“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask him. “Shouldn’t you eat as well?”
“I don’t think you would really like to see me eat, little bird. I am not nearly as . . . dainty as you are.”
I blush and feel embarrassed for asking. I’m surprised at how considerate he is. And I am glad he is not tearing into his prey right in front of me.
“Besides,” he continues, “I usually wait until after sunset to eat.” I want to ask him why, but he has laid down his head as if ready to fall asleep. I lay my head on his side and stroke his soft fur. I can hear his fierce heart beating steadily. It is fast and sure. My eyes close, and drowsiness overcomes me. As I fall into sleep, all I hear is Tupa’s heartbeat and the sound of his purr.
“Rosara.” I hear Tupa’s deep voice pull me out of sleep. “Rosara, it’s time,” he says, and my eyes open wide.
I’m curled against his body, and one of his great paws is resting on my shoulder in a warm embrace. Tupa stands. “Follow me,” he says quietly. I wonder if that is sadness I hear in his voice.
The light is fading. We continue on through the jungle until it is nearly twilight. In the distance I begin to hear the rush of water. A river is nearby. We approach it and follow the current along its banks, walking downstream until we come to a place where the river widens. The current is slow and lazy here, forming a gentle pool. A group of capybaras wade at the edge of the water, grazing on river reeds. They scatter into the jungle, squeaking, when they see us.
I look all around for a jungle spirit but see nothing out of the ordinary. Tupa notices my staring and says, “Don’t worry. The karawara are particularly fond of the brief moments when it is neither daytime nor night. They are most easily found at twilight or just before dawn when the world is not yet quite awake or quite asleep. I’m sure we’ll find one here.”
I look around but still see nothing other than jungle and the river. My hand lifts, and I feel Tupa’s head duck under my arm. I scratch the skin between his ears, and he purrs once again, the breath rushing from his mouth as he exhales. Even if the karawara does not come, I wonder if Tupa would help me to live in the jungle. I know it would be difficult, but perhaps with his guidance I could somehow manage.
I consider asking him when I hear his growl, a deep rumble in his chest that makes the air vibrate in my ears. He is looking up into the sky. My eyes follow his gaze upward, though I hear the sound of what is coming long before I actually see it.
Wings. Hundreds of wings beat and stir the air. And then I see them as they rush out of the forest and sail overhead. Every color of the rainbow fills my vision as scarlet and blue-winged macaws fly alongside green-feathered parrots, their long tails floating behind them in the wind. Black-and-white toucans join the throng along with smaller crimson topaz birds, their iridescent plumage gleaming in the dying light. Miniscule yellow- and orange-breasted hummingbirds zip and dart in circles, stopping to hover before us as if they are appraising me. Although the air is filled with the sound of their beating wings, I hear only one bird’s voice. It is a deep, throaty, warbling sound.
Out of the jungle appear the massive wings of a great white egret. They lift and fall in slow, powerful beats until the bird lands on the firm branch of a young wimba tree. Though the arms of the tree stretch out wide, the tree is not so tall as its brothers and sisters, not yet towering over the canopy of the forest. The hundreds of other birds follow and find places to perch in the tree. Its branches are thick with their crowded bodies, except for the branch with the great white egret. It sits alone, a single white star flanked by every imaginable color.
The rumble in Tupa’s chest lessens but does not diminish entirely.
The egret walks along the thick branch and reveals beautiful plumes draping from its back, as wispy and delicate as a spider web. The slender plumage sways in the wind with each step of its black, spindly legs. I’m enchanted by the beauty of this bird. Surely this is a holy animal, a true spirit of the jungle. Its snake-shaped neck stretches and bobs with each step until it stands just above us.
It opens its knife-sharp beak, and I expect to hear the deep, throaty warble once again. Instead I hear the egret say, “It’s a little late for you to be wandering the jungle, isn’t it, Tupa?”
The egret says this in a soft, silky voice. I am not certain how I would expect an egret’s voice to sound, but it would not be so gentle and smooth, like a breeze through the rainforest carrying the coolness of the mountain mist.
Tupa growls in response and does not answer.
“I’d expect you to be crossing the river by now. It is nearly dark, after all.”
I have the distinct impression that the great bird is teasing my friend. Or taunting him. Tupa says nothing, though the rumble in his chest continues.
The egret tilts his head, bobs, and tilts again the other direction as if waiting for a reply. Tupa does not grant him one. The bird takes a few preening steps then jumps from the tree, his wide wings catching the air as he floats to the ground.
Tupa shifts his body in between mine and the bird’s. The egret is indeed the largest bird I have ever seen. However, my friend is the largest animal I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’m fairly certain he could easily eat the egret in a few mouthfuls if he wished to. Nevertheless, Tupa keeps himself solidly between us.
“Is this the karawara?” I whisper in Tupa’s ear. He nods, and I am suddenly afraid. Perhaps seeking the help of a jungle spirit is not the best idea. I put my arm around Tupa’s neck and squeeze. He pushes back against me, and my fear abates a little.
“I will not let him harm you,” Tupa says, never taking his eyes off of the giant preening bird.
“Harm you? Harm you?” the bird asks, his tone incredulous though his voice remains silky smooth. “I have no desire to harm you, child. Tell me what you seek, and I will try to grant your wish.”
Tupa turns his head to me, and I look at him before I speak. “You do not have to do this,” he says. “You can—”
“Enough!” the great bird says, and a chorus of squawks and calls from the host of birds in the tree echo his cry. Tupa’s mouth continues to move, but only the growls of a jaguar escape his lips. His human words are gone, just as before. I understand now: It is the karawara’s magic keeping Tupa wordless.
I wonder what the karawara doesn’t want him to say. Or doesn’t want me to hear.
“Why have you sought me, girl? What do you desire?”
I swallow my fear. “I wish to be able to live in the jungle freely. My father is forcing me to marry a man I have never met in order to escape marriage to a man who is a monster. I have no desire to be married to anyone if it will keep me away from the jungle I love so much. Please, great jungle spirit, I beg you to help me.”
The magnificent bird tilts its head again and regards me silently for a moment then looks at Tupa. “She is not so different from you, is she, Tupa?” Tupa growls again. “As I recall, you came to me to escape from a life you had not chosen as well. How interesting that you two have found each other.”
The words make little sense to me. Did Tupa make a bargain with the karawara as well? If so, what did he bargain for? How is it that we are alike? I want to ask Tupa my questions, but now is not the time. Questions can wait.
“Please, mighty one,” I beg, “grant me your favor.” I step away from Tupa and toward the great white egret, careful to keep my eyes lowered in reverence and respect. When I am standing before the mighty bird, I prostrate myself on the ground and wait for him to speak.
I do not wait long.
“Arise, human,” the spirit says. “I will grant your request.”
I stand, both elated that he will help me and terrified about what he will do.
“You humans call us forest spirits fickle, as if we enjoy bringing both harm and joy to those who seek our help,” the karawara says, staring at Tupa. “It is not true that we delight in the pain our magic creates. But, in truth, all magic requires sacrifice. And sacrifice leads to pain.”
Sacrifice? Pain? My heart begins to race.
“Are you willing to make a sacrifice to gain what you most desire? Are you willing to bear the pain of your action?” the karawara asks me.
I turn back to look at Tupa. He shakes his head. “You do not need to do this,” he whispers.
But he is wrong. I do.
“Yes,” I answer. “I am willing.”
The egret struts up to me, its plumy feathers quivering in the gentle breeze. “Take one,” it says.
After a moment of hesitation I select a feather whiter than all the stars in the sky and pull. My hand meets slight resistance, but the feather finally releases from the body, and I hold it before me. A drop of the karawara’s blood hangs off the tip of the quill.
“I have given my sacrifice,” the bird says. “Now you must give yours. Let the blood drip onto your hand.”
I hold the feather over my open hand. The blood dangles briefly then drops into my palm. It shines there, a bulbous dot of crimson before the color drains from it, turning it white. It then sinks into my skin, disappearing from sight.
He continues to instruct me. “Follow Tupa to the river. He will show you what to do.”
I turn to my friend. His head is low and it seems that a great weight presses down upon his strong back. The sun is setting beyond the jungle, and the twilight world descends for the few moments remaining before darkness falls completely. Tupa says nothing more to me, only turns his head toward the river and begins to walk.
He leads me to the pool where the water is calm, pauses for a brief moment, and then plunges into the middle of the river. The water surrounds him, and in seconds it is nearly level with his head.
“Come, little bird,” he says, his voice strangely hollow.
I obey and walk into the river as well. The water is cold but not so much that it shocks me. Instead it causes me to be even more alert. I wade in next to him until the water covers my shoulders.
“Go under,” Tupa says, then dips his own head below the surface of the water and disappears from my view. I take several deep breaths. When I have gained my courage, I dip my head under the water as well.
I feel the power of the river rush into me, stretching my skin, my bones, my muscles. I think it should hurt, but the experience is pleasurable and calming. I feel the soul of the river flow around me, through me, mingling its essence with my own.
I long to stay in this embrace forever, but too soon my lungs ache for air, and I break the surface of the water. The spell of the river breaks as well, and I no longer feel its power flowing all around me. I am simply standing in the river.
Directly in front of me, where my jaguar friend should be, stands a man I have never seen before. I step back in surprise, but my feet do not move correctly. They bend strangely beneath me, thick and powerful. I jump away from the stranger and swim back to the river’s shore.
When I step out of the water, I understand why my legs do not feel quite right. They are shorter than before, thicker, and covered with fur. My feet are no longer my own; they were replaced with padded paws and claws. The fur covering my skin is short and completely white save for black splotches and rosettes dotting it randomly.
I know now what my sacrifice is. I am no longer a human girl. I am a jaguar.
The man walks out of the river and sits down beside me on the bank. Who are you? I try to ask, but a deep, rumbling growl escapes my lips. I cannot speak. The man seems to understand me just the same.
“Rosara, it’s me,” he says. “Tupa.”
Chapter 8
TUPA? I TRY to say, but I growl again instead.
“It will be a while before you’re able to speak,” says the man. “It was seven days before I was able to speak with anything other than the roar of a jaguar. It will come to you, though. This may even be easier for now, if you’re not able to talk. Just listen.”
I shake my head and the rest of my body follows, spattering water into the air. I can feel my ears, no longer on the sides of my head but on top, twitch back and forth in sync with the sounds of the forest. The man’s voice sounds strange to me, more musical. I can hear all the different tones layered on each other that make up the harmonious whole of his voice. I’m lost in the melody of it until he stops speaking completely and stares at me with a smile on his face.
“Are you listening to me, little bird?” he asks, and I know without a doubt that somehow this is my friend Tupa, the jungle king.
I growl in response, frustrated that I cannot communicate what I am thinking.
“Everything will be strange at first,” he explains, “as you adjust to your jaguar senses. You will see, hear, and smell differently.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I notice that my eyesight is much keener than before, and that I can clearly smell the sharp tinge of human skin and sweat.
I want to ask how he knows this. What happened to him? I tilt my head to the side as I regard him with a look that I hope expresses all the questions tumbling through my brain.
“It grows late,” Tupa says, standing. “I must return to my home. Will you walk through the jungle with me, Rosara?”
He wades back into the river, swims across, and stands on the opposite bank, looking at me until I follow. We progress through the jungle along paths I have never walked before, as the evening rain begins to pour. Tupa remains silent through most of our journey, which I don’t mind. Everything feels so new and different, and the whole of my attention is focused on absorbing it all.
The rain ends quickly, and before long night has fallen. I have no trouble seeing in the dark, and I use the cloak of darkness to surreptitiously steal glances at Tupa as we walk through the jungle. He is tall, thin, and muscular. His hair is dark as night, but he wears it cut short, unlike the men of my village, who keep their hair long. I sense the jaguar in him as he walks along, silent and agile. It is strange how utterly foreign he is and yet so familiar at the same time.
He catches me studying him, and I quickly look away, but not before I notice his smile. It is small and sad. And yet, sad though it is, his smile makes his face all the more beautiful, and I think of it long after I look away. I hope to see him smile at me again . . . but then I remember that we are nearing his village and the family he has waiting there.
I have no business feeling giddy for his smile. I tell myself not to mistake his friendship and kindness for something more than it is.
I smell the village long before I see or hear it. The scent of man is pungent and easily recognizable.
Tupa slows as we reach the outskirts. Torches have been lit, though even without their light I could easily see everything. The structure of this village is nothing like the shabono of my own tribe. Rather than situating a central, semi-circular hut on razed jungle ground, this tribe has embraced the jungle, building structures that seem to sprout up out of the trees themselves. Wooden braces hold palm-thatched huts and wooden walkways high above the ground and against the trunks of the thickest trees. Swinging rope bridges made of jungle vine and wooden planks connect dwellings together and even span to the far side of the river, where more huts populate the trees. A bevy of canoes sit tethered on the river’s banks.
Turning in circles I gaze up in awe at how the people of this village have joined with the jungle instead of struggling against it. Children run across swaying bridges. A young girl swings from one hut to another by a series of vines. The people here seem to share more in common with monkeys than with men. I love it.
“Welcome to my home, Rosara,” Tupa says, his voice breaking the silence that has grown thick between us on our journey. His arms spread wide as if to encompass the entire village, and the smile on his face reveals his love for his home.
There are many questions I wish to ask. A growling, mewling sound rolls off my tongue instead of the words I long to say.
Tupa seems to understand my need to communicate. “I know how frustrating it is to be without your voice. I’ll tell you what I know, a
nd you may ask me more questions in the morning if you’d like.” His statement raises even more questions.
“Every day before dawn, you must enter the river in the exact place where you transformed into a jaguar. Swim to the middle of the river and duck under the water, just as we did this evening. Your body will return to its natural form. It is most important that you do this before the first rays of sunlight break over the forest. If you miss that moment between dark and dawn, you’ll remain a jaguar forever.
“At dusk you must repeat the process and enter the river again just before nightfall. This is part of your sacrifice. From now on you will live half of your life as a jaguar and half as human.”
My heart thuds rapidly in my chest. I had thought that I’d been made a jaguar for all time, but now I am glad to know that at least for half of each day I will become human again.
“I also must return to the pool before dawn or else I, too, will forever be cursed to remain a beast.”
I think how odd it is that Tupa lives as a jaguar during the day and I will live as one during the night. We will never be human at the same time. Perhaps that is also part of the sacrifice, to live our lives unable to share this strange experience with the one other person who understands it.
“I have much more to tell you,” Tupa says, “but now come and meet my people. They are used to my being a jaguar by now. I’m sure they will get used to you as well. That is, if you choose to stay with us.”
Tupa leads me to a vast wimba tree, larger than any I have ever seen. I look up and up until its trunk disappears into the canopy of leaves and branches above. Around the trunk hang several rope ladders that lead up to a wooden platform fanning out around the tree.
Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories Page 28
