Bringing the Boy Home

by N. A. Nelson

  “What are you looking forward to the most?” Sara asks as she tapes up a box of paperback mysteries the camp cook likes. “With our trip, I mean. The river? The animals? More manioc?”

  I peel the price tag off a wooden puzzle and consider her question. “Things normal Takunami boys do,” I admit, a little embarrassed to be saying the words out loud.

  “Normal Takunami boys?” Sara asks, surprised. She glances up at me. “What kind of things do you mean?”

  I pause for a minute, recalling the sight of my tribemates sprinting full force toward the river as they raced to be the first ones in. I think about how I used to pound on a hollow wooden bucket while the other kids learned the Takunami hunting dances, and how I used to sit at the base of the kapok tree while they climbed and tried to reach the sky.

  “Climb a kapok tree,” I finally say.

  “A kapok,” she repeats.

  I nod slowly, knowing what she’s thinking: the kapok is one of the tallest trees in the Amazon. “I want to do it all,” I say. The determination comes out in my voice as I realize the possibilities. “I want to do everything I couldn’t do before.”

  “Okay,” Sara says quietly. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  As we sit together, wrapping the gifts, Sara chatters on about how much she’s looking forward to getting away from the traffic in the city and how she can’t wait to see all her old friends again. I nod and pretend to listen, but in my mind, I’m still thinking about my answer: I want to do it all.

  The doorbell rings and while Sara quickly puts everything away, I let Professor Goodwin in. Pretending to be exhausted from physical therapy, I say good night and haul my backpack upstairs. In truth, I want to be alone just as much as they do. I need to think.

  Crawling under the covers, I curl up onto my side and close my eyes. In the darkness, with only the murmur of voices below me, I am transported back to when I was a little boy in the jungle, lying in a hammock—squeezing my eyes shut and praying to the Good Gods to make me normal overnight. To help me run, dance, and climb.

  My prayers have been answered. My foot is better. I’ve been able to do everything a normal boy does. Everything a normal American boy does. But aren’t I a Takunami? I think about all the things that have been happening the past few days. Why now—a week before my thirteenth birthday? A week before I’m supposed to go back to the Amazon? There’s only one reason that I can think of.

  When I realize what I’m considering, I roll over onto my back and stare up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. Could I do it? Could I really take the test?

  Downstairs Sara laughs loudly, and my mind skids to a halt. I sit up. I can’t leave Sara. And even though she studies jungle tribes for a living, she would never let me take such a dangerous test. But the weight of this opportunity punches me in the gut—the chance to finally prove my father wrong—and I pull my knees into my chest.

  I have to go. Somehow, I’ll have to sneak out of our cabin in the Amazon and make my way back to my village. Alone. But maybe if I leave a note for Sara, at least she’ll know where I’ve gone and why I’m doing what I need to do.

  Hopping out of bed, I switch on my desk lamp and pull out a sheet of paper. I can’t sleep now, so I begin to write:

  Dear Sara,

  A couple of days before we left on this trip, you asked me what I was looking forward to the most about going back. And I told you that I wanted to do things normal Takunami boys do, remember? Well, there’s one other thing that every normal Takunami boy does, and as you read this, I’m on my way to make that happen. I’m going back to my village to take my soche seche tente. I promise to come back as soon as I’m finished. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

  I hear footsteps downstairs. Sneaking over to my door, I crack it open and see Sara and Professor Goodwin standing in the hallway. He’s got his jacket on, which means that he’s leaving. Sara cautiously peers around the huge palm tree and looks up toward my room. I jerk my head back behind the door and hold my breath. I hear her laugh softly and then Professor Goodwin’s low baritone. The front door clicks closed, and after a minute of silence, I hear glasses being put into the sink. Knowing she’ll be coming to bed soon, I tiptoe over to the backpack lying on the floor, fold the note in half, and hide it in the back inside pocket. I’ll finish it later.

  As I turn off the desk light and climb into bed, I think of the last two lines I wrote.

  Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

  A sudden chill runs through my body. Takunami boys, no matter how strong, never make that promise.

  LUKA

  12 Years, 359 Sunrises

  The Amazon

  “Karara, weave the wah-pu into baskets, crush up the ay-ah-e-yah—the men need more for fishing tomorrow—and watch your sister. I’m taking Luka to the forest.” My mother fires out the orders and, without waiting for a reply, heads down the path.

  “Anything else?” my sister shouts. “Should I cook Luka’s lunch, or oil his bow?”

  Whether my mother doesn’t hear, or just chooses to ignore Karara, I don’t know. Looking back at my sister, I wince and mouth, Sorry. She shoots me a venomous look and, with a flip of her long black braid, turns and starts pounding the ay-ah-e-yah root with such force, I wonder if there will be any left for fishing.

  As the firstborn daughter of a Takunami family, life has been put on hold for Karara. For the past fifteen years, she has not known our father either—and will not until I pass my test. Because Maha has focused all her energy on me, Karara has taken over the mothering of Sulali.

  It will be over in a couple of days, I assure myself.

  “Karara has grown into a beautiful woman,” I say, rushing to catch up with my mother.

  “Not with that sour expression she always wears, and beauty is nothing if you are lazy. No man will want to marry her if she continues to complain all the time.”

  I drop the subject, but continue to think about my sister. She will certainly have no problem finding a husband. And she is definitely not lazy. No, the word I would use to describe Karara is spirited. Where most women in our tribe cut their hair short because it is easier to keep clean, my sister has only cut hers twice. She uses oil from the tonka nut so it shines blue-black in the sun, and she fixes it differently every day. When it is not braided, it flows down her back, rippling like the Amazon itself. Some of the women look at her disapprovingly, but Karara doesn’t seem to care and Maha is too busy with me to notice.

  “Luka, come here.” My mother unties a piece of cloth from around her waist and covers my eyes. “Whenever you hear a sound—any sound, no matter how small—I want you to tell me what it is.”

  I see white stars behind the darkness of my eyelids. “Maha, the cloth is too tight,” I complain.

  She yanks the knot tighter. “Stop talking for once and listen.”

  A bird flies overhead. Two flaps. Long wings. Solid landing. “Harpy eagle,” I whisper.

  Our still bodies are now shadows, invisible unless we move or speak. The jungle has been holding its breath since we walked in; but as it accepts us, little puffs of sound are released until it’s so loud, I can barely focus on one noise before another takes over.

  A rustling to my right. A pause. The rustling continues, muffled as it moves below the damp, rotting leaves. “Bedenga lizard.”

  Tap-tap-tap. “Woodpecker…redheaded woodpecker.”

  Mweh, mweh. “Kah-mo bird.”

  Poo-poo-poo. “Capuchin monkey.”

  Drip. Surely she doesn’t want me to say what that is. I identify it just in case. “Raindrop.”

  As the jungle comes at me from all directions, I feel vulnerable being blindfolded and crouch down. “Kaka frog, mar-al toucan, howler.” I spit out the names quickly. As I say one, fifteen more spring into my head, layering my brain: floor dwellers sink to the bottom, followed by the inhabitants of the belly of the forest, then the residents of the chest of the forest, and lastly those that live in the head. “Kono-paku, simbo
-kallu, kancho spider.”

  I hear the pounding gallop of a tapir charging toward us. These piglike creatures are not dangerous, but we are standing in a curve of the path, so it will not see us in time to stop or even swerve. “Tapir!” I warn, diving into the jungle. It whizzes by me and I feel its coarse hair graze my leg.

  “Tambo!” Maha yells.

  Tambo? Our pet? I whip off the blindfold and leap up, brushing the rotted kamana leaves off my leg. My mother stomps back toward the village and I run after her. Halfway home, we see Sulali skipping toward us, flinging a stick into the air and humming.

  “Sulali.” My mother speaks through clenched teeth.

  Looking up, my sister’s face breaks into a smile. “Maha. Luka.” She races toward us.

  “What are you doing out here?” Maha asks.

  Sulali stops, and her five-year-old face crumples. “Going swimming with Tambo.”

  “Where is Karara?”

  My sister looks down and shrugs. Maha grabs Sulali’s elbow and continues toward home. Tambo has returned, looking for his swimming partner, and nibbles at our ankles with his trunklike snout. Maha kicks him and he yelps in surprise. Sulali starts to cry, but my mother ignores her. I desperately try to think of a way to warn Karara of our arrival.

  Although our hut is very close to the entrance of the village, we must walk past the men’s rohacas to reach it. Some of the warriors smirk as Maha strides by. We approach our cooking fire and I see my oldest sister speaking with our neighbor, Metuta. The handsome boy pokes the wood as Karara stirs a pot and laughs at something he says.

  Maha hands Sulali to me. “Go to the garden and dig up some patj-kam root.”

  My younger sister protests but stops midhowl when she sees me press my middle three fingers against my lips and widen my eyes in silent warning.

  “Luka…,” she whines.

  “Don’t worry, Sulali. I won’t let anything happen.” I sneak a look over my shoulder and watch my mother grab a piece of dried bamboo and approach Karara. I push Sulali behind me.

  “Stay here,” I order. “Don’t move.”

  As I turn back around, I watch my mother raise the stick.

  “No!” I scream.

  My cry is lost in the whistle of the bamboo as it sings through the air and smacks against my sister’s back. Karara yelps and spins around. Metuta shields his face with his arms and stumbles away, but my mother ignores him and whips the bamboo down again. Karara clenches her jaw as her arm begins to bleed and tries to grab the stick.

  Sulali sprints past me. “No! Don’t hit her, Maha.” She darts between the two women and tries to push them apart, just as my mother swings again.

  With a hollow thud, Sulali crumples to the ground, blood pouring from her nose. She doesn’t move. I race toward her.

  Karara drops to her knees. “Are you okay, Sulali? I’m so sorry. Wake up, little one, wake—”

  Whack! The bamboo cracks down on Karara’s back with such force that she falls on top of Sulali. I grab my mother’s arm.

  “Stop, Maha! Enough!”

  She whips around, and spit flies on my face as she seethes. “No one is going to stop you from passing your test. No one!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TIRIO

  12 Years, 359 Days

  The United States

  “Hey Joe, how’s it going?” I stand my bike against his porch stairs and lower myself into an old rocker.

  Creak, creak. The wood objects as I lean backward. The sound is so piercingly clear, I wince and bend forward.

  Grooooan. The faded porch complains.

  Joey keeps reading.

  I’m getting impatient. I’ve come over to tell Joey about my decision to take the soche seche tente, but he still hasn’t forgiven me for what I said about his father. Rubbing my eyes, I exhale loudly. First things first.

  “The reason I said what I did about your dad…” I search for words that will make things better. “It’s just…”

  Joey glares at me.

  It doesn’t matter what I say; he’ll only defend his father anyway. “I was mad about what you said about my orthotic—and my dad—so I just lashed out. I’m sorry.”

  Joey shrugs, but his face has relaxed. “You got mad because you know it’s true, T,” he says. “You’re always saying that you want to prove him wrong. But just because you’re angry at your dad doesn’t mean you need to take it out on mine.” He turns back to his magazine. “Besides, he promised me things would change soon. He’s switching his flight schedule so we can spend more time together.”

  Joey turns the page, and the sound is like the crash of a wave upon the shore. I lean forward and cover my ears.

  “Now that’s just rude,” Joey says.

  I clench my jaw.

  Chirp-chirp. A brown chickadee beckons and I lift my head toward the yard, searching for the source of the sound. Chirp-chirp. Flap-flap. It flies away from the oak tree. Joey follows my gaze, his eyes hunting for whatever it is I’m looking at.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Can’t you hear it?” I whisper. “The bird? The turning of the page?”

  Pschhhhhh. Someone a block away opens a can of soda.

  “The soda can?” I sit frozen, waiting for the next sound. Joey cocks his head.

  Leave a message after the beep. Beep. An answering machine clicks on in the house behind the Carters’.

  Joey looks at me like I’m crazy. “What are you talking about?”

  “Some really weird stuff’s been happening to me the last couple days, Joe.” I try to block out the sounds around me and focus on what I have to say.

  “Like what?”

  I start listing the week’s events. “First, I could feel that Captain Maverick was going to kick and not pass the other day—feel as in knew without a shadow of a doubt, like I could read his mind—and then I heard voices during PT….”

  Joey scrunches up his face. “You’re hearing voices? Did they tell you to say that mean stuff about my dad, too?”

  I ignore his comment and continue. “And then I saw a pierid butterfly with only one wing, and at Cal’s I ate manioc for the first time in seven years.”

  Joey has already gone back to reading.

  Click, click, click, click. Inside the house, the gas under a burner ignites.

  “Your mom just turned on the stove,” I tell Joey.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Go check.”

  “Okay, Houdini.” Joey stands. “I’ll play your game.”

  The hinges squeak dryly as he opens the screen door. Now that I expect the sounds, they don’t bother me.

  “Hey, Mom?” he calls. “What are you doing?”

  “Fixing lunch,” she yells back. “Does Tirio want to stay? I’m making grilled cheese.”

  Without answering her, he pulls the door shut and sits back down opposite me.

  “How’d you know that?” He sounds suspicious, but also ready to listen.

  “I heard it,” I say. “I know this all seems weird to you, Joey, but I think I’m being called back to the Amazon.”

  “Called back to the Amazon?” Joey repeats. “That’s insane. By who?”

  “My father.”

  Joey turns red in the face. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he asks. “First you take a jab at me because my dad didn’t make it to the game, and now you’re telling me your father—who thinks you’re dead—is calling you home?”

  “It has to be him, Joe. He’s the only one that can communicate with me this way.”

  “Yeah, well, what about the butterfly and the manioc? Is your father some kind of Amazonian magician who can just wave his hand and—poof—make them appear?”

  I shake my head. “Actually, I think they’re signs from the Good Gods. They’re the ones who control the spirits of plants and animals. My father has no power over them.”

  “Good Gods? T, you’ve really lost it this time.” He pauses, and then adds cautiously, “Why would they be calling you back
anyway?”

  I lift a finger to my lips and tentatively hold my breath, listening. The refrigerator door slams and I hear Mrs. Carter humming as a jar pops open. She’s still in the middle of fixing lunch; she’s not going to interrupt us. I shake my head, grateful that my skills work when I want them to.

  I pull out the Anthropology Today magazine from my backpack. Opening it to the dog-eared article, I hand it to him. “My thirteenth birthday is coming up, you know. Take a look at this.”

  He quickly scans the article and widens his eyes as he looks up at me. “Are you saying your dad and these Good Gods of yours want you to take this test?”

  “Not that test exactly,” I say, shaking my head. “The soche seche tente. It’s the Takunami version of a manhood test. In order to pass, I’d have to find my way through the jungle and back to our village, with my father using the sixth sense to guide me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to try to do it, are you?”

  I look him straight in the eye and nod slowly. “Yes. But I’m not going to accept his help.”

  “Why not? Because you think he might try to kill you again?”

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Because I want to do it alone.”

  He sits bolt upright. “What?”

  “I just want to prove to my dad that I’m not the useless weakling he thought I was,” I say, lowering my voice. “When I left the Amazon, I gave up on ever taking my soche seche tente, but now that my foot’s better—”

  “With a little help from modern medicine,” he interrupts.

  “—and Sara and I are going back for my birthday, and now these signs…” I shake my head in disbelief. “He’s calling me back, Joe. He knows I’m alive. This is my chance.”

  Joey stares at me. “Not wearing your orthotic is one thing, Tirio,” he says. “But going back to a tribe that tried to kill you, just to prove a point, is another. Even if I do want my dad to be around more, I wouldn’t stand in front of his plane to keep it from taking off to make that happen.”

  I hear the soft slapping of bare feet on the hardwood floor. “You’re mom’s coming,” I warn him.