by Emily Asad
Chapter 10: Outbreak
Chachugi’s idea of “not far from here” took almost a week. Sebastian learned that Chachugi’s “village” consisted of almost thirty people who followed a migration circle instead of staying in one place. Wherever Chachugi had seen them last, they would not be now – but he knew how to find them. During that time, they passed from the open savanna to a heavily forested terrain, which was crisscrossed with streams. Chachugi visibly relaxed when they entered the treeline. According to Arazunú’s unwilling translation, Chachugi’s people believed that only dead people lived in open spaces; if a person left the safety of the forest, he was considered dead.
Chachugi himself was acting almost dead at the end of the week. His white skin was fired with a red undertone, and it was not from the heat of the jungle. It was as if he had a fever. His eyes were abnormally bright, and even the shortest walks seemed to tire him.
Normally a strong, capable hunter, he had missed his shots twice yesterday – not a good sign. He refused to hunt any more until his shaman could perform a cleansing ritual on him.
“Panee,” he told Sebastian, still not speaking directly to Arazunú. Although they had declared a temporary truce, they would never trust each other.
“What’s panee?”
Arazunú translated. “It has no direct meaning. The closest thing you have is bad luck. When a hunter misses a shot, it is unlucky. But if he misses two, it is very unlucky. If he continues to miss his shots, he can no longer be a hunter. A man who cannot hunt must become a woman.”
“So he’s not going to hunt anymore, until someone washes him?”
“Obviously he’s done something wrong or attracted some evil. It is not a good omen for us that he is with us. Sometimes…” he hesitated, “panee is contagious. It’s best that he doesn’t hunt until he is purified.”
Chachugi knew they were talking about him. He muttered something and continued to walk as fast as he could.
“He says that the savanna has infected him. Being among the dead for so long has caused him to become ill.”
“But we’re in the trees now.”
“Not his trees.” Arazunú waited for one of the goats to munch on a green shoot, and then tugged on its fur to make it continue forward. “To him, it makes a difference.”
“So much so that he thinks he’s sick?”
Arazunú spat on the ground. “Ka’aygua.” The word was too faint to reach the chief’s ears.
But it was not his belief that he had been among the dead that made Chachugi sick. Nor was it the sweltering heat, although the hot summer sun taxed their energy. It was something far worse.
On November 5th they found the wandering village. High-pitched wails and tearful faces greeted them. Chachugi, who had been fine until he saw his people, also broke into a gale of tears. He began to sing a tuneless song while several women gave him piy, a ritual massage.
“He sings because he is glad to return. He tells them how he missed them, and they are singing the same thing,” said Arazunú, seeing confusion in Sebastian’s eyes.
Although the people saw Arazunú, Sebastian, and the animals, they pretended that they did not. Only when Chachugi introduced them did they acknowledge their visitors.
The Spaniard’s presence was disturbing enough, but there were several protests over having a Guarani warrior – even a young one - in their midst. And their fear of the domesticated animals was palpable. Chachugi reassured his people that they would not be harmed, and told them to not hunt or attack their visitors.
A wail rose up from the forest, seemingly invisible until Sebastian’s vision adjusted. What appeared to be a tangle of leaves and branches was in fact a well-constructed tapy, a temporary water-repellent shelter. Beneath the branches lay an old man. A middle-aged woman rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Chachugi motioned for his guests to remain where they were so he could see what was happening.
Tired, Sebastian looked around at the traveling village. There were roughly a dozen branch shelters and perhaps thirty people. He could not help comparing the first village with this one. The cannibals, at least, had strong, permanent huts; the Guayuki never stayed in one place for more than three days. All of them had white skin and thick, straight black hair like Chachugi. Also like Chachugi, the people went naked or wore minimal clothing. The men had thick, strong necks that reminded Sebastian of his father’s prize bull. Their backs were scarred from their manhood rituals. Their lower lips were pierced with labrets, some short and some long. The women huddled around various fires, preparing fruit and insects for the evening meal. Their scars covered their stomachs instead of their backs. Arazunú had explained that the women’s scars were protective signs for future babies.
Woven baskets sat within easy reach of the women, in case they should need them in a hurry. They contained the family’s entire possessions: clothes, woven mats, stone axes, stone knives, waterproof cooking pots, and any food items that were leftover or preserved. If the woman had children who were too young to walk very far, they would also carry them on their backs. Even pet capuchin monkeys hitched rides on the already burdened woman!
The people seemed happy enough, hugging each other freely or tickling each other, but Sebastian sensed something amiss. Children who should have been running around, playing with stones or chasing each other simply sat beside their mothers and watched Sebastian with curiosity. Women who normally might have chatted to each other while pounding palm fibers now did their daily chores without talking. Men polished their arrows with snail shells but did not move from their positions.
Thinking that perhaps it was his presence that caused so much discomfort, Sebastian turned to Arazunú. “Is something wrong?”
Arazunú pointed to the man lying in the tapy. “That man is very sick. It is a sickness that arrived suddenly, and their shaman does not seem to know how to treat it.”
“I hope the person gets better,” Sebastian said. “Is there anything you can do to help?”
Arazunú smiled. “From what I can see, their shaman is very old and very wise. I was a mere apprentice. I would only get in the way.”
Somehow, Arazunú’s answer did not satisfy Sebastian. He had a deep, gut feeling that something was very wrong here among these gentle people. But he could not pinpoint the source of that nagging feeling, so he tried to divert his attentions elsewhere.
It would probably rain tonight. Sebastian had learned that whenever the weather grew unbearably hot, humidity collected and evaporated and would eventually force a rainstorm. It would rain for several hours until the entire jungle floor was flooded, and then the weather would be cold for the next day or so. Gradually it would heat up until it became unbearably hot again, and the cycle would continue. Although there were no stables or even any buildings large enough to house his animals, Sebastian was glad to be among people again. Somehow there was a tremendous amount of security when people grouped together. Alone, he might not be able to hold off a jaguar – especially now that his ammunition was gone. But a group of people, together, would be safe.
Then why did he feel so restless?
“How long should we sit here?” he asked.
Arazunú shrugged. His foot covered a shiny snail shell. He pulled it out of the dirt and began to polish one of his own arrows with it. When he saw the suspicion in the villagers’ eyes, however, he put his arrow back into its sling. “I don’t want to stay more than a day,” he replied at last. “We’ll accept their gratitude feast and then we leave. We’re not far from the great river, anyway.”
“Should I set up a fireplace or something?”
Crinkles appeared around Arazunú’s eyes. He was laughing at Sebastian. “Your people do not sit still very well,” he said. “You are like small children who fidget and squirm at every chance.”
Sebastian sighed. It was true – he was uncomfortable when he was bored. And right now, there was nothing to do except people-watch. And the more he watched the Guayuki, th
e more uncomfortable he became.
A baby began to cry, suddenly, as if it had been pricked by a thorn. The mother immediately stuffed her breast into his mouth, but the baby did not want to nurse. He squirmed away and flailed his tiny fists in the air. She tried again, but the baby was not hungry. He continued to cry, louder this time. Despite his mother’s efforts to comfort him, he would not stop.
All heads turned to the baby, surprised. It was not the custom to allow an infant to cry. In a dangerous situation, when an enemy was close, a baby’s cry could give away their location and draw arrow-fire upon their people. A jaguar might hear the baby and consider it an easy meal. Danger aside, however, the Guayuki simply saw no reason for their children to cry. A baby cried for only four reasons – it was hungry, tired, dirty, or sick. And since the child would not eat or sleep and had not made any messes, there was only one explanation left.
The baby must be sick.
Sebastian’s heart leapt when the old woman added her wails to the baby’s. Chachugi knelt and bent his face close to the old man’s. The shaman began to chant in a tuneless wail. Chachugi straightened and stood.
Dead.
The entire village burst into a spine-tingling howl, some singing a mournful tune and others simply crying out in agony. One man, younger than the one who had just died, put his head in his hands and sat underneath the shade of a broad-leafed tree, crooning to himself. He said the same things over and over again until Sebastian asked Arazunú what was happening.
“The old man is dead, and he was a respected man in this village,” Arazunú explained. “This man is his son. He says, ‘My father is dead, my father is dead. I am an orphan now. The man that I loved has left me, the one who taught me to hunt is no longer alive. I am an orphan. My father is dead, he who made my first bow for me, he who could run like the roe deer. He is dead and I am an orphan because he is no longer alive…’ Do you want me to keep translating?”
Sebastian held up his hand. “No, please.” The words filled him with a strange sadness. He didn’t know the old man, and therefore could not mourn his loss, but he felt the son’s grief strongly. He imagined how distraught he would be if his own father died – but that wouldn’t happen. Sebastian would get to Asunción, with the livestock he had left, and his father would put his arms around him and comfort him.
One voice suddenly rose above the others, but this was not a voice of mourning. It was a scream of panic.
The mother who had been trying to comfort her crying baby held him up. The baby’s head drooped. She shook him gently, but there was no response. Several women stopped their mourning song for the old man and clustered around the mother. They poked at the infant, then felt his chest for movement.
As one, they took up their death chant again – but this time with the baby’s name added.
The mother began to scream.
For once, Sebastian did not need a translation.
He felt claustrophobic. Two deaths in less than ten minutes – it made him anxious. He looked at their faces – the mourning Guayuki – and did not like what he saw. They all had the same fever-reddened cheeks Chachugi had been sporting for the last week.
A young girl just entering womanhood took the baby away from the mother. At first the mother resisted, but when she was restrained by the older women, the girl was able to take the body to the shaman.
Sebastian did not want to watch any more. He turned his eyes to the now-abandoned fireplaces where food was cooking in waterproof woven baskets or roasting on spits. One item caught his eye because of its difference.
It was neither woven, nor made of skin, nor carved out of wood. It was made of a substance foreign to the gentle Indian tribe.
It was metal – European metal – and it contained sickness as well as stew.
All at once, Sebastian knew what was happening. His head whirled in realization. He could not bring himself to say what he was thinking: smallpox.
Smallpox could wipe out an entire village in less than a week.
Sebastian pointed his finger. “That metal pot!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” He ran to it and threw it away from the fire, into the trees. Its contents spilled onto the moist soil.
Several people stopped their wailing and stared at Sebastian in horror. He repeated his question to the chief.
Something about the urgency of Sebastian’s voice caused the chief to cease his own mourning. It was his son who had just died – the son of his favorite wife. He forced himself to answer.
“He says it must have been left here when the slave traders captured him. His people do not waste things. They understood what it was for and used it.”
“It was a trap!” Sebastian was disgusted. True terror gripped him as he looked into their faces again. “My father once wrote about the Portuguese bandeirantes and how they ‘leave’ pots in Indian camps. That pot,” and he pointed again, “probably belonged to a sick man. Now they’re all going to get sick.”
Arazunú translated. The chief looked terrified. He began to shout at the shaman, who was also trembling in fear. When the chief explained to his people, their wails took on a pitch of near-panic.
Arazunú alone seemed calm. “And me?” he asked. Sebastian was not listening – he was staring at the pot and the dead baby – so Arazunú asked again. “And me, Sebastian?”
Sebastian swallowed hard and forced a shrug. “No, you’ve lived with Europeans for too many years now. You’ve probably got immunities.”
It was a new word to Arazunú, immunities, but Sebastian’s face told him that the word was a lie anyway. “We’ll see,” he said. “Your diseases are as sneaky as your people are.”