“Two seconds, man.”
Sweat dripped into my eyes. What in hell was he doing?
“Come on, come on—” Dutchie whined.
In one shockingly swift movement, Omar pivoted, torquing the biggest, heaviest bag in a low arc, slamming it into Dutchie’s gut and sending him sprawling toward the river. Firing willy-nilly, Dutchie landed on his back in the water, where he flailed, momentarily stunned.
Omar had been blown back, a hole in his stomach and shoulder. Roaring to his feet, he leapt at Dutchie, landing on top of him in the river. He held the man’s head and chest underwater, the poacher’s skinny legs in decayed rubber boots kicking up on either side of him. I splashed into the river. Grimacing, Omar strained to keep his grip on Dutchie’s shoulders as the poacher tried to wrestle him down. His bandana floated away, the lobe—what was left of his injured ear—bobbling against his head in the current, the unfairness of his whole life legible in his face full of rage and surprise. Dutchie’s mouth opened and closed as if pleading for his life, his ice-blue eyes still lasering up through the murk. Blood poured from Omar’s wounds. Crying, I gripped his shoulders, which felt like rocks until, slowly, they softened, muscles slackening, his grip weakening on Dutchie until he collapsed on top of him. The current lifted him, rolling him away toward the bank.
For long seconds I stared down into Dutchie’s greenish-white face, his hair floating out like a blond medusa, his expression one of disappointment, betrayal, his mouth open, still.
Are you dead? Are you dead? Are you dead?
He had to be! His eyes looked into mine but were motionless, his face several inches from the surface of the water, his bony chest still as clay under his unbuttoned shirt. I lunged toward Omar, but Dutchie’s hand leapt out of the water, grabbed the fabric of my dress, and wrenched me down to him.
He pulled me underwater, clutched me tight to his chest, so close we could have kissed, his rubbery flesh touching mine, the whites of his eyes filled with madness and panic. I put one hand on each of his skinny shoulders and pushed down with all my strength, my head flying out of the water as I gasped for air. Still his big-knuckled hand gripped my dress. Why don’t you die? Wailing, I held him down until his fingers loosened. They scrabbled at the fabric of my dress until his hand fell away. After long moments, his legs stopped churning and his face relaxed and smoothed out, all his problems over as his eyes glazed like milk on a china plate, gazing up at the brooding sky above me.
FORTY-ONE
Sobbing, I pushed myself away from Dutchie’s body and stumbled to where Omar lay facedown in a shallow eddy. I turned him over and held him in my arms, the river lapping gently at my back. His open eyes saw nothing. I screamed his name, screamed for my heart, my love, till my voice was gone.
Only the sullen silence of the jungle answered me, the patter of the rain on my head and shoulders, women’s rain, the kind that never ends.
I dropped my head down on his motionless chest, pulled his body close, as part of me fell away. I ached to go wherever he had gone, thought, I can’t live through this.
I’m not sure how much time passed.
Cradling him, I walked toward shore. Grappling with him by his armpits, I dragged his body up on the wet sand, stopping to rest, cry, look at him; to give up, start over, and give up again, finally getting all of him out of the water and laying him down on his back. As if I were getting into bed with him, I got my own cumbersome body down on the wet sand, fitting myself next to him on my side. I inhaled his gorgeous Omar smell, present even in the early minutes of death. I traced the contours of his face, felt the subtle cleft of bone under his handsome cheeks. I muttered words of love, shutting each eye before combing his hair back from his forehead with my fingers.
The baby’s foot kicked near my heart, as if he was trying to resuscitate me.
A bird shrieked in the high green clerestory above me. I pushed myself to one elbow, all awareness, every cell firing. Dutchie’s gun lay nearby; I scrambled over to it and flipped open the magazine; all bullets fired. I blinked back nausea, dizziness.
There was nothing of use in Dutchie’s canoe. I peered out over the churning brown water. His body had caught in a bony snag of fallen logs several yards away in waist-high water, one arm and leg lifted up against it and held there by the current, as if he were trying to climb over it. I waded out to him. Tried to shut out the ridiculous idea that he might still be alive. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt along his back for his belt. The second my hand landed on Omar’s knife, I grabbed it and launched myself away from him.
On shore, I rescued Omar’s assignment from a thicket of ferns where it had landed, and read the last few lines:
. . . your stomach is full from your own cleverness. Learn every day. No knowledge is beneath you. Respect your elders. Hold on to your little flame of self, because the world wants to blow it out, my beloved son. With a sharp cry I fell to my knees, tucking the note to my chest.
* * *
Acknowledging that it would be close to impossible to keep the paper dry, I wrapped it in a palm leaf and put in my string bag. The jungle would come for Omar no matter what I did, but it crushed me to leave him on the sand. It took all my strength to drag his body to Dutchie’s canoe. I gathered a few dozen big leaves, heliconia flowers, and some giant white lilies floating near the bank, creating a soft, fragrant bed in the canoe. Bit by bit, I rolled his body in, the jungle above me a cathedral of sorrow. I took his glasses from his back pocket, wrapped his fingers around them. I kissed him one last time, lips already cold, then covered him with the rest of the palms and flowers, trying to remember what the Tatinga had placed in their death canoe for Benicio. Plants, flowers, his slingshot and toys, and a set of his little clothes. I had no such talismans for the father of my child. I told him that I was sorry, that I would have to keep his knife, and my blowgun and darts, and smiled to myself as I imagined him saying, Don’t be a fool. Take everything you need to survive; I’m already in another jungle . . .
Parting wheel-sized water plants, I waded out waist-deep with the canoe. Before I let myself think, I let go of the battered gunwale. The river took him with a kind of elegance, turning him just once, as if granting a benediction, then carried him off so fast I couldn’t bear it. I hadn’t said enough goodbyes, as if there is ever enough time to say all there is to say to someone we love.
* * *
Standing in our canoe, I yanked at the rusted chain attached to the nine-horsepower motor; a feat of contorted gymnastics as I tried to avoid smacking my bulging belly. Nothing. I sat a moment, attempted to gather my wits. Got up and tried again. The motor farted gray smoke, sputtered to silence. I cursed a bloody streak of loathing at the thing. Was I flooding it? What would Omar do? I eased myself back down on the seat, closed my eyes and saw—without Beya’s assistance this time—my own death; a green, swollen body under circling vultures. Got up and tried again, harder, wrenching a muscle in my shoulder. Still nothing, the jungle eerily quiet, as if mocking me. It finally occurred to me to check the gas. A third full, was that enough? Fourth try, I jerked the thing harder than I thought possible. It caught with a snorting sort of rumble—such a beautiful sound, such an intoxicating smell. The muddy brown water foamed at the bow as I nosed out into the flow, passing Dutchie’s body still held fast against the snarl of river detritus.
The boat began to turn in sickening circles. I reached back and grabbed the till as I’d seen Omar do—he’d used the motor as a rudder—and lay back against the damp leather bags. Eyes shut tight, I breathed the peaty smell of the leaves, asking them to heal my heart as well as my skin; where was my strength, where was my bravery, where was my self? How could I survive this? As I inhaled the sickly jungle-sweet air, a thousand images flashed by, a gallery of scenes from my short, strange life: the cameo-sized photo of my foster mother Tia at her sewing machine, smiling up at me from her kaleidoscopic nest of threads and bobbins; of a hundred doors slamming behind me as I ran from group homes, into rain, into
snow, into blazing sun, on buses, on trains, on foot, away from what was never good enough; I sat laughing and drinking with Britta and Molly at the bar in Cochabamba; I followed Omar under the string of Christmas lights as he led me to the smiling sloth; I watched Paco make me a comb out of palm fronds; there was Anna swirling in the new burlap dress I’d sewn her; Doña Antonia handing me the sacred fire, the small nod of Splitfoot’s head telling me I believe you are a shaman, or I believe you enough to give you this plant that might save you, so that you will do something good for our tribe.
An hour passed, maybe two, as I hugged the bank, where the current was weaker, to make the most of what diesel remained. My eyes rested on the shore and the wall of jungle passing by, all that sameness along with the sound of the motor chugging along lulling me into a torpor. One hand on the tiller, I lay on my side tasting the breath of a billion plants exhaling. Above me, the great heavy sky passed sullenly, crossed by barbets, tanagers, and jacamars—small birds—all of them bright, quick flashes of color. Much higher up, dun-colored raptors floated, their claws weighted with prey. A pair of vultures threaded in lazy figure eights through the canopy; I would not let myself think what had brought them there. The death of Omar was just a shadow passing, met with a sigh of apathy from the jungle, meaningless to everything here but myself.
With a jolt, I remembered what he had said to me just days before. You don’t wake up alive in the jungle because you were smarter or trickier. You stay alive here because you paid attention.
I pushed myself up to my elbows, as close to a seated position as I could manage. In those hours of nonfunctional grief, I had veered out toward the center of the river, where the current was strongest. My progress was pitiful. I watched the shape of the bank closely; I was bumping along at a standstill. Leaning on the rudder—the force of the river resisting my every move—I aimed the bow of the canoe toward shore.
Too fast. I fishtailed; the boat spun. Jumping a sunken tree, the stern yawed into the current, slamming me into a tangled mass of broken tree limbs, sluicing me with a soaking spray. I cut the motor. Chastened, determined, I spent several minutes pushing myself away from the outcropping.
Free of the bony snag, I yanked on the motor’s chain, dizzy with relief when it caught and rumbled to life on the first try. My arm ached from the pull of the rudder as I forced the boat to follow the contours of the bank. Behind thin clouds, the sun grew swollen and turned sickly white, burning through the haze and baking my head and shoulders. The poultice dried and flaked off in chunks that fell in the river and were swept swiftly away behind me.
Think, I told myself. What was the route we had taken?
From Ayachero, Omar had veered off into two different channels to arrive at the river I motored on now. I had a memory of always turning right, but that had been from my position lying down in the boat, facing . . . which way? I mentally lay down, head under the thatch. Saw Omar’s intense face as he leaned down to me, saying, Sit up, Lily, pay attention . . .
It was a right. It had to be. I had to make two right turns. And I would not stop to sleep.
* * *
A glowering red sun dropped behind the wall of green as macaws, paired by color—turquoise, crimson, yellow—soared high above, squawking at one another like old married couples. Banks of pink mimosa and purple tonka bean throbbed with a chorus of frogs. Now and then, to either side of the boat, a gulping sound, as a whiskered rubbery mouth popped to the surface, then disappeared. Both hands clutching the tiller, I puttered along into the night river, knowing the moment I ran out of diesel would be the end of everything.
Darkness closed like a door, the trees looming ogres, their big faces gaping down. I held on to the putt-putt of the motor like it was Omar’s heartbeat, Omar’s love for me, carrying me home. Feathery clouds drifted across a fingernail of moon. Mist spiraled off the river in fairy twists. A large fish jumped out of the water and came belly-flopping down. I motored on, my skin dry and pinching. Chambers of cool, wet air wafted by me, through me.
A warm wetness spread out beneath me, soaking my dress. Had I peed? I reached down over my belly and felt myself, smelled my hand; no urine smell. More liquid gushed out of me. My water had broken.
The baby was coming.
FORTY-TWO
A spitting mist accompanied vague, ominous dawn light. From high in the canopy, a howler monkey roared his loneliness. As I rounded a bend, the river split into three different branches. Nothing looked familiar. In despair, I chose a hard right, when really it could have been any of them. I hugged the shore, one hand on the tiller, the other across my belly, my guts twisting and pulling. The weight of my body shifted, gathering and dropping down hard between my legs.
Fat droplets became a steady gray wall of water. Men’s rain. I strained to keep the shore in sight. Steering around islands of fallen trees forced me out to rain-strengthened currents that bested the puny strength of the motor. I passed under a hulking set of tree limbs that reached out like a claw. It hooked under the thatched roof, tearing it completely from the boat with a racketing boom like a gun going off.
Instantly drenched, I struggled to see more than two feet in front of me. My belly convulsed in vicious, pulsing waves as if it had a will separate from my own. Fresh pain felled me back onto the soaked bags; another entity seemed bent on drilling into the base of my spine. I screamed into the rain, gulping it down with a bottomless thirst, blinded as I bellowed into the blank face of the sky. Big logs rolled past, freed by the deluge.
Rain pooled in the boat, quickly puddling in the center and rising; small tributaries formed around the hard leather bags of leaves. Water pounded at the thick sludge on my body, washing whatever poultice remained cleanly away and leaving only the green stains and healing lesions. I jammed my cold white feet in the tapir sandals between the supplies; they looked like someone else’s feet: swollen, bruised, cut, filthy. The thought that I had to bail the boat and had nothing to bail it with was torpedoed out of my mind by a whip crack of agony; a burning.
I was splitting open.
Gasping for air, I swallowed more water instead, gagging and coughing. But I had to know what was happening. To feel it, because I couldn’t see it. My hand traveled over the moonscape of my belly, down and down. It shook so hard, I had to press it against the quivering flesh of my thigh to steady it. The water rose all around me, my body an archipelago. Haltingly, my fingers cold as death, I worked my hand down past the folds of my sex until I felt the top of his head.
For a full minute I rested my fingers there, pain dulled by wonder, by the knowledge of him; the insanity of where I was and what I was doing forced from my consciousness by his physical reality, the hot rain pounding down like I was with him in his water, too. We were all in water together. I ran my jittery fingers along the tiny section of his hard and soft skull, felt Omar’s thick hair, tangled, matted, wet. I closed my eyes and listened to my baby’s desire to be born, no matter what; on a beach, in a plane, in a hut in a jungle village, in a dugout canoe, and I loved him for making his fierce claim on the world.
Water climbed all around me where I lay on the bags; it surged into channels and inlets around my breasts and shoulders, crept up to my knees, lapped at the curve of my hip, licked at my chin. I pictured him coming out of me, facedown, drowning; Dutchie’s dead visage flashed by. I scrambled higher up onto the bags of leaves to elevate myself, which bought me a minute, less. The rain came down harder as if enraged. The bags sank under my weight. Blood turned in S shapes in the rainwater at my hips; the little lake in the boat swirled with sticks and leaves as the water lapped over the sides. I had been torn; I knew it.
My hand left his head, which had lodged in me as if it might never move—a thought that filled me with a new level of horror. Wailing, I kicked at one of the leather bags of poultice, wedged it under my heel, and dragged it to my hand. Groaning with its weight, I dumped the sludgy green contents over the side of the boat. One hand still on the tiller, I bailed water
with the empty leather bag. Ridiculous. I couldn’t keep up. In agony, I dragged the other bags under me, lifting my pelvis higher than the gunwale, but could no longer bail from this position. Water poured into my mouth, ears, nose, eyes; the sky pummeled me with its hard water fists, my hips ached and split, I was giving birth into a vast vault of clouds.
I had to let go of the tiller. This boy wanted all of me. Any second he would be born head down into the brown lake that lapped at the sides of the canoe. But to lose the tiller meant we would go spinning into madness, we would lose the bank and any sense of where we were, any hope of getting home. Knees bent, heels jammed under the bags, I held my hand at his crown and bit at tiny sips of air, refusing to push, though every cell in my body screamed get him out get him out get him out! I kicked the last bag under my pelvis, gaining two inches and just a few seconds more. Lianas dragged across my convulsing body from overhanging trees. I tried to time it. Between contractions, I lifted my arm and dragged my hand across the curtain of green ropes. I yanked one of them free, wound it around the stuttering motor, then lashed it to the seat, anchoring the tiller in place. The boat jigged and jagged, but stayed steady in the current as it made its miserable progress forward.
My guts twisted, wringing themselves out like a dishrag. No force on earth would stop him now, no filling boat, no will of mine, nothing. Bands of muscle in my gut cinched and relaxed in one final wave, pain a white devil in my head. I felt the box of my pelvis drop open, my bones soften and separate. My body was turning itself inside out. Gulping equal parts air and water, I dropped my head back on the bag of green sludge and cried out for Omar, knowing we might both be with him soon. My eyes bugged in my head; I saw nothing but a green ocean in the sky. The water between my legs gushed red. I reached down with both hands to catch him just as the liana stretched and snapped, freeing the tiller. The boat turned in a wide, slow circle. I rode a fresh wave of torment, my screams joining with the riotous songs of morning, the spider monkeys, the macaws shrieking their loathing of the day, as he gushed out of me crying his first tears, slippery and warm and covered with my blood.
Into the Jungle Page 27