There is nothing threatening about these people. If Ashan and I strolled out of the jungle, I suspect half of them would run upon seeing us, and the rest would follow after a double take.
“Do you see the brother?” I whisper.
She points to the village’s far side, where a man sits alone inside a large hut with no walls. He’s surrounded by baskets, some tame monkeys, and he’s drinking from a clay bowl.
“He’s alone.”
She nods. “His sister is Mapinguari. They fear offending him.”
“Then they do still speak.”
“Or they suspect she’s keeping an eye on him.”
“Creepy,” I say, slipping back a little further, beyond the firelight’s reach. When Ashan joins me, I say, “We’ll sneak around, take him when things get loud, and drag him out into the forest.”
When I’m done laying out my plan, Ashan is staring at me like I’ve dipped my hand into honey and slapped a bear with it.
“What?” I ask.
“We’ll wait,” she says. “Until the only people upright are those moving through their visions. Even if we are seen, we won’t raise concerns, nor will we be remembered.”
I sigh, reach up, and pluck two mangos from a low hanging branch. I pass one to Ashan and tear into mine, careful to only eat the pulp and not the toxic skin. It’s been a long day without much food, and little water. If we’re going to spend the night awake and waiting for the Arawanti to get shit-faced, I’m going to need a few more mangos.
Time passes without a trace of boredom. The Arawanti know how to throw a shin-dig. The feast is composed of mostly fruits and vegetables, fit for even the most squeamish of vegans. The food is prepared with a wide variety of methods I have not yet experienced in the Amazon. Ashan and I cook over an open fire with only the machete to use as a tool. But the Arawanti have created a number of clay pots and stones, most likely gathered from the Andes mountain range to the west. Used in combination with a variety of spices, the air fills with scents that are new and unusual, but they set my stomach growling.
Just when I was beginning to think of the Arawanti as a jungle hippie commune, a blindfolded tapir is led into the village’s center. It’s an immense creature, easily five hundred pounds, capable of storming through a dozen people. But it’s not only docile, it’s stumbling.
How much of their ju-ju juice did they feed to it?
“Tikuna!” The oldest man I’ve seen since arriving in the jungle hobbles up beside the tapir with the help of a young woman and a cane. Framed by a blazing bonfire, he raises the cane above his head. “Tikuna!”
I watch, transfixed as the entire village chants Tikuna’s name. He’s not feared by these people. He’s revered. And when he stands, I wonder if it has anything to do with his relationship to Mapinguari. He’s a good five inches shorter than me, but he towers over the rest of the tribe. He’s thick all around, not ripped like a bodybuilder, but no doubt powerful. Despite me being taller, he’s got at least fifty pounds on me.
As impressive as Tikuna is, it’s what he does next that makes me gasp. He draws a sword from a sheath hanging on his hip. The three-foot blade is double-edged and while it’s speckled with rust, it looks strong and sharp. The blade ends at an ornate hilt of twisting metal.
“You know what it is?” Ashan asks. She’s not at all surprised by the weapon’s appearance, so she must have been aware of it. But she has no idea what it is, or where it came from. Or when.
“It’s called a rapier,” I tell her. “It was used by men who came to these lands a long time ago. Men who killed thousands using swords like that one, and even more by spreading disease. They were called conquistadors.”
It’s a simple explanation, and leaves out the mystery of how this weapon survived and made it this deep into the basin, far beyond the conquistadors’ reach, but she seems to understand.
“There are more weapons like it where you are from?” she asks.
“Many.”
“Did you have one?”
I shake my head. “There was no need, but I could have. They are common.”
She taps the machete on my hip. “You have this.”
“I took it from a dead man,” I say, and I don’t bother explaining that it belonged to my pilot. I’ve never told the story of how I arrived in the jungle. She’d either think I was crazy, or think I’m some sort of deity, neither of which I want. Right now, she believes I’m from a far-off tribe and that I simply got lost while wandering in the jungle. She doesn’t know about cities, and continents, and vehicles. And I like it that way. Telling her the truth might give her aspirations of leaving, and that’s not something I want.
Not anymore.
Tikuna approaches the tapir. When he thrusts the rapier in the air, the village goes silent. The naïve tapir’s nose twitches as it sniffs the air, perhaps wondering when it will get to eat all the fruit it can smell.
Tikuna grasps the sword in two meaty hands and swings it down hard with a loud, “Hoi!” The blade clings as it strikes, and passes through the tapir’s spine. With a larger weapon—an axe or broadsword, I’m sure the strike would have lopped the creature’s head off. Still, killing the tapir in a single strike through thick skin, muscle, and bone is impressive. He finishes the job by putting his weight into the sword and sawing it back and forth.
When the head falls away and blood oozes out, the party resumes and takes on a more primal feeling than the previous hippie, love fest. The tapir is roasted whole over the open flame. Rather than wait for the entire beast to cook through, members of the tribe peel off strips of meat over the course of two hours. Every time more meat is taken away, the raw flesh beneath is cooked. It’s an efficient way of cooking and eating such a large animal.
When the tapir is reduced to meat on bones and the villagers are passed out or speaking to visions, Ashan and I step out of the shadows.
I’m tense, waiting for someone to shout a warning that will trigger a bloodbath at my hands. But the tribe is quiet, or delirious. An old woman sees me coming and just smiles. I smile back and pause at the tapir to pick off some still-warm meat. Ashan gives me a rapid-fire whisper snap until she sees how much I’m enjoying the meat. She joins me by the fire and for five minutes we eat, surrounded by people who’d like to see us dead.
When we’ve had our fill, we continue on our way toward Tikuna’s large hut, which is still empty, aside from the big man. He sits alone, head leaned back on a basket, surrounded by fruit, as though he might wake at any moment and resume the feast.
Ashan stops short of the hut and puts a hand on my chest.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
She points at the corner of her mouth, and then to Tikuna.
He’s smiling.
But is he awake, or just drunk, dreaming of a voluptuous conquistador maiden polishing his sword?
When he speaks, I have my answer. “We have been waiting for you.”
His eyes open and lock on to mine.
While his lack of concern or surprise at our arrival is disconcerting, the truly worrisome bit is his use of the word ‘we.’
When every member of the tribe rises from the ground, fully aware and armed with bows, blowguns, and a variety of stone-tipped weapons, my fears are confirmed.
Instead of setting a trap, we’ve walked straight into one.
CATALYST
32
Tikuna isn’t just some giant loner summoned to sever necks, he’s the Arawanti’s chief. The village stands ready to cut us down on his word. He rests his right hand on the rapier’s pommel, but doesn’t look afraid, and doesn’t bother standing. He’s relaxed. In control. If we make a move, we’ll be struck by enough poison arrows and darts to make us look like porcupines.
“When did this happen?” Ashan asks, doing a decent job of masking her surprise.
“When turmoil dropped from the sky and infected the jungle,” Tikuna says. “When men were slain in their sleep. When an outsider insults Mapinguari.”
>
Upon speaking the monster’s name, frightened whispers flow through the villagers.
“You’re welcome,” I say, forcing a grin to hide my own surprise. Tikuna is not only blaming me for the events that led to his ascension to chief, he also seems to understand that I arrived in a plane. While the sword is ancient, perhaps the Arawanti have made contact with the outside world? If that’s the case, he thinks I’m nothing special.
He’s wrong. I am becoming Mapinguari. It won’t be long before he’ll have to answer for his disrespect.
“This started when the Guaruamo killed my people,” Ashan says through grinding teeth. “My mother. My father. My brother. The frail and young. All of them slaughtered.”
“You should have married the—”
“I should have slit Juma’s throat.”
Tikuna offers a slow nod. “That would have worked, too. But that time has passed. Dalandala, Guaruamo, and Jebubo have all suffered wounds.” When Ashan starts to speak, he holds up a hand and continues. “Some more severe than others, but it is your enemies who first paid tribute to Mapinguari, who summoned her wrath and set alight her hunger. It must be satiated, or we will all suffer.”
“What does that mean?” I ask Ashan.
“If Mapinguari does not fulfill its task, it is driven to kill anyone and anything it encounters.” Ashan frowns. “The river would run red with the blood of all living things.”
Seems a little melodramatic, but I get it. No one would be safe, and since they all fear Mapinguari so much, they’d all be easy prey.
“She would kill her own brother?” I ask.
Tikuna squints at me and pushes himself up. Despite being shorter, his broad body is intimidating. I don’t back down, but I do let my hand hang just an inch from the machete’s handle. If he attempts to draw that sword, it will be the last thing he does. I’m tempted to get it over with now and strike him down, but that would result in Ashan’s demise. That is something I will not allow.
“Mapinguari’s blood changed the moment she was altered. She is no more my sister than she is human.”
“Then you will not be offended when I kill her,” I say, brimming with confidence.
The big man smiles. “Kill her? You? Seshanguami?”
Seshanguami? It’s not a word I’ve heard before, but it doesn’t take long to break down the nickname into its distinct parts—sashan and quimi—and to understand its meaning: sleep-killer. It’s meant as an insult. He’s calling me a coward. Trying to prod me into action. But a war of words is a twenty-first century man’s game. “Not all the men who died at my hands were sleeping, Chulabinsuat.”
The name I’ve given him is a mouthful, but translates to “Docile, chubby, dung heap.” It’s juvenile of me, but this isn’t an intellectual debate. It’s a ruffling of feathers, showing our bright plumes, telling the other to back down before it’s too late.
Tikuna doesn’t flinch, but several of the Arawanti start whispering to each other.
“You are to both be delivered to Queshupa,” he says. “Mapinguari waits for you there. But the blood she requires is Ashan’s.” He points a meaty finger at me. “You can die here.”
I take a step back, resting a hand on my machete. I could dig into my satchel bag, draw the pistol, and put a few holes in the big man, but I’ve come to respect the laws that govern this ancient world. The gun may one day serve a purpose, but it will not be to kill this man, or Mapinguari. For me to become, for the alteration to be complete, I must fully embrace this world without technology. If not for Tikuna’s sword, I might have even abstained from using the machete.
“And if I do not?” I ask. “If I kill you?”
Tikuna chuckles. I am a joke to him. The sleep-killer. “All who are present, hear me! Should I fall to Seshanguami, you will take them both to Queshupa and allow him to face Mapinguari in defense of Ashan.”
No one speaks or moves, but they’ve heard the command. Whether or not they will follow it is anyone’s guess. Also, I’m not done with my demands.
“And,” I say, “You will tell me her name.”
Tikuna is confused by the demand. “Whose name?”
“Mapinguari.”
Tikuna knows what I’m getting at, but he decides to be a dick about it. “That is its name.”
“That ounce of regret I felt at having to kill a good man just vanished like rising smoke,” I say, and I’m pleased when his stone wall of a face shows a trace of concern. I point to the men and women around us. “I want the name of Tikuna’s sister. The one who died to this life and became something new. One of you must tell me…” I point to Tikuna. “…because he will be dead.”
“Let it be so,” the very old man says with a tap of his cane. Tikuna might be the chief, but this man, and his opinion are respected.
“We are agreed,” Tikuna says, like the conversation and civility is going to continue.
I’m not here to talk, or take part in a civilized trial by combat. I’m here to kill and become Mapinguari, and I’m going to pursue that the way Tikuna’s own sister would.
“How would you like me to—”
I cut Tikuna short with a roar, charging the man while drawing my machete. One solid swing and this will be over. I can aim high, burying the blade in his neck. I lack his raw strength, but the blade is sharp and even if I don’t hack through his spine, I’ll sever his carotid artery. Or I could strike low, on the inside of his meaty thigh, severing the femoral artery. Then I’ll just need to back off and wait as he bleeds out. Either way, it will be a messy, painful death, but it will get the job done.
I decide to aim high. I want to look him in the eyes when he realizes the depth of the mistake he’s made. Want to watch his life fade. Want to laugh as the expression on his face goes slack and dumb. And I will tell him, ‘You could have just pointed us in the right direction, given me her name, and lived a long life.’ I’m not sadistic. I just want the people watching to learn, and spread that lesson throughout the Amazon. I will train these people as I have trained Oro.
Tikuna has other plans.
As I leap forward, machete already swooping down, he catches me mid-sternum with an open-palmed, straight arm that would have served him well in the NFL. Since the big man doesn’t give an inch, all of the force is transferred to my chest. Ribs bend nearly to the point of breaking, but pressure is relieved when my feet come off the ground and he flies forward, as I spill back.
By the time I slap the ground, the air has already left my lungs. The second impact doesn’t knock any more air out, but it prevents me from taking a breath.
As unblinking fireflies pirouette around Tikuna’s head, he draws the sword, making a show of it.
He’s a fool, I think after heaving in three breaths. He should have killed me without the bluster. He’s used to an audience. To putting on a show. The big man who cuts down helpless animals.
I might be an animal, but I’m not helpless.
Tikuna raises the rapier over his head, preparing to swing it down on me like he did to the tapir. Instead of lopping off my head, he’d split me lengthwise. When a shout announces his swing, I roll to the side.
The blade slays the jungle floor, peppering my face with explosive soil as I scramble to my feet.
He recovers quickly and swings again, this time in a wide arc that forces me to leap back to avoid being eviscerated. I’m caught by a wall of hands that brace my fall, but then shoves me back into the fray, and into Tikuna’s backhanded swing.
I’ve never been in a proper fight, even against all the men I’ve faced in the jungle. I’ve always been allied with darkness, surprise, or confusion. Against Tikuna, it’s just me and him, which pits his fighting skills against my…what?
Ferocity.
That’s Mapinguari’s way. So it is mine.
And that means doing the insane. Leaving my humanity behind, I dive forward instead of aside. The rapier’s double-edged blade cuts through the air above my bushy head of hair as I slide past Tikuna
, slipping the machete blade against the side of his lower leg.
It’s not a killing blow, but he howls in pain. I delight in the shocked faces of our audience and the approving eyes of Ashan.
When my toes catch, I bend at the knees and spring toward Tikuna’s back.
With a monstrous shout, the big man spins around, throwing a meaty fist into my side. I manage to cut his arm as I sprawl away, but then I’m on my back and gasping for air again.
This time when he hacks the sword toward my midsection, there is no bravado. The show has become a fight for his life. The blood flowing from his leg and his arm have made that clear. I might be on my back again, but I’m not yet bleeding.
The rapier descends with a whoosh, but the strike doesn’t end with the sound of sliced flesh. It ends with a clang, striking the machete.
I push myself back, but the soil slips beneath my feet, and I’m forced to parry another blow. The machete is nearly knocked from my hands, the vibration tingling my arm from wrist to shoulder.
He strikes again, this time with a scream, putting everything he has into it. With no time to move, I don’t just block, I swing with a defiant shout of my own.
The sharp clang of metal striking metal is followed by a gasp from the onlookers, and a grunt of pain from me, as a red line of blood starts to seep from my midsection.
33
I’m cut. Can’t tell how deep it is, but since my organs are not bulging out and the pain is a fierce sting, rather than a severe ache, I think the wound is skin deep. Despite the rivulets of blood streaked over my mud-covered torso, all eyes are on Tikuna.
His legendary weapon, probably passed down from one chief to another for countless generations, has broken in two. Ancient, rusted iron is no match for modern, hardened steel. The three-foot blade is now just a foot long, looking more like a gaudy knife then a warrior’s sword. Given the grief in the villagers’ eyes, I think they would have preferred Tikuna’s death over the sword’s breaking.
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