Brazil

by Errol Lincoln Uys

  The village had never before experienced anything like the return of Aruanã. How to deal with one who fled from the enemy, like Pojucan, presented no problem: A coward must be nameless till the day he died. But Aruanã had come back with no such burden. The women lamented for days to show a joy they shared with Obapira, Aruanã’s mother, still alive, who’d once shaved every hair of her head in mourning for this son. The men were more cautious, some thinking of spirits that walked with the body of man, and some remembering the time they stole feathers of Macaw and made this brave-looking warrior weep with feathers of Heron.

  Strangely enough, it was Naurú — dreadful, bent-backed Naurú, become even more hideous with age — who spoke for Aruanã, son of a man he’d condemned to death. But, then, it wasn’t really strange, since Naurú, who communed with Voice of the Spirits, could always divine what was good for Naurú.

  The village was told that the sacred rattles would be heard, and that night the men were summoned to the clearing, where Naurú waited, grim-looking in his urubu cloak, already moaning with the powers that were upon him.

  Aruanã had crossed half a continent and had braved the worst dangers, yet, standing again in that dark circle around the pagé, he was at once wary. He looked magnificent, for Old Mother had insisted on painting his body, ignoring the protests of Obapira, who was trying — with little success — to find a place in her son’s eyes. And in his lip and cheek holes he had smooth green stones carried from the lands of the Tapajós, and around his neck the jade amulet given him by Tocoyricoc.

  Now the men in the clearing began to dance around the pagé, stamping their feet in such a way that the seedpods tied around their calves shook in unison. From many mouths came the cries: “Now speak, O Voice of the Spirits.” Naurú shuffled around in the middle of the circle, puffing at a roll of tabak and blowing smoke toward some of the dancers. Faster and faster they moved, leaping and shouting, dipping their heads toward the pagé. “Let us hear! Let us hear!”

  Finally, Naurú intoned, “The spirits will speak!” and shook his rattle. The circle of dancers slowed and stopped. Naurú stood motionless, waiting for complete silence, and then he was heard, in a low, monotonous voice unlike his own.

  “Aieee! It is Macachera!” came the response. “Macachera, who sees our steps.”

  This Macachera walked with travelers; depending on his mood, he could either clear the path ahead of danger or riddle it with sickness and fear.

  “There is one who has made a journey.”

  All eyes turned to Aruanã. “It is so. Let us hear!”

  “Macachera has seen all.”

  “It is good! Let Macachera talk in this clearing.”

  “Let the enemy tremble in the sight of this Tupiniquin! He has seen the waters of Mother of Rivers. His eyes have witnessed, his ears have heard more than any other man in his maloca. Such a man is among us, and it gives the ancestors joy. Let him know this! Let him be heard in the clearing.”

  When he’d finished, he did his peculiar little dance, dragging his crooked leg behind him and jerking his body along until he stood before Aruaná.

  “The feathers were white!”

  He waited but got no response from Aruanã.

  “It was so because no-warrior was among us,” Naurú said.

  There were exclamations of surprise from the circle of men, most of whom remembered that awful time when one who had fled the Cariri darkened the village. It was his son who had now returned but with honor, as had been shown. Why was he who spoke with Voice of the Spirits bringing back the nameless one?

  Naurú held the sacred rattle motionless before him. “Let the anger of the ancestors be remembered. Naurú heard their wishes. They were not obeyed.”

  Tabajara, the elder who had been responsible for the failure to execute Pojucan, took this reminder badly.

  “No-warrior has been gone many Great Rains,” the pagé said. “I stand before you, as it has always been. The spirits see this.”

  “We, too, see Naurú!” several cried.

  “Then see this!” Naurú cried out, and he rushed to the spot in the clearing where he’d stamped his foot. Kneeling, he scratched in the sand till he found what he sought: the claws of the jaguar.

  He picked these out of the dirt and staggered up, dragging himself over to where Aruanã stood.

  “Now speak his name so all may hear!” Naurú ordered.

  “It was Pojucan.”

  “Po-ju-can,” the pagé said, drawing out the name. “With these claws, Naurú found Pojucan. Where the earth is upon the waters — Naurú and Macachera, who led him to that place!”

  Naurú displayed the claws, and Aruaná took a step backward, but the pagé said, “It is past. The ancestors have been obeyed.”

  Aruanã was trembling, and so was every man who’d witnessed this performance, for they were reminded, once again, that if Naurú went against them, there was no way of escaping his wrath — even if it meant that he must take the form of the jaguar and run to the farthest place beyond the forest.

  After his return, when the first battle cry came and the warriors of this Tupiniquin village hurled themselves against a Cariri stockade, Aruanã was at the front of the onslaught. Never was there a more ferocious warrior. He ran in among the enemy when his arrows were shot and then battered them with his war club until their blood lay upon his body bright as urucu paint. But it was the final triumph, after this war party returned with Cariri prisoners, that made Aruanã, son of Pojucan, a man among men of the Tupiniquin.

  Three sunrises after they’d left the Cariri village in flames, they returned to the clearing with three prisoners: two of them handsomely plump, who looked as though they might be brothers, and a third, who was taller than the others and had already occasioned amusement among the Tupiniquin, for he had the largest buttocks they’d ever seen.

  Tabajara stood to one side with the rest of the men as Old Mother, throbbing with delight, inspected the capture. When she jabbed her fingers at a Cariri chest, the other women slapped their thighs and yelled with pleasure.

  The two prisoners who looked alike glowered back at the women, but Big Buttocks became enraged. This increased the tirade, until they were breathless and Old Mother ordered: “Let them be prepared!”

  “Prepare me well, women!” Big Buttocks declared. “When I stand before those who live beyond the sun, let them see a true warrior!”

  He was given a few solid kicks for this insolence, and then a mountain of a woman seized him about the neck so that he could scarcely breathe, while others went to work shaving his head with shell scrapers. This accomplished, they slapped dollops of a sticky gum on his flesh, spread it with scrapers, and then bedecked him with an ugly assortment of gray feathers. The same was swiftly done with the other Cariri.

  Old Mother expressed approval. She then addressed Tabajara: “We have passed many moons without seeing Cariri beasts.”

  Tabajara consulted with the elders of two other malocas.

  Aruanã overheard their talk but paid no attention. He was looking at a lovely young woman named Juriti — “Dove” — who had just approached Old Mother with three lengths of cotton cord. Juriti’s eyes were on Aruanã, too, and when she smiled, he smiled back.

  “We have waited long,” Old Mother repeated. She stomped about impatiently, her big feet stirring up puffs of dust. “Tell the number of beads!” she snapped.

  “It is decided,” Tabajara said. “There will be one.”

  Old Mother was aghast. “One?” Far better than she could possibly have hoped for.

  “See, Cariri,” she crowed, “our ancestors won’t wait!” She took a cord from Juriti, threaded a single shell bead onto it, and went to Big Buttocks, who laughed as she tied the thin cotton strand around his neck.

  When it was done, it signaled a new round of joyous hysteria among the women, who knew that one shell indicated that the Cariri beasts would be chased into the clearing within the time of one new moon.

  “Yware
-pemme!” Old Mother cried. “Bring Yware-pemme!”

  She was sitting on a rough mat of fresh palm leaves inside Tabajara’s maloca. Since the arrival of the Cariri prisoners, she had conducted preparations for the coming feast, and nothing deserved more attention than Yware-pemme.

  Responding to her command, four girls led by Juriti entered the longhouse and came dancing slowly toward her, singing as they brought Yware-pemme. Similar to a weapon of war, with a broad, flattish head like that of a great serpent, it was twice the size of anything that a man would want to carry to battle: wielded by a strong warrior, it could crack the hardest skull in a single blow.

  Juriti and the girls laid the weapon on the ground before Old Mother, who bent forward to stroke it with affection.

  “Sing, O redwood of death. Let the ancestors witness the blow,” crooned Old Mother. She lifted her eyes to the others. “Where are the feathers?” she asked. “Where is the gum? Bring. Bring all!”

  Old Mother now supervised the making of delicate feather flowers, and she was quick to reject the slightest imperfection. Some women were working on long strands of threaded shells, and here, too, Old Mother demanded that sizes and shades be in perfect order.

  Others smeared Yware-pemme’s great head with gum and sprinkled it with a fine gray powder of ash and eggshells, chanting a song in remembrance of all its good works, calling out names of Tupiniquin warriors killed in battle against the Cariri or the Tupinambá — warriors who already knew the peace brought by Yware-pemme’s revenge.

  With a small stick, Old Mother traced a pattern on Yware-pemme’s sticky head, similar to the markings on a warrior’s face.

  With Old Mother walking ahead, the women filed out of the maloca into the sunny clearing, dancing in a long, wavy line behind Yware-pemme as they headed toward a pole set up opposite Naurú’s hut.

  “It is ready!” Old Mother called out.

  “We have seen,” Naurú said from within, but did not immediately show his face.

  The women stood the slaughter club against the pole and entwined both with the long strands of shells. Naurú emerged from his hut the moment they were finished. He shuffled around the pole, commenting on the flowers and the shells and, to the relief of the women, agreeing that they were excellent.

  “Who will go first?” Old Mother asked.

  “Big Buttocks,” said the pagé without hesitation.

  The objects of all these preparations — Big Buttocks and his compatriots — had been allowed the freedom of the village, and Big Buttocks had proven himself so tireless in composing ever-worse insults against his captors that he had earned the admiration of all.

  After the women had displayed the slaughter club, there remained one task: opposite the stake against which the club rested — far enough so that Naurú would not be disturbed — they erected a crude shelter. This done, each group returned to its maloca.

  Tonight, the men — the captives included — would drink until they began to fall down in the clearing. When the beer and the talk and the insults were concluded, the Cariri would be walked or carried to the rough hut. The women would have no part of this, for they must be ready before dawn.

  Next morning, Aruanã lay in his hammock. To think that he’d wanted to match the elders in quaffing gourd after gourd of beer! He shifted position, the hammock lurched, and the maloca swung around him.

  “Stand, on your feet!” Old Mother hissed at Tabajara, at Aruanã, at any who would hear.

  “Be gone — to your own work,” Tabajara said good-naturedly, and waved her away, but as he did, he lost balance and fell out of the hammock. Old Mother laughed heartily. Tabajara laughed, too, and more joined in.

  It was, Old Mother thought as she took her leave, a good start to this great day.

  At the clearing, the men watched Old Mother lead the first of many dances that would be performed before sunset.

  Naurú stood on the opposite side of the clearing, a motionless gray figure come to observe the rousing of the Cariri. It had been a long and exhausting night for the pagé. While others slept or drank till they were senseless, he’d been busy with his rattles and herbs, preparing the ground for the feast.

  The men needed no more than a covering of crimson to ward off the bad spirits who might come to spy on the village ceremonies. When it was done, their women hurried back to the Cariri, who had to be dressed for the kill. As happened on the first day, they were smeared with gum and bedecked with drab-colored feathers.

  When they were satisfied with their work, the women cleared away the shelter where the captives had spent their last night, and then led the Cariri to the “spirit guides”: men who rejoiced in the pagé’s attention, for this singling out was an honor. It fell to them to show these beasts to those who could not be seen.

  The women placed three big earthenware pots on the ground before the spirit guides and then went to stand at a distance. Ignoring the insults of the captives, two guides danced to the first pot and, dipping into it, began to extract a long, whitened cord. As intended, its appearance elicited cries of surprise from the women, though they themselves had spent weeks plaiting this thick rope from palm fiber.

  The other spirit guides now grabbed Big Buttocks and held him, while those with the rope tied it round his waist, leaving two long ends by which he could be led. When the brothers had been dealt with similarly, the women fled the scene, shouting a warning to all that the guides were prepared.

  The spirit guides paraded their charges around the deserted clearing, pausing outside each maloca to address dead warriors who waited for revenge. At the entrance to the stockade, the prisoners were lined up in front of the stakes where the skulls of earlier enemies dangled. Here, they were told, they would come to guard this village!

  When the guides marched back to the clearing and announced that their work of “showing” the Cariri was done, the women again poured into the open. To reclaim the captives, they must fight for them, not with the spirit guides, who now drifted away, but alone — Tupiniquin women against Cariri warriors.

  “Fight, Cariri!” the cry went up.

  Big Buttocks stood back to back with the other prisoners, surrounded by a seething crowd of women and children, with Old Mother thumping along in front, her great breasts flopping against her body. The Cariri had been provided with weapons — stones and broken pots scattered on the ground. Big Buttocks was first to hurl a piece of pottery at Old Mother: “May your sons’ bones whiten our clearings, old woman!”

  The potsherd bounced off her shoulder into the crowd behind. She let out a furious sound, taken up by others.

  More pottery and stones flew, the brothers sharing the rage of Big Buttocks and trying to match his flow of missiles and curses. The women merely leapt and laughed and shrieked when a missile hit home.

  At a signal from Old Mother, they closed in and grabbed the ends of the white cords, as they dragged the men off to the far end of the clearing.

  “See, Cariri, this is the place.”

  The Cariri only sneered contemptuously at being shown the spot where they would die.

  A group of girls including Juriti came dancing across the clearing with Yware-pemme, and an opening was quickly made for them through the crowd. Many hands reached to touch the slaughter club, its delicate feather flowers still intact, and a great murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of agitated females. The girls paraded the club before the prisoners.

  Big Buttocks laughed at it. “A sapling!” he called it. “A little stick for a Tupiniquin child.”

  But one of the brothers regarded the weapon with a look of horror that did not go unnoticed.

  “Run, Cariri!” a woman shouted. “We will not stop you. Run — show your ancestors a coward!”

  The young man stood his ground, and the girls with Yware-pemme moved on.

  Old Mother began giving instructions for the fires that must be prepared. The strongest women came forward and drove hefty forked stakes into the ground. These would support th
e crosspieces upon which thinner timbers would rest to make the boucan, a wide grill for the meat to be served this day.

  On the ground before the hut of the sacred rattles, another ceremony had almost ended. The young men, among them Aruanã, were waiting for word from the elders and Naurú, who were huddled together out of earshot. Finally, the pagé and Tabajara rose and walked over to them.

  “You have decided?” one asked.

  Tabajara spoke: “Let it be him!” He indicated toward Aruanã.

  “Yware-pemme!” Aruanã cried with joy.

  Immediately remembering where he was, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “The honor is too great for one so miserable,” he said. “I cannot hold Yware-pemme. Let another be shown.”

  Juriti and the girls, waiting for this moment, came forward and handed the great club to Tabajara. No sooner had he taken it than the girls fled, for the innocent games played with Yware-pemme were at an end.

  Tabajara again addressed Aruanã: “We hear your words, but it is the wise men of the malocas who have spoken.”

  “All better men than one who stands before you.”

  “They have known Yware-pemme.”

  “All were men who wasted little blood in the clearing.”

  “Then, may it be so with you, Aruanã, warrior of Tupiniquin!” Having said this, Tabajara held the great club with its head faced downward and swung it slowly, letting it pass between the young man’s legs.

  When one was thus indicated, he must no longer protest the choice, and Aruanã seized Yware-pemme. He must now select his attendants.

  He chose eight young men, who took him to a place behind the malocas. His body was dusted with ash to dull the bright urucu; streaks of deep genipapo dye marked his forehead; the green stones he wore in his lip and cheek holes were replaced with common white bone; dull feathers similar to those of the captives were gummed from his waist downward. When his attendants had made him as ugly as possible, they covered themselves with ashes. They stripped the club of its feather flowers, and when this was done, they went to the place of slaughter with Aruanã leading them.