Angry People.”

  “They are better off, obviously, and healthier, but they share the same traits and social structure—”

  “You’re absolutely mistaken.”

  “Am I?” Emma stiffened. “And what would you know about anthropology?”

  “A person doesn’t have to be an anthropologist to understand that a healthy society is built on more than animalistic urges. These people have built a civilization—a crude one, to be sure, but it’s a civilization nonetheless—upon higher ideals.”

  “Prove it.” Emma’s voice had cooled.

  “I think I can.” Turning from the chilly anthropologist, Michael bowed his head in a gesture of respect for the shaman, then looked at Delmar. “Will you ask him to tell us more about Yai Pada?”

  Emma released an icy laugh. “If you’re trying to establish that they worship a spirit, that’s no proof at all. The Angry People probably worship an entire pantheon of spirits, as do almost all indigenous tribes.”

  Ignoring her, Michael waited on an answer from the shaman. After a pause, Delmar asked the question in an offhanded manner. The shaman looked at Michael for a moment, his eyes narrow and black in the firetinted darkness, then lifted his hand and spoke in even, measured tones. When he had finished, he returned his gaze to Michael’s face.

  Delmar tossed a twig into the fire. “He repeated what he said earlier— Yai Pada lives in the sky. He is the creator Spirit, the Spirit above all. He sends a hawk to carry the spirits of children to his land. Everyone, even the jungle spirits know about him, but the people of this village are the only ones who meet him in the keyba.”

  Michael’s stomach lurched upward. “How, exactly, do they meet him?”

  When Delmar repeated the question, the shaman regarded Michael with an expression of surprise.

  “He says you should know—you met him this morning.”

  Michael glanced at Alex, who was watching with undisguised curiosity.

  Rubbing the bristly beard at his jaw, Michael considered his answer, then nodded at Delmar. “Tell him yes, I know the creator Spirit—for many years I have known him. And yes, I felt the Great Spirit’s glory in the sunrise while I waited in the kapok canopy. I saw him heal the other shaman’s woman.”

  As Delmar translated; the old man’s face creased in a smile that banished the shadows in his eyes. When Delmar had finished, the shaman lifted his hands, speaking faster and with more enthusiasm than he had exhibited since their arrival at Keyba Village.

  “He says,” Delmar began, struggling to keep up, “that for many days they have been asking the Great Spirit to send one of his people to teach them about him. The one with many tattoos—”

  Ya-ree, of course. Michael nodded. “I know him.”

  “He walked the keyba to ask Yai Pada what he should do. Yai Pada told him to go to the great river and find the nabas who could help. The man left us, and now you are here.”

  When Michael inclined his head to indicate his understanding, the shaman spoke again.

  “We have waited for you to speak of Yai Pada,” Delmar translated, “and now you have. But we thought you would come to give us light and teach us. Instead we have suffered sorrow and death since you came.”

  Delmar paused as a tear coursed down the old man’s cheek. “He asks—have you light to give us?”

  “Indeed.” Folding his hands, Michael gave the shaman a careful smile. “I believe I do.”

  20 APRIL 2003

  5:30 P.M.

  Alex gaped at Michael Kenway as he spread his hands and began to speak to the shaman. His cultured voice simmered with barelychecked passion, and the others couldn’t help but hear. As Delmar translated, men, women, and children from around the shabono halted their activities and came near to listen.

  “Long ago, before the jungle existed,” Michael paused between phrases for Delmar’s translation, “Yai Pada yearned for companionship. So he created a great host of spirits, beautiful creatures with wings and the ability to change their shape.”

  The Indians looked at each other, their eyes dark and unreadable in the firelight, but no one interrupted or voiced an objection. From her time in the jungle, Alex knew the concept of a spirit world was neither unfamiliar nor surprising to them.

  “One day,” Michael continued, “one of the winged spirits grew tired of obeying Yai Pada. He wanted to be the greatest spirit, the one whose voice would be instantly obeyed. So he convinced many of the other spirits to leave Yai Pada’s bright land and come with him.”

  Though Delmar translated in a flat monotone, from the murmur of wonder that fluttered throughout the assembly, Alex knew Michael’s words had struck a chord.

  “When Yai Pada created the world, he placed a man and a woman in the center of a beautiful orchard. He filled it with gentle animals; the snakes did not bite, the jaguar did not attack. Everything was perfect, and everything in the land enjoyed peace. Then the rebellious spirit decided to speak to the people.”

  “Omawa,” the shaman interrupted.

  Michael lifted a brow at this, and Emma explained. “The leader of the evil spirits is called Omawa. The Yanomamo also know about him.”

  Michael gave Emma a perfunctory nod and turned his attention back to the shaman. “Omawa spoke to the woman and tricked her into disobeying a command of Yai Pada. By obeying Omawa and not Yai Pada, she proved herself unwilling to live in peace with Yai Pada. Though it pained his heart, Yai Pada sent the man and woman out of his perfect orchard and into a jungle where animals attack and vines sting.”

  After hearing the translation, the shaman crossed his arms and sniffed with satisfaction at this evidence of jungle justice.

  “Many, many seasons passed. The people had children, and their children had children. Some of them loved Yai Pada and tried to hear his voice; others listened to the lies of Omawa and the spirits who had followed him. Those who obeyed Omawa killed each other, took revenge, and asked the spirits to kill their enemies. The spirits were happy to do this because Omawa delighted in death and destruction. His greatest pleasure was bringing pain to the people Yai Pada had created for joy. He taught the people how to kill, to rape, to twist the truth into lies. Because of this, all people after the first two were born with a sickness. It is not a sickness of the body like the shuddering disease, but a sickness—” Michael thumped his chest—“of the spirit.”

  In dazed exasperation, Alex looked around the circle. The guileless natives were eating from Michael’s hand, absorbing every word. Even Emma Whitmore seemed fascinated by Michael’s retelli
ng of the creation story, though her expression was more analytical than rapt.

  “Because Omawa had tricked the people so completely, Yai Pada put his spirit in flesh and came to earth. This one—you could call him Yai Pada Son—he alone was not born with the spirit-sickness, because his father was not a man, but Yai Pada. He came as a baby, he grew to be a shaman, and he suffered all the sorrows other men suffer. Even though he knew he would die a shameful death, still he chose to live among us . . . until Omawa tricked the people and told them Yai Pada Son was evil. The people believed this, and they killed him.”

  The natives’ faces took on an inward look as they absorbed the translation. In order of age, a frown appeared on each countenance as its owner comprehended the significance of divine death.

  “But the Son of the Great Spirit cannot die. The fires of the pit could not hold him; his body healed itself. Yai Pada Son walked among men many more days, then he flew back up to heaven. Now he sends his Spirit out to anyone who will choose him instead of obeying the spirits of Omawa.”

  Michael folded his hands and looked directly at the shaman. “You and your people know about the Great Spirit. He has blessed you with healing and showered you with joy. But he wants to send his Spirit to live inside you so you do not have to walk the keyba to speak to him.”

  The old man blinked several times, then a rush of color flooded his face, as though the story had caused younger blood to fill his veins. Curling his hands into the sand by the fire, he picked up a handful, then slowly, methodically rained the dust over his head.

  “We have done much evil.” The shaman dropped his sandy hands into his lap. “We are not like the babies who can fly into Yai Pada’s land when they die.”

  “Yes, you are right,” Michael agreed. “But after a killing, do you not hang your weapons on a tree to rid yourselves of shame? The tree takes your killing weapons and makes your hands clean. Yai Pada Son does the same thing. As a man, Yai Pada Son committed no evil, yet he died on a tree to take your shame. He accepted your evil deeds so you can be clean, yes, as clean as a baby who flies to Yai Pada’s bright land.”