by Bob Nailor
“Sorry, my friend,” he said without a trace of breathlessness. “I had to take a call from the Archdiocese. Let’s eat. I’m starved.” Edson had been breathing in the beef heart for a half hour and was ready for his turn.
The priest ate lightly, Edson like a stevedore. Bora was as trim as a teenager which made him all the speedier on the soccer field on Wednesday nights. He gathered the handful of youngsters in Boca who thought they were tough guys for a weekly match against the town cops. Edson’s right knee limited him to the goal, but that was the roughest spot on the field. The kids usually won and there was rarely more than one broken bone. Edson kept track of Bora’s goal against him which threatened to break 30 points by year’s end.
“Have you heard anything from Paulo and his expedition?” Bora asked as soon as they sat. The question had been on the tip of his tongue.
“Nothing,” Edson answered. “I passed the Vera Cruz this morning on patrol. It’s tied up at the overgrown logging road with one of his guys sleeping on the upper deck. Why?”
“The call was from the Archbishop,” Bora continued. “Somebody in Rome asked him to keep an eye on this little group.” The priest spoke freely, but with his eyes focused on his food, not his friend.
“Since when is the Pope interested in what goes on in our forest?” Edson asked.
“Since they sent me out here,” Bora replied. “They told me there was nothing dearer to the Holy Father’s heart than our world’s indigenous people.”
Edson stopped shoveling his beans and rice to slurp down his ever-present Guaraná. “Hmmm,” he replied, “not very likely. You never told me how you got yourself stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Did somebody catch you in the sacristy with a cute young catechism student?”
“Hardly,” Bora answered. He let the lewd suggestion pass. “I volunteered for this duty. I got sick of life in Belgrade and all the disillusioned Europeans. Out here, where life is dangerous, faith is real.”
“I didn’t know Serbia was Roman Catholic?” Edson asked, his curiosity suddenly piqued.
“It’s not,” Bora replied and fell into silence over his salad.
Edson looked across the table at the uncharacteristically silent priest. “And?” he pushed.
“There’s no ‘and,’” he replied. “I volunteered for this parish because of the unique opportunities here. No secrets or mystery.”
Edson dug into the succulent stewed meat. “Did I say anything about a mystery?” The cop never looked up.
“Are you interrogating me?” Bora bristled.
“Why would I interrogate you?” Edson asked. “You’ve got nothing to hide. Right, Father?” He left his little question floating in the air as he drained his guaraná. Bora let the comment drift away into the restaurant din.
The priest stood without finishing his plate. “Let’s take a walk.” He grabbed Edson’s weigh ticket. “Today’s on me.” He sauntered toward the exit.
“Wonderful, as usual,” the priest said to the owner at the cash register on their way out. “Mark these both on my account, please.” He handed over both tickets and grabbed a toothpick.
“Cops and priests don’t pay here,” the plump man replied with a wink. He ripped the scraps of paper in half. “Two ends of the same stick.”
They walked out into the punishing sun toward the center of the small plaza. It occupied one city block and, somehow, had escaped conversion into a parking lot. On one side sat the tiny bandstand which hosted the frightful town band on holidays. Encircling the square soared thick imperial palm trees that must have been over a century in age. The ground was mostly grass with a few mosaic sidewalks crisscrossing from the corners. Old men and young women rested on concrete benches emblazoned with the names of town businesses. A handful of barefoot, bare-chested boys skittered in an impromptu soccer match using stones for the goals.
“As I told you, I volunteered for this assignment,” Bora continued far from the hearing of gossipy townspeople. “You remember my predecessor, Father Sílvio? His exit interview with the Archbishop frightened people.” He gave Edson a glance. “And I mean, all the way up to the Holy Father. He talked about ‘evil in the forest’ and requested a transfer out of fear.”
“And we’re glad we ended up with you,” Edson said, not mentioning the town’s rejoicing after the departure of the stuffy old fart from Rio. “But, you haven’t really answered my question. Are you Catholic?”
The question was too direct for Bora to squirm out unscathed. “We’re all Catholic,” he simply replied. “Whether Roman, Orthodox, or Protestant. There is only one Church, Lieutenant, or did you miss that day in catechism?”
Just then, a well-kicked soccer ball struck Edson’s rear from the kids’ game. Bora stole it before Edson could react and dribbled back to the boys. His gentle shot slipped between the stones and left them cheering.
He jogged back, his wooden crucifix bouncing before him. He was unruffled by the brief action. “Score one for the good guys,” the priest quipped.
“And who are the bad guys, Father?” Edson asked, leaving Bora firmly on the hook. They walked together in silence for a few seconds. Bora’s eyes remained fixed on his leather sandals while his hand gently grasped and fingered the crucifix.
“Back home, in Eastern Europe,” he said, “I had a certain amount of experience with the battle against the darkness within us all. I performed a number of challenging exorcisms. I counseled parishioners who were convinced they were under the attack of evil. When I heard about this opening, I accepted it whole-heartedly.”
“And how would an Orthodox priest hear about an opening in a tiny Roman Catholic village in the middle of the rainforest?” Edson drilled, almost without thinking.
Bora simply clapped Edson on the shoulder. “To that question, I’ll have to beg ecclesiastical privilege, my friend.”
“Does that mean I’m hearing your confession, Father?” Edson joked.
Bora jogged off toward the open door of the church. He turned and ran backward, a mischievous smile on his face. “No,” he called out, “But I’ll be hearing yours later on. Right, Lieutenant?” The wooden crucifix bounced freely on the white surface of his shirt.
Edson’s face broke into a grin. He gave his friend a thumbs-up. “Yes, Father Bora,” he responded.
Chapter Eleven
LÚCIO
With the departure of the native, Lúcio calmed and finally slept, so Ana stepped outside into the bright sunlight and gazed about the village. A few brown natives could be seen, but for the most part, it was desolate. Suddenly another masked woman caked with rust-hued mud rushed toward her.
“It’s my time,” she said. She pushed Ana to the side and rushed into the oca. Ana followed, curious and alarmed.
The woman removed her mask bearing the face of an alligator and set it carefully by the door then looked back over her shoulder at Ana who stood in the doorway watching. When she saw Ana close behind her, she held her hand up. “Go,” she demanded then turned to cover Lúcio with a blanket. Again, the woman looked up to see Ana still standing in the doorway. “Go!” she snapped, and nearly growled at Ana. “All is well.” Her red eyes flared in the shadowed darkness of the hut.
Again, Ana found herself on the literal outside looking in. She was in the village but still not part of the people. She gazed at the large hut she had first been to, Itotia’s, and decided it would be best to let Itotia know she was going back to get the rest of the group. Why was I brought here alone? Ana strolled through the village, taking note of the huts, all of which seemed very new appearing. Facts niggled at the edge of her mind, irritating her. How long has the village been here? Where were all the natives? The men? Why the red eyes?’ Her mind raced with unanswered questions.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” Ana called into the dark opening of the large oca. “Itotia?”
She entered, walked to the throne, and knelt as she remembered Tinga doing. I’m not about to offend her on the very first day, she thought.
Ana turned and saw Itotia standing, outlined by the bright opening of the hut. She was shadowed but her eyes glowed red in that darkness. Ana leaned back on her knees, again trembling at the sight.
“Why do you fear me, Dr. Carvalho?” Itotia asked then extended an open hand. “Please stand. You are not of my tribe and owe me no obeisance.”
Ana took her hand and stood on unsteady legs. “I do not fear you,” she finally said. “I have seen one of the men from my crew in the small oca. He is close to death. How did he come to be here? Have you any idea what is wrong with him?”
Itotia walked a slow circle around Ana, letting her fingernails graze Ana’s shoulders and gently brush her chest. She continued to the throne and sat back with one foot up on the seat. She drummed the raised knee with fingernails which could have sliced apart the tapir. “Ironic, isn’t it?” Itotia said in a low, sarcastic tone. “Usually, your people come to the villages and natives die. This time, it’s the outsider who dies.”
“How do you know this?” Ana questioned. “You speak of our work with other tribes, yet this is our first contact with you.”
“Perhaps you have no knowledge of our people and culture, but we have heard much about you from our neighbors,” Itotia replied with a sly grin. “So, you are not familiar with this illness.”
Ana stood straight and still, her hands clasped together before her, rubbing the palms together nervously. “Is it true that there is no cure for this within your people?”
“My people,” Itotia said, a smile curled to one side of her face in more of a smirk. She leaned casually on one arm of the throne and absently tapped her lower lip with an index finger. “My people. How long has it been? Once they were my people. Now, they are no longer mine. I am but their queen.”
“Queen?” Ana echoed, surprised by the word rainha in Portuguese.
As she spoke, Itotia’s eyes blazed in synchronization with each emotion. Now they flared in anger. “You mock my title?” The woman leaned forward in her throne while still holding onto the chair’s arm to refrain from standing up or leaving its seat. She stretched her long leg to the floor and bent forward. Her face stopped inches from her visitor’s.
Ana imagined she could feel the heat of Itotia’s temper. “I meant no disrespect,” she said in a halting voice, her head bowed. “It’s just unusual for a village to be ruled by a woman, let alonebe called queen. The usual title for the leader of a tribe is chefe. A chief.” Ana shrugged. “My apologies.”
Itotia leaned back into the chair, the fury gone from her eyes. “Once, we were feared. My city was large with many great warriors—” She blinked slowly as if remembering the vision of memory. Her attention seemed to snap back to the present. “I have sent Tinga to get the rest of your group. They should be here shortly.”
“Thank you. Why did you bring me alone first to the village?”
Itotia sat silently, her eyes taking in Ana’s every expression. “I brought you to the village because you are the leader of the group. Am I wrong? Are you not the leader?”
Ana quietly nodded in agreement.
“You are of the outside world and not…” She hesitated and searched beyond Ana for the word. “Yes,” she said absently. “You are not prone to believe myths and loose tongues of natives’ tales.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Ana found her mind wandering, drifting to the dreams of the previous night. She felt her face flush and Itotia instantly sensed her embarrassment. She raised her chin slightly, a gentle smile gradually forming on her lips. Their eyes locked and Ana felt herself falling into fiery peril.
A blink from Itotia broke the spell. “You will understand my words when your group arrives,” she said dryly. “Now, go outside for they will soon be here.”
Ana took the dismissal in stride as the necessary display of authority after her poorly considered comment. She shrugged and went out into the midday heat where thick clouds rolled in overhead in preparation for the daily rains. She saw the group appear at the top of the embankment which surrounded the village. Aaron will be here soon, she thought and ran fingers through her hair to straighten it. Stop it! You’re not a school girl. The man is a teammate, not a knight in shining armor. A co-worker, nothing more. The hut where Lúcio had been now loomed before her. She stepped inside to find the native woman kneeling at Lúcio’s side, her face embedded at the old man’s throat.
“What are you doing?” Ana yelled. The woman turned with a malevolent snarl. It was then Ana saw what appeared to be blood on the woman’s mouth.
The native licked her lips, slowly, until they were clean. “Get away,” she snapped.
“No! You get away!” Ana ordered. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—” Ana grabbed the woman’s arm and attempted to pull her away. Some of the mud crumbled where Ana touched. Underneath, her skin was an ivory white like Itotia’s. The native yanked away with one simple and powerful flip of her arm. When she stood, her eyes pulsed in coal-red fury. She snarled again in the manner of a mad, trapped animal, her needle-sharp incisors gleaming in the low light.
“He is mine,” she growled. “I was chosen by him and appointed by our god.”
Ana shook her head to clear her thoughts. Had she really seen blood on this woman’s face? Mulher morcego. The words screamed inside Ana’s mind; the red eyes of some of the women flared in her imagination. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word that crawled through the darker regions of her mind; the word she feared to use.
“Are you trying to cure him?” Ana asked.
The fiendish native stared back at Ana, her fists clenched in rage. Her glare slowly terrified Ana to the bottom of her soul, more terrible than the ghastly mask she had worn. Her face began to relax and the scowl gave way to a malicious grin. She raised a hand and traced a line with her fingernail along Ana’s throat, downward to her chest. Her face moved close to Ana’s until she grazed her cheek.
“Your day will come,” she whispered in Ana’s ear. “I just hope it will be me.” Outside, the daily rain pounded the village, the sky as dark as a moonlit night. She slipped the garish mask under her arm and walk into the downpour, the red mud flowing down her body like paint splashed on a white canvass.
Ana remained frozen in the darkness of the tiny hut. A shiver began at the nape of her neck and shot down through her spine. She shook her head to rid herself of the sensation of evil, but with little result. A groan from Lúcio finally nudged her back into motion.
She kneeled to the old man who appeared even feebler than before. She lifted him up, cradling his fragile body in her arms. The heavy beaded necklace he wore around his throat slipped and Ana gently patted it back into place.
“Lúcio?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“Are they gone?” he asked hoarsely in Portuguese. “Can they hear me?” His eyes flicked open and Ana could see their luster was almost gone. His skin was a gray pallor and clammy.
“No one is here except me,” she whispered and stroked his head. She wanted to cry. “Why do you fear them?”
“They are legion as the missionaries taught me,” he whispered, his eyes flaring open with an uncanny glassiness for emphasis. “Legion. Do you hear me? Don’t let them fool you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are—”
Ana jumped when Paulo’s head popped into the hut. “So, here you are,” he said cheerily until he saw who lay on the straw mat. His face fell into a gray funk and he dashed to where his worker lay.
“Lúcio, it’s me, Paulo. Remember me?” he said with panic in his voice.
Lúcio raised a fragile hand to grab Paulo’s arm and pull his face close to his mouth. “You were right, Paulo,” he whimpered. His hand slipped away and fell onto his chest. “You were right about them.” His voice was hardly more than a breath. “They are m... m...” His eyes fluttered and closed, his head falling to the side.
“Marshall, bring your blood pressure kit,” Ana snapped, n
ever taking her eyes from Lúcio. “And hurry.”
“Is he even alive?” Aaron asked. “There is absolutely no color anywhere on his body.”
Marshall placed the cuff on Lúcio’s limp wrist, so thin that he almost couldn’t fasten the Velcro. The tiny machine pumped while the team stood in silent anxiety. In a few seconds, it stopped and a result flashed on the display. The oarsman shook his head and repeated the measurement twice more.
“Blood pressure ten-over-five. Pulse six beats per minute. I didn’t know the stupid machine could read this low,” he said quietly. “How the man is still alive, I have no idea.”
“Oh, my God,” Ana exclaimed. “He’s as good as dead.”
Itotia suddenly stepped into the entrance as a bolt of lightning slashed through the darkness. She was as dry as she had been in her own hut from a wide, woven-straw parasol carried by her two attendants who remained outside in the deluge. Her hair, brushed to an ebony brilliance, tumbled down to the small of her back. Her appearance cast a hush over everyone, including the impetuous Paulo. She walked directly to where Lúcio lay. Her eyes were fixed on Ana as if no one else were present.
“Our people will care for him tonight,” she said. “For us, this condition is common. Perhaps tomorrow he will be able to speak with you, again. Perhaps not. For now, you will leave him to us.”
“I will not,” Ana snapped, her face jutting up toward the Queen. “He needs care...” She thumped her index finger into her chest. “Our care. I’m not allowing your people near him again.”
In the dark of the hut, Itotia’s eyes narrowed, their glow deepening to burgundy embers
“This is my village, Dr. Ana Carvalho,” she growled. “You will do as I say. Now leave.”
Itotia placed herself between Lúcio and the outsiders. Ana could not bear another moment of her horrific eyes. She backed down and headed for the entrance, her team filing out behind.
Chapter Twelve
