River of Nightmares (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  “It was at this very village a year ago,” he said, “and a big, big paco came to take a taste.” He laughed and slapped his hands together. “Thought they ate only nuts and seeds. This one, he made a mistake and should have stuck with nuts and seeds. I fed him to the people here.”

  “And these people are—” Annja prompted.

  “These people are Kayabi,” Almeirão replied.

  Annja looked for Wallace, who had moved behind the captain, so he could film the village as the captain saw it, as if viewers were looking through his eyes.

  “This village, it has no name, most of the people in it have no names. I stop here once, twice during the rainy season to trade between charters.” He shouldered a large duffel and whistled as the Orellana’s anchor caught.

  Annja did a quick head count: sixty villagers that she could see. The Kayabi, many of whom had waded into the water to greet the boat, had deep brown skin, their clothes were scant, loincloths on some of the men and women, but most were naked, and save for the smallest children, they were all tattooed.

  Annja heard the constant hiss-click of Ned’s digital camera. Wallace was getting pan shots. The river lapped against the boat, and an odd howl cut above everything. She spotted the source: a monkey, about four feet tall, hanging on a branch that dangled low over the water. He had a humanlike face and a big saggy chin that served as a resonating chamber. A howler monkey, its throaty hoots could reverberate for miles. He swung to a higher branch over a group of Kayabi that had perched on the shore, and then he urinated on them and howled again. The howl was answered a moment later from across the river.

  “Miss Creed, I take back what I said, about it being a mistake our taking this route.” Wallace continued, “This place is quite promising, good to photograph. Beautiful people, adorable children. And they all look so friendly.” He turned to the captain. “Do any of these people speak English? Portuguese?” He’d switched off the sound when he asked the questions, but put it back on and aimed the camera again at Captain Almeirão.

  The captain gave a throaty laugh. “Just as this country has the greatest diversity in plants and animals, it has the greatest number of distinct tongues in the world.”

  “So that would be a no on the English or Portuguese. How do you communicate?” Wallace had flicked the sound off and then on again.

  “Some Kayabi tribes indeed understand some English, what with all the tourists who come to buy their beads and crafts. But not this group of Kayabi,” Almeirão said. “I told you, these are hidden people. No one else comes here, no need to learn any other language.” He waved at the gathering and a few of the children excitedly waved back.

  “You’re from one of these villages?” Wallace was recording the children on the bank.

  “The Apiaká. But that was a long time ago. I understand, but do not like the primitive life.”

  “I thought the Apiaká and Kayabi didn’t get along,” Annja said.

  The captain’s smile reached his eyes this time. “So, miss, you study a place before you visit? Admirable. And not what I expected. Television is so baseless sometimes.”

  Wallace sniggered.

  “We try to make our programs entertaining and educational,” Annja pointed out, though sometimes the education part was a stretch.

  “I see. Well, the two tribes used to be enemies, but that is all done with now. And when you find the Kayabi it is usually farther west. But these people here, they came east to hunt and they stayed, established gardens and found the area suited them. I know enough of their words, I’ll translate for you as best as I can.”

  “You speak English so well,” Wallace cut in. “Where did you—”

  “I have a teaching degree in economics from the University of Campinas in Brazil. I studied English there. Portuguese, my father taught me. But I discovered I liked this boat and the river more than a crowded classroom.”

  “Wow,” Wallace said.

  “Where’s the raft to go to shore?” Ned asked.

  “My charters usually go to villages that have docks. Someday maybe I will buy a raft to keep my feet dry when I go to villages with no names and no docks.” Almeirão grasped the railing and eased himself over the side, the water up to his waist, the pack held above his head. “But now, we will not have dry feet. Watch your step,” he advised. “Alligators and piranha in here, the latter will give you a... No, never mind, but step on an alligator and you will know it. Get blood in the water and everything changes.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’d say only half of you should come. These Kayabi are mostly friendly, but let’s not press them right away.”

  “Can we bring cameras?” Ned climbed over the rail, pausing for a nod from Almeirão, then following him to the shore.

  Annja went next and motioned to Wallace to follow. The older cameraman squeezed himself beneath the rail, holding on to it with one hand, and his camera and bag with the other.

  “Fine with me, everyone. I’ll stay here.” Amanda turned her face up to the sun. “You don’t really need me anyway. I’ll clean up the sound when you get back.” Ken stood at her shoulder.

  Marsha rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, clearly anxious. She had a camera in one hand and gave Annja a less than pleased look.

  “Later,” Annja told her. “Get some color shots from the boat for now.”

  Almeirão slogged ashore and greeted the kids and adults alike. Then everyone was talking, and in a language Annja couldn’t fathom. It sounded beautiful and harsh at the same time, filled with lots of hard consonants and clipped words. It was punctuated with hand gestures and head bobbing. She could pick up Almeirão’s craggy voice in the mix.

  Wallace and Ned moved into the throng, with Wallace keeping a visual bead on the captain. The villagers closest to Annja politely fingered her clothes and sniffed at her. She looked toward the boat, seeing Marsha and Amanda leaning against the rail. Ken was at the bow, talking to Almeirão’s first mate. Some of the children had waded into the water and were tracing the letters painted on the side of the boat, one was reaching up to grab the railing. The insects were thick along the shore, seeming to prefer the newcomers over the villagers. Probably something in the Kayabi diet or something they put on their skin kept the pests away. Annja weathered the bites, finding the insect repellent she’d liberally sprayed on wholly ineffectual.

  Annja slowly moved through the village. A thin girl, maybe eight or nine, grabbed onto her hand and guided her. Away from the river, and behind the largest hut, which Annja took to be a communal building, was a vegetable field that spread out like the spokes of a wheel between rows of trees. Tapir hides were being tanned and stretched on a frame to the north, a cloud of insects over the apparatus. Closer, she saw a thick green-black snake cut through the ferns. She hadn’t seen its head, but watching its body and mentally counting, she knew it was at least twelve feet long. Unconsciously, she took a few steps back and scanned the area around her.

  She guessed an hour or more had passed when Almeirão came over to her. His canvas pack was smaller now, his trading with the Kayabi done, and whatever he’d gotten in return took up far less space than what he’d bartered away.

  “Ask your questions,” Almeirão said. He gestured to an older man who followed close behind. This Kayabi appeared to be the most tattooed of anyone, and he looked to be about forty—though appearance was a deceptive thing with people in remote locations; he might well have been ten or more years on either side of that mark. “This is Jywa, the chief, one of the few here with a name, though the name seems to apply to all those in his family. I explained that you are looking for monsters.”

  Jywa grinned, and pointed at himself. The tattoos on his legs and chest were black and looked more like runes. A boxy tattoo outlined his mouth—similar to designs many of the other adults had, and there was a stippling over his eyebrows and across his fo
rehead.

  Annja launched into a brief introduction she’d planned. Almeirão translated for the chieftain’s benefit. She was nudged from behind, some of the villagers crowding in. “We search along the Amazon River for beasts cloaked in mystery and legend,” Annja explained. “Among them a magical child with backward feet and the mapinguari—”

  “Guari,” Jywa pronounced, the word sounding harder coming from him. He bobbed his head. “Guari.”

  “You’ve seen one of them?” She didn’t disguise the excitement in her voice. Almeirão translated haltingly.

  “Apparently he has seen one,” the captain said.

  More vigorous head bobbing. The adult villagers around them nodded, too, and began chattering. Annja knew Amanda would have her work cut out for her filtering the voices to a manageable level so she and the chieftain could be clearly heard. Annja’s heart raced. She’d read several reports of some of the Amazon’s so-called mythical beasts actually being spotted—it lent a little more credence to the notion that at least some of the creatures might exist.

  “Where did you—”

  Almeirão talked, and Jywa pointed away from the river and spoke rapidly.

  “One roamed beyond the gardens, past the growing grounds,” Almeirão translated. “One mapinguari. Never two such beasts together. Only one. A singular creature. They spot it by accident, have never found it while actually looking. Saw it last year. Not at all this year. He thinks their mighty spearmen frightened it away.”

  The chieftain continued to talk, and Almeirão’s brow furrowed. Annja could tell he was trying to find English words to give her.

  “Jywa says your beast has long claws and the skin of a...” He paused and listened to Jywa again. “Skin like a caiman, a second mouth on its belly. One eye.” He waited again while the chieftain went on. “An ape or a giant sloth, it is neither of those beasts and yet it is both of those beasts, but much larger. It stands taller than a Kayabi when it rears on its back feet, and it is covered in thick matted fur.” Almeirão lowered his voice. “He describes something I saw when I was a child, but that was a far distance from here. Your beast, though, is real.”

  Wallace edged closer, the camera trained on Annja now.

  Annja said, “The mapinguari is believed to be traced back to prehistoric times, yet scattered reports of it surface today. People have claimed to see the beast in the remotest locations along the Amazon, that they can rip trees in two, ferocious and dangerous.”

  Almeirão was quietly translating this for the villagers; Jywa nodded the entire time.

  “Some accounts—”

  The chieftain interrupted, his voice rising in excitement. With his hands he made slashing gestures.

  “Jywa says the guari is louder than a howler monkey, that it stinks worse than a basket of long-dead fish, and that spears bounce off its hide. It travels near the river, but will not venture in. And it stays away from people, like it is afraid of them, and also afraid of the river.”

  Annja segued into something else she’d prepared. “We have to look to 1937 to find an incident where a mapinguari encroached on civilization. In central Brazil there were reports that one of the beasts went on a rampage, slaughtering more than a hundred cows in villages, with farmers providing a fearsome description of the creature. In all the research, we found no evidence of it attacking humans. It is our endeavor, at Chasing History’s Monsters, to find and record images of this beast and any other rare species in the region.”

  Wallace clicked off the camera. Ned continued to take stills, and Annja hoped he had more than a few memory cards with him.

  “What do the tattoos mean?” Ned caught the captain’s attention. He pulled back his own shirtsleeve displaying his tattoo, a snake that coiled around his arm and was chewing on its tail. “Got that in Kabul.” He held the camera with his other hand and pulled up that sleeve. It showed a skull with a dagger thrust through the eyes. “This one on vacation in Saigon.”

  “I do not think you want to know what those mean,” Almeirão said.

  Now Annja was curious. “Fish?”

  Almeirão let out a breath and nodded. “Sure, sure, some of the designs are fish. Some represent animals and forest spirits.”

  “What about the dotted boxes around their mouths? Not all of them have that. You don’t have that, have any that I can see.” Ned took more pictures.

  “Men can have that tattoo after they earn the right to eat human flesh. The Kayabi, like the Apiaká, used to practice ritualistic cannibalism.” Almeirão frowned. “And the next time I tell you that you don’t want to know something—”

  “We’ll not press,” Ned concluded. “Some of those box tattoos look like they were inked recently, Annja. Look at the redness.”

  “Come! They have invited you to the midday meal,” Almeirão said. “These people do not have a lot. It would be rude to—”

  “Of course we will join them,” Annja said.

  “Depending on what’s on the menu,” Ned quipped, as he traced a boxy outline around his mouth.

  Chapter 8

  “My cook is providing a treat to the village,” the captain said. “But, Annja, you cannot eat until after the men have had their fill. It is the Kayabi way. Men first, women get the leftovers.”

  The midday meal was served in the large hut, and Marsha had replaced Wallace, who said he wanted to go through his recordings and do a little editing. In truth, Annja suspected he didn’t want to eat whatever the Kayabi were serving. A man so finicky should not be so quick to accept assignments to exotic places, she thought.

  Annja inwardly seethed at the blatant gender discrimination the tribe practiced, but she held her tongue and sat outside the doorway next to Marsha, both of them watching what transpired inside. Just once she’d like to feature a tribe where the women made the rules and men had to eat the leftovers.

  Almeirão’s contribution included a platter of pancakes. “This is cupacu, a local dish made from tree pulp,” he explained for Annja’s benefit. Marsha filmed the men eating. “Cupacu is one of my cook’s specialties. The pulp, it can also be made into juices, jellies, and I have had cupacu liquor.” A pause. “Too much of the liquor a few too many times.” He also provided a few bowls of freshwater crab, which was served in the shell with the claws attached. Annja’s mouth watered, but she stayed silent.

  The Kayabi offered up a sort of mash, that Almeirão called “manicoba.” He looked to Annja. “It takes a long while to prepare. Manioc leaves are ground, cooked, served with manioc flour and sweet pepper. You ladies will undoubtedly get to try some of this, but my crab and cupacu...it seems these men will not leave any of that.”

  “So unfair,” Marsha whispered.

  “They can’t understand you,” Annja said. “You don’t have to talk so low.”

  “I’m not saying this is unfair to us, sitting outside like stray cats waiting for scraps. It doesn’t matter to us. We’re here for a visit, tonight or tomorrow we leave, and this—” she pointed at the men still eating “—this will be only a bad memory. I’m talking about how unfair it is to the women in this place. How can they live like this?”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Annja said. “Besides, we’re not here to start a revolution, just observe.”

  “And ask about monsters.” Marsha let out a hissing breath that fluttered her bangs. “Doesn’t mean I’m not bothered.”

  “It’s good that you’re bothered.”

  “So many people are naïve. They don’t realize that oppression still exists. Is our program going to show any of that? Even a hint?”

  “We will.” Annja rose. The men had finished eating and motioned the women and children inside to dine on what was left.

  Almeirão pulled Annja aside. “Jywa and some of the other men, they say there is a village around the turn in this tributary. It takes them a d
ay to reach it in canoes. They say there are two white people like you there, that it is a dreaming village. Sometimes Jywa dreams there when he has something to barter. He says maybe if you dream you will find your monsters. Dreams lead to things.”

  “Dream?” Annja sat and reached for a leaf she smeared with the manicoba. She put the leaf in her mouth and used her teeth to scrape the mash off, like she would if she were eating an artichoke appetizer at a fine restaurant. It looked like plain oatmeal but was surprisingly tasty. “What sort of dream? Hallucinations?”

  Almeirão shuddered. “We can stop there, at the dreaming village. I have been there before. You can dream with them if you like. I have dreamed once, but never again. The dreams along this river, with these hidden people and the old, old ways...dreams here can be nightmares.”

  Marsha looked at Annja. “We’re going, aren’t we?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 9

  It was early evening when Roux’s plane arrived. He found the sound of the rain the airport featured throughout the terminal disturbing. He located a money exchanger and switched his Euros to colorful Brazilian reals, stopped at one of the shops, and bought a sturdy canvas carryall. Then he took a shuttle to the Hilton in the heart of the city, knowing he likely wouldn’t be able to charter a boat until the morning, and so he’d get that proverbial good night’s rest. There was a shop off the lobby, and in it he picked up toiletries, two pairs of over-priced jeans, three shirts and underwear, suspecting that the dress clothes he’d carried in his bag to Rouen and subsequently brought here would not be appropriate for a river excursion.