Although there were but thirteen Nambikwara and twenty-nine Shavante, the small numbers did not lessen the ferocity of the battle. There were brilliant archers on both sides, and arrow after arrow flew across the water, falling thickest among the outnumbered Nambikwara, four of whom were instantly felled — two killed outright. Pojucan turned to Aruanã, who was fighting like the rest, and told him to collect dry grass. The boy crawled into the bush beyond reach of the Shavante arrows and did as he was told. Pojucan quickly bound tufts of grass to the ends of three long arrows and then made his way to the embers of their fires.
The flaming missiles worked splendidly, firing the bush where the Shavante hid.
Rock understood the Tupiniquin’s frantic signals: He shouted for his men to stop shooting and to be ready when the Shavante entered the river.
As the fire spread, some Shavante, instead of backing off, plunged into the water and splashed toward the encampment. Three went down immediately, but five kept coming, yelling and shouting and waving their war clubs. Another was shot as he reached the riverbank; but four made it into the midst of the Nambikwara.
The melee that followed was short and brutal. The Nambikwara jabbed at the Shavante with their long arrows, threw stones and earth, wielded branches collected for the fire. Pojucan and Ubiratan leapt into the fight with their stone-headed axes, both going for the same Shavante and felling him like a tree.
One managed to flee along the riverbank. The Nambikwara trapped the other, beat him to the ground and slaughtered him like an animal. Seeing the eight stalwarts defeated, the main body of the Shavante, who had gone a little way upstream to escape the flames, gave up the chase and drifted off, to bitter taunts from across the water.
Hare, reveling in the moment, strutted up and down in full view of the departing enemy, proclaiming himself “warrior-of-warriors,” “smasher-of-Shavante.” But he did not forget the boy, and when they had seen the last of the enemy, he turned to his men and reminded them that it had been Aruanã of the Tupiniquin who had roused them from the sleep of the dead.
Aruanã was not there to hear this. He was racing to find Morning Flower.
The girl was exactly where he had left her, her delicate body broken under the blows from the Shavante, who had fled this way from the scene of battle.
It was only a small blue-clay pot with a narrow opening and a wavy design, but it excited Ubiratan more than anything on their journey thus far.
They were passing the Great Rain with the Nambikwara at a village near a river that Ubiratan now knew must lead to Mother of Rivers.
He examined the pot with care, tracing his fingers over the pattern, tapping its sides, and gauging the thickness and quality of the material. The owner refused to part with it, which was understandable, since it was the only one of its kind in the village. Where had he got it? Ubiratan wanted to know. From men who had come down the next river, the Nambikwara said, tall men like Ubiratan and his friend. The owner of the pot accepted it as a fine object — his people made nothing like this — but could not comprehend the warrior’s joy at the sight of it. Ubiratan explained that it was the work of his people, the Tapajós.
It rained day after day. Their winter houses were poor branch-and-thatch affairs, and the little hunters shivered in misery, ranting against this forced interruption to their wanderings.
They hunted and fished, and were much amused when Ubiratan showed how to collect the fish with the pulpy fibers of timbó. He beat the water with lengths of this green liana, and the fish began to leap to the surface, where they thrashed around frantically until they turned their bellies to the sky. But, after a few expeditions, the Nambikwara lost interest and returned to sit around their fires, trading stories about the last real hunt.
They showed as little interest in the canoe that the two men and the boy made. The Nambikwara had never looked to the waters as a means of passage: Able to roam the cerrado at will, they could see little advantage in confining themselves to the direction of one or another stream. As with the timbó at first they observed with curiosity as Pojucan and Ubiratan selected a tree, felled it, and went to work hollowing out the trunk section with fire and stone axes and scrapers. Soon they lost interest and drifted away.
Aruanã, even more than his two companions, was eager to resume the journey. The memory of Morning Flower remained bitterly painful, and he was overwhelmed by all the emotions unleashed at her loss. To be away from Hare, Rock, Toad — from all that reminded him of her — would help end the pain.
So he was jubilant when the rains finally let up and he found himself sitting in the canoe, hollering and waving at a great group of Nambikwara, as Pojucan and Ubiratan paddled the craft.
The canoe was just twenty feet, with a four-foot beam, and heavily stocked with provisions. Aruanã sat in the bow, posted as lookout by Ubiratan, who, having lived in sight of Mother of Rivers and as much at home upon water as on land, was more skilled in its navigation than the Tupiniquin. They quickly moved into mid-channel, where the current was most rapid, and within moments were drawn into the wildness of this serpentine stream winding through the forest.
Small beaches, some sandy, others muddy or pebble-strewn, lay in the hook of the river’s inner turns. Opposite, the waters had eroded the banks, which rose perpendicularly, often to a height several times that of a tall man. The rise of water during the Great Rain and the gradual ebbing that had commenced were clearly marked at levels along the clayey soil and the tenacious vegetation that clung to it.
The effect of the wet season was most evident in the sight of many toppled trees, their precarious hold at the river’s edge finally undermined, their roots upturned like so many beseeching fingers. In places the river lost its form and the canoe was carried onto what appeared to be a vast lake.
At this early hour, the small beaches were thickly populated. Files of white cranes stood stiffly, eyeing the small craft as it rode past; sometimes they merely broke rank and withdrew a few steps — elsewhere, a nervous sentinel would signal all to wing. Beautiful pink and white spoonbills skimmed the water for insects, flights of parakeets squawked among the trees, black urubus perched solemnly, patiently awaiting a repast to come drifting down the river.
Alligators lay angled in the mud, their ridged backs motionless, some offering throaty grunts. In the trees behind them, monkeys kept up a busy chatter. A potbellied monkey bared his fangs at the passersby.
On this first day, the travelers began a routine that would rarely vary. They would set out before dawn and paddle till the sun stood high above and the heat was unbearable. Then they’d draw toward the bank and tie their craft to a limb or run it onto one of the beaches. After they’d bathed, they’d sometimes explore the forest but preferred to slumber till afternoon. They did travel at night, when there was the suspicion of a village ahead, gliding rapidly along the silvery way that more often than not bypassed the habitation of river people.
Their passage was relatively easy except in those places where the river roared over a cataract and their small craft was shot through a narrow channel between the rocks. Then they had to use every skill to prevent the hollowed log from capsizing. And, where the rocky bed shelved, there were barriers — great slabs of granite worn smooth by the action of water and sand. They were forced to portage, dragging and shoving the canoe through the undergrowth.
They passed through two new moons, two men and a boy voyaging into the heart of a great continent, as much in harmony with this wilderness as the animals that sought the riverbanks, leaving scant trace of their presence as they moved from one bend of the stream to the next. But their innate suspicion of the evil that stalked humans in such mysterious places often made them fearful.
Ubiratan awoke one morning and refused to leave the beach where they had slept. “Three sunrises must pass,” he declared.
Aruanã, stowing the supplies they’d removed from the canoe for the night, stopped his work. Pojucan had just emerged from the river, where he had bathed, and
was drying off at the fire. He made no comment but waited for Ubiratan to explain his statement.
“I dreamt that there was evil,” Ubiratan said. “I looked into the face of one who waited. I saw the tail of a serpent. His hand reached for me. Long, sharp claws fixed around my arm. He brought his hideous face to mine, eyes that glowed red. The stench of death was upon his body.”
Pojucan saw that the horrible being bore a striking resemblance to a fiend that tormented the Tupiniquin. “This is Jurupari,” he said, “who has brought misery to our malocas.”
“How were three sunrises shown?” Pojucan asked.
“Waking Bird called three times.”
For three days and nights they stayed on the beach. The nights were exhausting, for there could be no rest with the threat of Jurupari upon them. They used all the urucu dye they had, covering one another’s bodies and praying that their gleaming red skin would work its magic.
So they waited, and when the three sunrises had passed, they continued onward. They were still frightened, but that day passed without incident, and they felt free of the threat of Jurupari.
Six sunrises later, they were in the middle of the river, when a sudden squall burst upon them. A furious wind swept upriver, making the waters boil, and tore along the margins of forest, snapping branches like twigs and felling blackened, hollowed-out ancient trees. Behind the wind came a belt of rain, such a downpour that those in the canoe could scarcely see one another.
The current flowed powerfully, and with this and the pelting rain, they struggled in vain to steer for the nearest bank.
Then, at the height of the storm, the men and the boy heard a horrendous noise.
They had actually seen the enormous mahogany tree riding just below the surface earlier that afternoon. Now they only heard the impact as it bore down upon them, driving into the canoe with such force that the craft splintered and sank immediately.
The storm raged on, but the men and the boy were good swimmers and remained within sight of one another. While the wind and rain continued, they saw little chance of reaching the bank, but as they struggled to get beyond the grip of the current, they saw a floating island, a piece of jungle torn loose by the raging waters and held together by a massive web of roots deeply interwoven beneath its surface.
All three reached the island at the same time, shouting encouragement to one another as they grabbed for a hold among the slimy roots. Finally, they clawed up the side, and collapsed in exhausted silence.
It was only then they noticed that the storm was passing, as swiftly as it had come. With the wind gone, the island remained in midstream, almost imperceptibly moving with the current.
They were able to see, in the last light, that the island appeared to be some forty paces at its broadest point and at least five times this distance in length. Beyond the tangle of its old wood on their right was a thick stand of cane. Where they’d climbed on, there were smaller shrubs, grasses, and patches of bamboo. They began to explore this section of the island, looking for fire sticks and branches they might burn once they had a flame.
The two sticks, one hard, one soft, were easily found, but the harder one needed sharpening at one end and the softer required a notch to take the point. Without their stone tools and scrapers, this was difficult to accomplish. Pojucan impatiently fell to his knees and began tearing up the earth in search of a stone, which he eventually found. Holding one firmly on the ground with his foot, Pojucan twirled the drill stick rapidly between his hands. The wood was damp and it took some time before the friction produced sparks and the sparks ignited the sawdust bored out by the drill. Adding the driest twigs they could find, they soon had a blazing fire.
As for food and drink, a brief search yielded only some bitter berries, and although they were surrounded by water, it was not easy to reach. To drink, they had to go down like animals, with one holding onto another to prevent him from slipping into the river. Their conversation at the fire was limited.
“It is as I once spoke — ‘a long and terrible journey,’ Ubiratan said. “We have come far, but cannot know how many moons must lie between this place and my village.”
“It will not be made without a canoe,” Pojucan said. After a pause, he added, “There is the village of the river people who welcomed us. We must go back.”
“When we are off this land that moves, we will see,” Ubiratan replied.
Pojucan stood up, saying that he was going to look for more wood, and walked off to the trees, clumped in the center of the island.
With each step he took, his curiosity about this mysterious place grew. The undergrowth was thick with ferns and mosses flourishing in the damp river mists, but it was not difficult to penetrate, and Pojucan pressed on to find what lay ahead, where this great “earth canoe” parted the waters. Once or twice he thought he heard a low growl, but he dismissed it, for such a sound seemed impossible here.
The jaguars rested between the canes, their cold yellow eyes unblinking as they peered into the darkness.
The male’s big paws were stretched in front of him, his haunches raised high. He measured over eight feet from his muzzle to the root of his tail and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. The female, though fully grown, was smaller than her partner. She twitched her tail rapidly and opened her massive jaws as if to growl but only began a fast, throaty panting.
There was a natural clearing between the cluster of trees and the canebrake, and Pojucan boldly walked into this opening. He saw no reason for caution, since he’d encountered no living things in this deserted place except insects.
But suddenly he froze, leaning ever so slightly in the direction of the canes, straining his ears as he tried to identify the noise. Perhaps it was Capybara, the giant rodent who infested such places, and he waited for its clicking sound.
The male jaguar crept forward, his heavy body low to the ground and passing noiselessly between a gap in the canes. With a deep, guttural roar, the jaguar burst out of the reeds and leapt toward Pojucan. Pojucan fell back, fighting hopelessly as the claws ripped through his flesh. He screamed, loud and piteously.
His cries died quickly, for the jaguar scrambled on top of him and sank his teeth into Pojucan’s throat. The female, snarling and growling alongside them, saw the sudden gush of blood and came forward.
The kill was over, and the male, his muzzle stained with Pojucan’s blood, backed off a little way. He watched his mate licking at the deep furrows across the man’s chest with her horny, rasping tongue. He uttered a long, low, tremorous growl. Afterward he pawed his face a few times, then suddenly stood motionless, a heavy forepaw slightly above the ground, his head cocked to one side. He kept this stance briefly before he started to pad swiftly and stealthily toward the trees. Clearly the female was reluctant to leave the body, but within seconds she was loping after him.
Ubiratan and the boy heard Pojucan’s piercing, agonized screams, and there could be no equal to the terror that came to them in the quiet. Neither moved nor spoke in the dreadful silence following the attack. They stayed by the fire, their eyes occasionally meeting, the helplessness each saw in the other’s eyes only adding to their fear.
The jaguars had come out of the wood and were standing a distance apart, but they didn’t move when the spot of light flared up. The male gave a deep, hoarse growl. He heard the female grunt, and he answered her with a series of night-rending roars.
“Go!” Ubiratan urged in a deep whisper. “That way! Now!” The boy hesitated. “Get away!”
Aruanã first crawled, with frantic, panicky movements, unmindful of the warm urine that spurted as he lost control. Then he scrambled up, running forward, when suddenly he had the sensation of falling, with roots and branches jabbing and scratching him, until he hit the water and went under.
Before Ubiratan made to follow the boy, he grabbed a flaming brand and hurled it in the direction of the jaguars. It landed near the female, who scrambled off, snarling. The male bolted, too, but swung in a semicircle
that brought him close to the man.
Ubiratan anticipated the charge, and when the jaguar exploded out of the dark, he struck at him with a burning log. It caught the huge beast on the side of the face, just below the glowing yellow eye, and he rushed past Ubiratan, howling with rage, and disappeared into the night. Ubiratan cried then, in agony, for the fiery wood had seared the flesh of his hands.
He stumbled after Aruanã, plunging on until he reached the land’s edge, where he slid rather than fell down the slope toward the river, crying out as his wounded hands were grazed by the brush.
Ubiratan was forced to spend the rest of the night clinging to the slope, with Aruanã supporting him when the pain in his hands became too much to bear and he slipped toward unconsciousness. Somehow the boy, exhausted and terrified as he was, managed to hold him up, knowing that if Ubiratan fell into the water with those bloody hands, his bones would be picked clean by the greedy piranha.
Dawn came and still they waited, but when the sun had burned the mist off the river, they saw that the floating island had moved closer to the riverbank.
Caught in the roots near them was part of a tree trunk, which Aruanã pried loose. They used this to get to shore.
On gaining the mainland, Aruanã cast his eyes slowly along the isle of terror.
“Pojucan,” Ubiratan heard him say. Then, again and yet again, louder each time, as if addressing the spirit gods themselves: “Pojucan! Pojucan!”
It was the boy’s only way of honoring one who had been nameless among his own people.
The young warrior was one of the finest specimens of his race. When he walked through the village, other men took quiet note and the women’s pleasure went undisguised. He was loose-limbed and solidly muscled, with a broad chest. There was about him the easy grace of the jaguar, which he was famed for hunting. He had a strong face with dark, piercing eyes and a general look of authority. In battle, he was recognized as brave; in the forest, as resourceful and cunning.
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