The Soulkeepers

by G. P. Ching

  Chapter 22

  The Healer

  Jacob tried not to mind when the Achuar children poked at him experimentally. Not wanting to provoke any additional attention, he looked away, toward the painted brown skin of the Achuar women as they worked over a pot nearby. They mashed and chewed a root and then spit it into a large caldron. Near them, men with painted faces worked to bind the snake meat to a stake. Others stoked a massive pit fire. Soon, the stake was over the flames and the cooking snake meat filled the village with an aroma he could only compare to grilled fish.

  Dr. Silva emerged from the hut and motioned for him to join her. She eyed the children, who were, by this time, swinging from Jacob’s nonparticipating arms. “Jacob, stop playing around. The medicine woman is ready to see you now.”

  “Let go,” Jacob said, jerking his hands away from his giggling tormentors. He stepped to Dr. Silva’s side.

  “It’s because you’re tall,” she whispered in his ear. “We are the tallest here plus our skin is different, of course. They think we are a novelty. It’s entertaining to them.” She put her arm around his shoulders and guided him into the dimly lit hut.

  He didn’t respond to Dr. Silva’s comment because he was too busy mentally digesting the scene within the hut. An old woman sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, drinking from a carved cup. Dr. Silva motioned for him to sit on the floor in front of her. Jacob slid down to his knees then positioned himself to mirror the woman’s cross-legged form. She handed him a hollowed-out gourd containing a thick yellowish liquid.

  “It’s fermented manioc root. It’s perfectly safe. Please drink it,” Dr. Silva whispered from the corner of the hut.

  He did. The thick, sour substance found its way down his throat with some effort. His head swam a little by the time he finished and he couldn’t tell if he was slightly intoxicated by the stuff or just had indigestion.

  From a clay pot at her side, the medicine woman pulled a thick piece of braided rope. She lit the end and a swirl of blue smoke wafted up to a hole in the roof. Around his body, she circled the smoke, the heady perfume filling the hut. The smell was sweet and musty, not unlike oak leaves burning. After three times outlining him in fire and smoke, she stopped and placed the burning rope in the pot.

  With a tip of her head, she motioned for Jacob to lie down on a mat of woven palms. He hadn’t noticed it before but it was just to his left. When he was positioned flat on his back, she placed a rolled-up animal skin beneath his head. Her hands hovered above him, moving in a random series of quick bursts and achingly slow pulls through the air. In a dance of ancient movements, she surrounded him until, after some time, she brought her hands down within an inch of his face. The calloused brown skin of her palms reminded him of dirt. Those earth hands passed over him, close to his skin, once and again, never touching him but skimming every inch of his body. They hovered over his shoulders, his stomach, and down each leg. Finally, her fingertips settled over his heart.

  Through the smoke within the dimly lit hut, the lines in the old woman’s face were a map of time. Her entire history and the history of her people were carved into her skin. Her dark eyes shone like stars from within leather folds: landmarks on the topography of her life.

  Her fingers pulled air over his chest. While there was nothing in her hands, she pretended to scoop some invisible substance, cupping it in her palm before throwing it in the smoking pot near her knees. After she had done this several times, the strangest thing happened. A rising started in his body. It came from his toes, flowed through his fingertips, and emerged through his chest. She was pulling something out of him, something he didn’t want or need. He felt lighter than before, as if his body might follow the smoke and float up from the mat toward the hole in the roof.

  When the medicine woman had finished, she circled her hand over the bucket and dumped its contents out the back door of the hut. She sat Jacob up, supporting his shoulders, and said something to him in her strange language.

  “She says you are ready,” Dr. Silva translated. She took his hand and helped him up from the mat. When he emerged from the hut, he was surprised to find night had settled over the village and all the Achuar people were gathered for the meal. He sat at the edge of a grand circle to the sound of monkeys chattering and dogs barking. He had to remind himself he wasn’t dreaming as a woman brought him a carved bowl of snake meat and something that looked like mashed potatoes.

  “How long was I in there?” Jacob asked.

  “A couple of hours,” Dr. Silva responded.

  “Hours? It felt like minutes.”

  “She had to purify you for the ceremony. Tonight you are Achuar. Notice how the children aren’t bothering you anymore. It’s because they know what she’s done. She has blessed you as their own.”

  Jacob shivered. “This is easily the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Hmph. Well, I suppose you’re young.”

  Jacob cast a dark look in her direction.

  “Did you like the manioc beer?” Dr. Silva asked, digging into her bowl.

  “Not really,” he replied honestly.

  “The women chew the manioc root and spit it into a cauldron. It ferments for several days before they serve it. The people here drink gallons of it a day.” Dr. Silva smiled.

  “That’s completely disgusting … and probably alcoholic. I’m a minor, you know.”

  “Relax. It was boiled down. Perfectly harmless to you or any other child.”

  Jacob’s stomach twisted as he remembered the drink. “Do me a favor and don’t tell me what this is,” he said, pursing his lips and pointing at the pile of mush on the side of his plate.

  Dr. Silva laughed.

  When the meal was complete, the medicine woman positioned herself at the center of the circle. All of the villagers, Dr. Silva, and Jacob stood in a ring around her. She drank from a brightly painted gourd and began to dance and spin. A man played an instrument that sounded like a cross between a harp and a tambourine. The other villagers joined in the dance, as did Dr. Silva. Jacob followed along as best he could. The rhythm of the music carried him, faster and faster, circling around the Healer’s form. Abruptly, the dance stopped and Jacob plowed into Dr. Silva’s back.

  The medicine woman collapsed, twitching in the dirt.

  The urge to run to her was overwhelming; it looked like she was having a seizure or something. Jacob didn’t know how to help her but he took a step forward anyway. Before he could break the circle, Dr. Silva grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back into position. He shot her a dirty look. When he turned back toward the center of the circle, the shaking had stopped. The medicine woman sat bolt upright, her eyes forward, unseeing. Her arm shot out and pointed at Jacob.

  “This is it, Jacob,” Dr. Silva whispered. She moved toward the medicine woman.

  Jacob wasn’t sure if he should follow or not. At her held-up hand, he stayed where he was.

  She crossed to the center of the circle and squatted next to the old woman. Lowering her arm, the medicine woman began to jabber words in the Achuar language. Dr. Silva’s expression warped. Her skin became an even whiter shade of ghostly pale and she frowned at Jacob through a curtain of her white-blonde hair. The flow of words ended abruptly and the medicine woman’s body fell limp to the dirt. Dr. Silva stood and returned to her spot in the circle. Another Achuar woman ran to the Healer’s side with a glass of manioc beer.

  “What did she say?” Jacob asked, pulling at Dr. Silva’s arm.

  Her eyes bore into him, that winter sky stare colder than usual. Something about her face hardened, became statuesque. “She said it is best that you consider your mother dead.”

  “What does that mean? Is she dead?”

  “No. She is not dead, Jacob. But where she is we cannot go.”

  “But that’s great. She’s not dead! Let’s go find her.”

  “It’s hard to explain, Jacob. Your mother is where the Achuar say the ‘frightened ones’ are. It’s a place th
at is everywhere and nowhere. It’s a spiritual destination not a physical one.”

  “Then she is dead.”

  “That’s not what she said either.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense! Is this some kind of a joke? You brought me all the way out here for this?” Jacob shoved her shoulder, not thinking or caring that whatever she was, she could hurt him if she wanted to. Her hand shot up and gripped his wrist with bone-crunching pressure.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. I’m sorry you didn’t get the answer you were looking for. This is what she said. This is what she dreamed for you.”

  He wanted to hit her. He raised his free hand, clenched it into a fist, his knuckles white with rage. But Dr. Silva’s face was ice, and the malice seeping off of her was enough of a warning. Instinctively he knew if he were to hit her, he might as well be punching stone. Instead he clutched the sides of his hair, moaning softly as she released him.

  Doubling over, he rubbed his wrist. This was worse than any scenario he’d anticipated. He could’ve accepted his mother was dead. But this, this half answer, was torture. Knowing she was alive but not being able to do anything about it was worse than awful.

  Dr. Silva just walked away, leaving him standing in the middle of the Achuar village, a writhing mass of emotions. He turned in circles looking for some outlet, aware that the people were staring again, aware that dark thoughts were bounding through his skull. For a moment he thought his skin might tear; it was too small for this thing inside him, this rage that wanted to shred the village, to burn down everything, including Dr. Silva. Jacob was a protector and tonight he needed desperately to protect himself, from the barrage of pain, the hollow emptiness that Dr. Silva had caused.

  Unable to let it out any other way, Jacob turned his face toward the moon and released a primeval howl, a deep empty cry like a wounded animal. The emotion poured out of him, the release of his power happening almost without his knowledge. A series of popping sounds thundered around him and he was showered in water and clay. Every gourd of water the Achuar people kept in front of their huts had burst. There was no question he’d caused it.

  At the sight of the destruction, the Achuar families huddled together. They stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. Ashamed, tears welled in Jacob’s eyes, then flowed down his face until he completely fell apart and sobbed openly in the middle of the village.

  When at last the tears ebbed and Jacob was quiet again, a young man about his age crept forward with a gourd of bitter tea. The boy rested a hand on his shoulder and offered the drink. Jacob sipped it, grateful for the merciful gift. Whatever was in the drink relaxed him and soon he was following the boy into a hut and lying on a hammock by a fire. To the lullaby of the jungle, his mind cleared of anything but thoughts of the crackling flame. Physically and emotionally drained, he slept.