by Karen Swan
Sarita smiled, loosening with the compliment.
‘Jed, Sarita . . .’ She looked at them both. ‘Paco is very sick. It is my opinion that he should be taken to hospital so that they can run further tests.’
Jed translated her words quickly. Sarita looked away, pained herself.
‘It is not possible. He is too weak to travel,’ Jed said after a silence, speaking for his wife, knowing her wishes. ‘He cries in pain every time he moves.’
Tara blinked, knowing there were no easy options. The trees were too dense for a helicopter to land, and if he couldn’t move without anguish, she didn’t see how he could cope with being stretchered for thirty minutes, before then enduring the rough car journey along those roads.
‘Jed, I understand the pain of moving might hurt him – but it wouldn’t kill him.’ She stared at him, willing him to understand what she wasn’t saying: that just lying here might. ‘He needs to be in hospital.’ She hated seeing the anguish on her old friend’s face. ‘I’m sorry. I know what I’m asking is hard. But it is for his benef—’
The door behind Jed opened and a man came in. He was not big but he had presence; he was not wizened, but she knew he was wise. He looked like a coffee or plantain farmer, wearing plain trousers and a shirt, but she instinctively knew he was important.
Sarita immediately began speaking to him in a language Tara didn’t understand – Bribri? – gesticulating with her arms towards Tara. She understood who the man was just from the way they deferred to him.
After several minutes of indecipherable back-and-forth conversation, Jed turned to face her.
‘Tara, this is Don Carlo, the Awa. He has been treating Paco for us all these months.’
Tara nodded respectfully. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Don Carlo,’ she said in Spanish.
Don Carlo nodded slowly in return, regarding her intently, and she had a sense of being absorbed, like she was ink and he was blotting paper.
Jed began speaking again in Spanish and Tara noticed that wasn’t the language the Awa used when he spoke to Sarita. Even Jed was an outsider here.
The Awa looked back at her again; there was no malice in his gaze as Jed continued to speak. Then he fell quiet.
There was a prolonged hush and Tara wondered whether she should step into the void and just get the ball rolling. It was clear they came from opposing medical disciplines.
But the Awa spoke first, his voice deep and low and sonorous. Sarita repeated his words in Spanish to Jed, and Jed looked back at her. ‘He says there are over fifteen hundred plants in the jungle he can use as medicine. That there are fifty in the gardens right here.’
‘Great. Okay.’
‘He trained as an Awa from his uncle. From the Guetares tribe.’
‘Oh, really?’ She was interested, of course. But how was this relevant?
‘Their ancestors have been living in the Alto Uren mountains for three thousand years. Their wisdom and knowledge has been passed down through their families. It has never been written down. What the Awa knows, cannot be found in a book.’
‘I’m sure. And it is something I would love to know more about. I’m personally very interested in natural medicines and the botanical world and where that could intersect with Western medicine.’ She realized she was using her ‘work’ voice, the one she used for communicating terrible news to strangers, when she had to be a doctor and not a flesh-and-blood human too. ‘But Jed, your son needs urgent help that can get guaranteed results. He needs a thorough diagnostic workup and probably some full immunosuppressive therapy. I can’t say for sure without running complete tests but from his history and presenting symptoms, he could very well be suffering with—’
‘Hepatitis.’
The word had come straight from the Awa. He spoke English?
‘Hepatitis, yes, it’s a possibility,’ she agreed, turning to him. ‘But it would need further tests to establish for sure.’
‘Hepatitis,’ the Awa repeated. And he walked over to the small stool and picked up the bowl Sarita had been working at when they’d arrived. He lapsed into Bribri again.
Tara waited for the information to be relayed – Sarita, to Jed, to her. ‘These leaves, when ground up, make a juice,’ Jed said. ‘For seven months so far, to purge the blood. No food.’
Tara’s eyes widened in alarm. Seven months with no food? Even manners couldn’t hold back her shock. He would die of starvation and malnutrition long before the disease got him. Little wonder he was skin and bone!
‘He needs nourishment, Jed, or he will die.’ Her voice was more urgent now, more insistent.
‘He says all the medicine we need is right here. The earth will heal us, we just need to know how.’
She watched as the Awa reached into a cloth sack she hadn’t noticed he had brought in with him. He pulled out a variety of leaves, still green, still fresh. He held them up as he began speaking again.
‘These ones – coffee leaves . . . are for headaches,’ Jed said, translating dutifully.
He put the coffee leaves back in the bag.
‘Oh God,’ she thought, watching in dismay as he brought out some others. Another perceived display of strength? He could show her the leaves of every plant in this jungle, but it wasn’t going to make that little boy better.
‘These . . . this is the Clorox.’ The Awa rubbed it between his hands and presented it to her to sniff. ‘We use this for washing our clothes,’ Jed translated.
‘This leaf . . . with the red spots . . .’ Tara waited as it was held up to show her. ‘Is for the woman’s menstruation cramps. You cook it up and drink it as a tea. See? It even smells like blood.’ Tara didn’t want to smell these leaves, but being polite, being British – an old joke, she vaguely recalled – she did. It did, curiously, have that ferrous tang to it.
‘And these ones . . .’ The Awa held up some glossy green leaves, shaped with three dips, and said something directly to Jed. ‘He does not know the word in Spanish. In Bribri is called curyho diwhipa. For curing the diabetes.’
‘Diabetes? Really?’
‘Bu he calls it men’s underwear.’
Tara frowned, as the Awa laughed suddenly, the sound cackling and ancient. ‘Men’s . . .?’
‘Yes. It looks like men’s underwear. He says.’
Tara looked at it more closely. She supposed the shape might, possibly, bear a relation to Y-fronts although she couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure, as she didn’t know any men who wore them. She gave a small, polite smile. This was a waste of precious time. None of it changed the fact that a young boy was slowly dying in the corner of this hut in the jungle.
‘Don Carlos—’ she began, just as the Awa stepped towards her and reached forwards, putting his hands on her ringing head – one hand over her forehead, the other behind, at the base of her skull. He closed his eyes.
Tara, though startled, fell still at the firm hold. It was so profoundly surprising and unexpected and . . . comforting. She listened to the hush grow like a suspense.
She waited . . . and began to feel a curious rush, as though something was shifting in her, unblocking dammed-up waters. Anger breaking past her manners at last, perhaps? It was a giddying sensation, but she didn’t stir. For half a minute, maybe more, no one moved at all. Then the Awa stepped back, his hands lifting off her and leaving heat imprints on her skin. The rushing sensation immediately stilled. He said something to Sarita, who passed it to her husband.
‘. . . He says the heart vibration is weak.’
‘Hearts don’t vibrate, Jed,’ she said in a quiet voice that refuted the assertion.
The Awa spoke again. This time, when Jed listened, then looked at her, he seemed both shocked and awkward.
‘He says you have lost a child. That is why you are here.’
The statement was startling, images of little Lucy Miller flashing through her mind, of blood in water—
She swallowed. ‘I am here to stop you losing your child.’
The
man spoke again and Tara waited as the message was conveyed down the line to her. ‘He says you carry it in your heart,’ Jed murmured.
Memories clawed at her like spitting cats, the white noise of a fast-gathering headache turned up to maximum volume.
‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? The death of any child is devastating.’ But her voice was choked and she stepped back, out of their orbits, turning away. She didn’t want to be ‘read’ again. She didn’t believe in . . . this. ‘Which is why it’s so important we get Paco somewhere he can be treated.’
The Awa spoke again, but Tara felt her patience beginning to fray. This was ridiculous. Paco needed to get to a hospital, as quickly as humanly possible.
‘He says what Paco needs is the black star leaf.’
Tara blinked. ‘What?’
‘It is the plant which can truly cure him. But it cannot be found here, only in one spot of the sacred Alto Uren mountains. It is a two-day journey from here and the leaves must be picked by a woman at dusk.’
Oh, for heaven’s sake! A woman at—? Tara stared at him, struggling to contain her frustration. ‘Jed, your son could be in a hospital in San José in a few hours. If you could just steel yourself to get him to somewhere a helicopter could land, we could get him to full medical help tonight. Won’t you let me do that for you? Please.’
Jed stared back at her, hearing the glint of steel in her words. He could recognize the logic of what she was saying, she could see it, but he was conflicted, a husband and father torn. After several moments of protracted silence, he turned to talk to Sarita. Tara watched as she began shaking her head, stepping back and away, her eyes down, refusing to make contact with Tara again. Tara heard the shrillness in her voice, saw the way the Awa frowned at Jed’s words.
Tara felt her stomach drop as she listened to them argue; she understood it was a lost cause. Jed couldn’t convince his wife and she got to have the casting vote. Her culture didn’t recognize the help Western medicine could give to her son; she didn’t see it could save his life.
Jed looked back at her, an expression that she couldn’t quite read on his face. ‘Tara,’ he said slowly, picking his words carefully. ‘We thank you for coming here tonight and offering to help. It is a great honour to us that you have shown so much friendship and compassion to our family. You, whose family has done so much to help protect our country. Sarita wishes you to know she sends you many blessings.’
He didn’t even sound like her old friend, but a stranger, a humble employee demurring politely to the boss. Tara gave a weak smile. ‘I see. Well . . .’ She looked at Sarita and nodded in acknowledgement, but she didn’t want blessings or thanks or honours. She wanted that boy to live.
‘Come, you must be hungry. We will eat.’
‘Actually—’ She stopped him, defeat crashing over her like a wave and taking her energy with it. ‘I’m so tired still. The flight last night and the jet lag . . . If I can’t help here, would it be terribly rude if I went to bed?’
‘Of course not, please . . .’ He turned and spoke rapidly to Sarita again. She nodded and began moving quickly, gathering things from hidden corners. She returned a few moments later with some sheets.
Jed took them and went to lead Tara outside.
‘Gracias. Buenas noches,’ Tara said, stopping at the door, her gaze flitting one last time to the sight of the thin boy labouring on the mattress. It was almost more than she could bear.
‘Buenas noches,’ Sarita said with the Awa, both of them watching her go.
She followed Jed into the night. It was black as pitch but he walked, sure-footed and clear-sighted, to a small hut just a few metres away.
‘This is empty,’ he said, handing her the sheets. ‘You will be perfectly safe here.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’
‘Just remember to check for ants. They give a nasty bite out here.’
‘Sure. Jed, I—’
But he stopped her with a firm smile. His wife’s word was final.
‘Good night, Tara.’
Chapter Sixteen
She felt a tickle, light as a hair, over the back of her hand. A breeze had found her and fluttered over her skin. She gave a soft moan, feeling herself slowly rise up from the depths of sleep. She felt heavy, heavier than she had ever been, like an anchor listing on the seabed. Vaguely, behind closed eyelids, she detected skeins of light. The tickle came again, crossing to her wrist, getting closer to her f—
She jumped up with a gasp, her eyes focusing just in time to see a beetle the size of a plum skittering across the floor. It was a dazzling electric blue, actually beautiful. Just not to inhale.
‘Jesus!’ she hissed, sitting back on her heels on the mattress and trying to bring her heart rate back down. She sat there, inert, her head hanging, for several moments. She had a vague sense of despair in her bones but she couldn’t put a shape to it, couldn’t quite cast off the confusion of sleep until she looked at the rudimentary bed she had been lying on and remembered where she was – and why.
Oh God. She rubbed her hands down her face. That boy, that poor child. How long had she slept for? How many hours had he been lying in suffering, while she’d slept soundly here? She remembered her failure to do anything about it. Her losses were coming thick and fast at the moment.
With a sigh, she looked around her more keenly. The room, no bigger than a few square metres, was softly lit, daybreak tumbling through numerous wooden splits so that the room felt covered in golden splinters. There was a small hatch in one wall and she got up to open it.
She peered out – and instinctively smiled. The greenery was dense and lush, massive banana tree leaves splaying like parasols; a line of washing strung up between two trunks and hung with dull-coloured sheets. She saw a couple of small pigs truffling along the ground. Smoke was twisting from the top of one of the huts. It was an extraordinary scene, so completely tropical and different in every way to the rooftops-and-terraces vista from her Pimlico flat. Back home, nature was something to clip, tame and suppress into submission with perfectly clipped box balls, artful sprays of lavender and erect tulips. Here, everything ran riot, sprang up, toppled over, spread out, fought like toddlers, for air, rain, light . . .
She heard chickens pecking somewhere just out of sight from here and thought how much it sounded like waking up in an aviary, to the sound of wing flaps and trills and squawks.
Steadily, she felt nature acting as a balm to her frazzled nerves, the bright light of day dousing the emotional passions of last night. This was not her tragedy; it wasn’t, and she had to maintain her boundaries. She could try to help her friend, yes, but if he would not be helped . . . What was it Rory had said? You can’t save everyone.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, a long-worn, completely unscientific habit for gauging the strength of her headache. Today’s was low-to-medium.
What time was it, anyway? There was no way of telling. Her phone was out of battery, with no way of charging it out here – she resolved to go into town later and buy a solar battery pack if she could – but from the light and the angle of the sun, she guessed it was early morning still. Five, maybe six o’clock? Had it not been for her run-in with the beetle, she might have slept for hours yet. She yawned, thinking of her promise to be back before Rory woke. At least that was something she could do – under-promise and over-deliver.
She picked up the sheets and pillow Jed had given her last night and carefully folded them into a neat pile. Her sleeping t-shirt had remained in her bag; it was far too hot for nightclothes and she’d slept in her bra and knickers – much to the mosquitoes’ delight, she realized, noticing some bites and scratching them before she could catch herself.
She stepped back into her denim cutoffs and soft khaki waffle shirt, a new raspberry-pink bikini doubling as underwear. Her hand brushed against the smooth mini doctor’s kit in her bag and she felt another kick to the stomach at the thought of Paco, languishing. Suffering . . .
She straig
htened up and headed outside. To her surprise, there was a tiny package just outside the door. She might have trodden on it if she hadn’t happened to be looking down. She picked it up carefully – it was something soft, wrapped in leaves and secured with a young vine. Unsure what to do with it, she kept it in her palm and walked over to Jed’s hut, setting her bag down against a banana tree. She could hear voices coming from within, now that she was closer. It sounded like they were talking in hushed tones and she wondered whether that was for her benefit – as the ‘honoured’ guest – or Paco’s.
Should she knock? Wait out here? She turned a circle on the spot, wondering what to do – and almost jumped six feet into the air. A man outside a neighbouring hut was watching her. He was sitting astride a large dug-out wooden trough and grinding some grains beneath a giant whittled pestle.
‘Hola,’ she stammered, recovering herself as he continued to grind, watching her impassively.
The man nodded and she gave a nervous laugh as a silence stretched. Her Spanish didn’t extend to anywhere near good enough to shooting the breeze with a tribesman in the Costa Rican jungle.
‘Oh, Tara.’
She turned, to see Jed standing behind her. He was holding a small basket.
‘You’ve met Juan, I see.’
‘Juan. Yes. We were just saying hello.’ She nodded awkwardly in the tribesman’s direction again.
‘And you received the ointment from Don Carlos?’ He looked down at the parcel in her hands.
‘Oh. Yes. I wasn’t sure—’
‘It’s for the mosquitoes. Best to put it on before you get dressed.’
‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ She gave a small laugh, as if to say, ‘Bit late now.’ Besides, she had some commercial-grade Deet that could have nuked the dinosaurs. She didn’t want to cause offence, however, and she opened her bag and carefully set it on the top of her clothes.
‘Come. I’m just going to feed the chickens,’ Jed said, beginning to walk away. ‘How was your night? Did you sleep well?’
