Bringing the Boy Home

by N. A. Nelson

  The rain finally stops, and I’m thankful for the break. Fingering machete marks on the vines, I look around cautiously. No one has been here for a couple of days, judging by the absence of footprints, but I have to stay alert. Not all tribes are friendly to visitors, especially when the visitors are males.

  Cupping my hand around the back of my ear, I listen. A couple of miles east, a peccary chews tree bark. To the north, an anteater vacuums a dinner of termites. To the west, a capybara drinks from a puddle, and to the south I hear a parrot caw to its mate.

  I continue to jog until a new trail appears, and I listen again.

  East: A family of otters munches on fish.

  North: Two male lemon monkeys fight for a female’s attention.

  West: I frown. Closing my eyes, I erase my mind of any thoughts and hone my whole body into hearing. It can’t be. There is a pu-la deer searching for a place to nap, but beyond that…. I place my other hand in front of my ear and form an uninterrupted tunnel toward the sound. I lean sideways, holding my breath. It is very distant—many miles away—but what I hear is a woman singing.

  I can’t make out the words, but the rhythm seems familiar. Is it Maha? Is she trying to lead me home? I strain to hear clearer, hoping to recognize something familiar in the voice. I can’t and I realize, even though it might be dangerous, I have to check it out. Feeling strangely like a rat being led by the Pied Piper, I follow the sound of the song.

  LUKA

  12 Years, 363 Sunrises

  The Amazon

  When I wake, I’m not sure of the time, the day, or even where I am, but as I look around, it comes back to me. Today should be the first day of my soche seche tente. Instead I am lying in my hut, staring at a spider scurrying across the ceiling.

  My father will not be communicating with me through the sixth sense. I will never hear him or speak with him. Today, I will meet him for the first time. Today, I will meet him for the last time. It is a day when I should jump up and get going. Instead, I feel as though someone has roped me to the hammock.

  I hear the shuffling of feet and turn to see Sulali staring at me. I don’t have answers to the questions in her eyes. I told her we would all be a happy family, that soon she would meet her paho. Only a five-year-old would look to a liar for answers a second time—only a five-year-old and someone who doesn’t have anyone else to believe.

  I manage a smile. “Come here, Sulali. Don’t worry. Paho would have wanted us to be strong in front of the rest of the tribe, so we have to stick together.”

  “How can we without Karara?” She climbs in next to me.

  “Didn’t you hear?” As I shift over to make room for her, a story starts forming in my head. I can’t stand to see my little sister suffer anymore.

  “Hear what?”

  “What happened to Karara?”

  “No.” Sulali’s voice shakes, and I know I’m making the right decision.

  I put my arm around her. “She’s not here because she is on a very important mission.”

  “A mission?”

  “Yesterday when Karara was with Paho, she saw the Punhana too.”

  Sulali sucks in her breath when I mention the bird of death.

  “Since Karara is a shaman, she could speak with the bird, so she tried to talk him out of taking Paho.” I am amazed how easily the lie is coming out.

  I soften my voice to sound like a girl. “‘Take me instead, Punhana,’ Karara said to the bird. ‘I am worth much more because I have magic powers and can help you.’”

  I lower my voice to mimic what I think the wise old bird would sound like. “‘Magic powers mean nothing to me,’ the Punhana replied. ‘I want the man. It is he who I was sent for and it is he whose spirit I must return with.’”

  I pause, and Sulali nudges closer to me. I turn my body to face her and stare at the shadows cast by the rising sun on the ground in front of our hut. The branches and vines from the forest form mysterious shapes as they intersect, and I use them to tell my story. “Look, Sulali, the Good Gods are showing you how it happened.” I point to the dirt.

  She swings her gaze. The silhouette of a woman walks by, and she gasps. I quickly make my voice high and continue.

  “‘Why must you take my paho? Why is he so important?’ Karara asked.”

  “‘This man belongs in the heavens with the other high spirits. He has fulfilled his purpose.’”

  A twig cracks behind our hut, and I freeze. No other sound follows. I wonder who’s listening out there. Is it just Maha? Or could it be Karara?

  “What was Paho’s purpose?” asks Sulali.

  “You really want to know?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, so did Karara, so she asked the Punhana. ‘What purpose has my father fulfilled, and why isn’t he able to stay with his family?’

  “‘Your father was a great warrior and fought many tribes before you were born. However, on one war expedition, his arrow flew through the enemy and into a woman.’”

  Sulali snorts. “Why was the woman standing behind a warrior during a battle?”

  “It was the man’s wife,” I answer. “She was pregnant and he was protecting her.”

  Sulali nods, satisfied, and I continue. “Our father felt so bad about killing the woman and child that he asked the Good Gods to spare the child’s life in return for his own.

  “So Karara said to the bird, ‘I don’t understand, Punhana. Why didn’t the Good Gods agree? A great warrior’s life in exchange for a child seems like a good trade.’

  “‘They did agree,’ the bird said. ‘But first your father had to create another family for this child because his family was dead. So your paho was told to return to the Takunami and have three children, two daughters and a son—’”

  Sulali elbowed me. “Is that you, me, and Karara?”

  With my ear still tuned to the noises outside, I answer yes. “Once the family was formed, the orphan would come and live with us, and our father would have to fulfill his end of the promise and die,” I tell Sulali.

  Her lips tilt down into a frown at this turn of events, but I continue with the story.

  “‘But where is the boy?’ Karara asked the bird.”

  I lower my voice to sound like the Punhana again. “‘You must find him,’ the bird said. ‘As the oldest, it is your job to bring the boy home. When I leave, you should go and look for him. I will take care of your father’s spirit. I will set it free.’ And with that the Punhana flew away, and Karara followed him into the jungle to search for the orphan.”

  The silhouette of a low-flying bird flashes by, and Sulali squeals. I am amazed at the kindness of the Good Gods.

  “Maybe Tambo knows where the boy is,” she whispers. “I’ll ask him.”

  “Good idea.” I ease out of the hammock. Someone is outside. I just know it.

  I step into the sunlight. Leaning over, I search for clues in the dirt.

  “What are you doing?” Sulali asks from inside the hut.

  Not wanting to disappoint her in case the someone isn’t Karara, I quickly think of a lie.

  “I’m trying to track Tambo’s prints so you can go look for him.”

  “Oh.” Her voice is filled with excitement. I hear her feet hit the ground as she hops out of the hammock.

  “Stay inside, Sulali,” I order. “I don’t want you to mess up the trail.”

  Seeing what I think are my older sister’s footprints, I follow the trail around the hut. It disappears into the men’s rohacas.

  “Karara?” I whisper.

  Maha strides by with a bucket of water. She stops when she sees me. “What are you doing?”

  I straighten. “Nothing.”

  She motions me back to our hut.

  Drumbeats in the distance signal that a ceremony will soon take place. Bam, bam. Pause. Bam, bam, bam. Pause, pause. Bam.

  The funeral. By now, everyone knows Paho is dead.

  There are certain times in the Takunami life when we mark our bodie
s with dye to symbolize an important change: weddings, soche seche tente ceremonies, and funerals. Sometimes women will also add flowers to their hair, or men will wear beaded leather ropes around their waists, but the small red marks of the gi-gi berry are traditional. For a wedding, a circle is drawn on the skin above the man’s and woman’s hearts; when a boy becomes a warrior, his whole face is painted red; during a funeral, the eyelids of the family and the dead are painted. The color of the gi-gi dye is the same as blood: blood being shared between man and woman, blood being shifted from father to son, and blood being lost from a family.

  Maha must have picked the berries on her morning trip; I see them as soon as I walk inside. I grab some and call Sulali over. As I squeeze the juice onto my finger and then onto my sister’s eyelids, I cannot help but think how differently I was supposed to wear this red color in a couple of days.

  My sister and I wait outside until Maha is ready, and then the three of us walk together toward the center of the village. Sulali holds my hand and, for once, I walk slowly enough for her to keep up.

  In typical Takunami fashion, my father’s body will be burned, and it is our job to place him on top of the fire. My eyes search the jungle, hoping that Karara will rush out and fall into step with us.

  Tukkita is standing close to the flames, but I know he does not feel the heat. In preparation for the ceremony, he has inhaled a mixture of sacred leaves and bark that allows him to communicate with the spirits. He has tied a large rock to his wrist with a vine, to keep his body grounded to this world while his soul travels. His eyes are closed and sweat trickles over his bony rib cage. The other tribe members chat in hushed tones but fall silent as we approach.

  My father has been wrapped in a colorful blanket that signals a warrior of high standing. I think about my story to Sulali; maybe it wasn’t that far off.

  When I reach the opening of the circle, I release Sulali’s hand and walk forward alone. As the son, I must uncover my father’s face. Doing so will allow his eyes to see the release of his spirit. It is said that a dead person’s eyes will flash open the moment before his soul reunites with the spirit world.

  My hands are shaking as I pull back the cloth and, for the first time, lay eyes on my father. My heart sinks. He is not the strong and handsome man I hoped he would be. He is as thin as Tukkita, with a mouth puckered into a sunken circle and hair the color of an old bone. He is a man I have seen only a few times in the village, someone I took to be a paholo. I would have never walked by him and tried to find a family resemblance, yet as I tuck the cloth under his waist, I see where I got my large hands. He looks kind, I remind myself, and if what Tukkita said was true, he was a very good person. Knowing that many are watching, including Sulali, I keep my expression blank, walk around to my father’s head, and reach under the board that holds him. Maha steps forward and moves to his feet. Sulali stands in the center. Tukkita sings in a shaky moan, and we carry my father’s body to the fire. The shaman breaks into a series of low and high pitches. When he begins to moan again, my mother and I lift the board over our heads and then down onto the blazing logs. The flames greedily eat at the wood, fiber, and flesh. Tukkita throws his head back like an angry cat and begins to howl. Sparks snap around us, and I am thankful for the smell of the eucalyptus we burn with the body.

  “Come this way,” Tukkita sings.

  The rest of the tribe tightens the circle, which prevents evil spirits from interrupting the reunion of soul and spirit.

  “Come this way.”

  The fire reaches higher, making it easier for my father’s sick body to complete his journey. Without warning, the wind shifts and the flames suddenly lunge at us with red and yellow crooked fingers. Sulali whimpers and hides her face behind my arm. Closing my eyes halfway, I force myself to stand tall, not even flinching as floating pieces of ash land on my skin. Next to me, Maha stands as rooted as an old po-no. For once, I’m grateful for her stubbornness.

  “Let go of your body, trust in your soul, open your eyes, and come this way.”

  I jerk my head around. Another voice has joined the howling of Tukkita. It is Karara. Her short hair is slicked back with tonka oil, and tears flow down her upturned face. Maha glares at her. Sulali tries to wiggle her hand free from mine, but I tighten my grip and look back at my father’s body.

  “Come this way.” Karara sings the song of the spirits in a strong voice. “Do not be afraid. Open your eyes and come this way.”

  Almost on cue, my father’s eyes open. Glancing up, I look for his soul, but see nothing. By the time I look back down, his eyes have closed. It didn’t take long for his soul to find the spirits. It didn’t take long at all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TIRIO

  12 Years, 363 Days

  The Amazon

  The song leads me down the path then suddenly seems to stop. A rumble in the distance signals another storm and I hurry forward, desperate not to lose the voice. As the wind whips my hair, I cup my hand around my ear. I shiver as the strong breeze brings the singing back to me. It is the Takunami funeral song.

  Thunder booms above me and I start to jog toward the woman’s voice.

  Suddenly, my skin erupts into goose bumps and I freeze. There is another sound. I hold my breath.

  Padding paws. An animal. A jaguar.

  The jaguar is the only animal my tribe never hunts or kills; we believe the spirits of our dead shamans live on in this sacred cat. The only problem is, this jaguar might not have the soul of a Takunami. It could be that of an enemy.

  The shadows of the forest have disappeared. Nightfall will soon make it impossible for me to see. Looking for a way to escape the cat’s path, I notice a heart palm on the trail in front of me. If I climb it, the jaguar might turn toward easier prey on the ground.

  Crack! A blinding whiteness explodes around me and a great force flattens me to the jungle floor. The earth vibrates underneath me and I scramble behind a bush and pull my knees into my chest. I smell smoke. What was that? Are the Good Gods trying to punish me? Was the singing a trap?

  The hairs on my arms stand at attention; the air is filled with an electricity so heavy I could cup it in my hands. Hearing the flapping of wings, I peek around the bush and see a bright green tooka fly through the air toward me and then continue down the trail. “Wee-wee-o,” it calls, beckoning me. “Wee-wee-o.” I take a small step and peek out onto the path, gasping when I see what caused the explosion: a tree got hit by lightning. And not just any tree, but the heart palm I had thought about climbing. When I realize what would have happened if I had been here a little earlier, or the lightning had struck a little later…my body turns cold.

  I tiptoe forward, stepping over the burning pieces of forest until I’m standing at the base of a smoldering tree. The beetle grubs that were living inside ooze out like they’re the tree’s intestines. My stomach rumbles and I hesitate only a second longer before stuffing a handful into my mouth. Warm and soft, they taste like cheese, and I remember how excited I used to be when we harvested them. Quickly, I swallow and grab more.

  Seeing a palm frond burning in front of me, I realize this tree is going to save me from the jaguar after all. A fire would be the perfect way to keep the cat away, and I’ve got a huge lit match right in front of me. As the rain starts to pour, I break branches off nearby trees and rip down clinging vines, placing them on top of the already flaming leaves. Shoving more grubs into my mouth, I shield the newly smoldering wood with other fronds until they too are ablaze. Then I set out for more. The fire devours everything, growing higher and lighting up the surrounding forest. I make ten more trips for wood, widening my search and snatching everything within reach. Suddenly, the jaguar howls again, closer this time. Clutching the sticks to my chest, I hurry back to the safety of the tree.

  Eyeing the pile of wood I’ve collected, I calculate that if I only use two or three pieces every couple of hours, I’ll have enough to make it through the night. It won’t be a roaring bonfire, but it sh
ould be enough to keep the cat away. I circle the fire with stones, to keep it from spreading, and then bow my head. Thank you, Good Gods.

  Squish, squish, squish, squish. The jaguar’s padded paws steadily approach.

  I drop one end of a stick into the red ash; a flaming poker will be extra protection.

  Swoosha, swoosha, swoosha. Her slow, rhythmic heartbeat tells me she’s in no hurry.

  Suddenly, she stops and scratches the forest floor. Judging from the volume of her movements, it sounds like she’s still quite a way away. Sighing, she lies down and begins to purr.

  I pace around the fire, confused by her actions. What jaguar acts like this? Why did she stop stalking me? I pull the stick-poker out of the fire and nod at its glowing tip before propping it between my feet. Feeling confident by her distance and slow breathing that she won’t charge, I sit with my back against a tree. As the adrenaline drains from my body and the fire warms my wet clothes, the exhaustion that I’ve been outrunning all day finally catches up to me. Leaning my head back against the wet bark of the tree, I think about home.

  Joey. By now the bomb has been dropped on him; he knows about his parents’ divorce. I wonder how he’s doing. Did he go to the soccer field and smash balls into the goal like he always does when he’s mad? I wonder what I should say to him when I get home. Dropping my head in my hands, I try to imagine how I would want to be treated. My mind is a big blank hole and after opening my eyes again, I decide to ask Sara.

  Sara. What did she do after she read my letter? Cry? No, that’s not her style. I bet she immediately ran out and started looking for me—her and Juan Diego, yelling my name, riding up and down the river. I stare at the smoke still coming out of the heart palm. I hope Juan Diego convinced her to wait until the storm passed and it was safe.