He would meet them at the door, smelling of tobacco and old spice, offering them horsey rides and sweets. Mother would scold him for ruining dinner, but he would just chuff, wink and pull her into a twirl, dancing with her until she laughed. She used to watch them, wishing when she got married it would be as wonderful as this.
After dinner he would sit in his den on his favourite chair drinking whisky and chewing on a Cuban Black Label Partagas cigar he was forever forbidden to light, its end whittled and gnawed, regaling them of all the wonders the outside world had to offer. He was like a god to her, and she was like a little hamster trapped in a hamster ball, permanently enclosed in a bubble. As her mother explained, the outside world killed you.
She remembered thinking, her mother was right, as she sat in the chapel that day, the sun glinting through stained glass windows depicting the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus. The celebration of birth depicted above, tainted by the mourning of death below. It was a closed coffin ceremony, simply because the coffin was empty.
After years of waiting, her mother had finally accepted the fact that Reginald Burrows was never coming home. That fateful night when they had waited excited by the door, Tasha jumping up at every creak and every tap. Watching the clock as its hand moved inexorably passing the time he was due home and then onwards, second upon second turning to minutes upon minutes, begging her mum just to stay up that bit longer to see her father walk through the door. It wasn’t to be and those minutes upon minutes, turned to hours and then days.
She remembered the old superstition. The one where you stopped the clock, as a sign that time was over for the dead and the clock must not be restarted until the deceased was buried. If it was the head of the household that died, then the clock was doomed, never to be restarted again.
Four hours later her mother was frantically calling him, the airport, her uncle, the Police. All the while she was sure it was just a mistake, maybe he had been delayed. Into the next day and then the day after that. Shell shocked, convinced it was a dream, unable to believe he never got on the plane.
They say bad memories are like injuries, they heal over time. In this case time did not help, this was a memory that could not fade, because it was a wound that could not be allowed heal. Without closure, the wound was always left open, weeping and infected with bitterness and regret. There was always a chance that he could come home. That he would wake up in a hospital somewhere on the other side of the world and realise he had to rush home to his family, like a child’s fairytale, Paul returning home at the end of Pete’s Dragon.
Yet, thinking like that was about as useful as rearranging chairs on the Titanic, like the band that kept playing as the ship sunk, the years passed, and in that time they rearranged boatloads of chairs, excuse after excuse, hope fading like a waning sunset; and then one day, her mum just quit.
She found her sitting on the edge of her bed, looking at her hands, like the contemplation of them would lead to a higher meaning. She was holding a declaration of presumed death, the once crisp white paper damp with tears. It had been ten long years, the law in England said you only needed seven.
The only glimmer of happiness she saw during that time was when uncle came to visit. Like her father he brought excitement, happiness and stories to the house. He would stay, sometimes for months, his visit deteriorating into constant low arguments behind closed doors, stony silences and glares full of hidden daggers over dinner. Her mother was angry with him and she was never quite sure why.
As she got older she came to understand why. Her uncle travelled like her father did, and her mother hated it. She didn’t want to lose her brother like she had lost her husband, but her behaviour took care of that anyway. She managed to push him away, but despite it all he always remained close to Tasha, following her work and keeping in contact as she got older.
The local villagers started coming out, warmly welcoming them and helping them unload the plane.
“Come” said her uncle. “I’m staying with the villagers.” He started taking them across to the villagers’ home, in a procession through thick jungle about 300 feet east of the landing strip. The villagers had eked a winding track through the jungle to the village, almost bare now from use.
They lived in what looked like a large circular tent with a hole in the middle. “The Yanomami live in a large circular communal house called yanos or shabonos” he said. “It provides them with excellent protection from the jungle, and you see” he said pointing to the central open area “this area here is used for rituals, feasts and games.” Little children came out, dancing alongside her, pulling on her T-shirt and giggling shyly.
“It only takes them about four hours every day to hunt and gather food and prepare it, the rest of the time, they spend on games and rituals” said her uncle, obviously fascinated by their culture. “Here we are” he said pointing to some hammocks. “This is where we rest” he said.
Tasha sat down on the hammock completely drained of all energy.
“After you have a rest” her uncle said to them. “I’ll take you to meet the Shaman of the village. He’s a real character that one. “The Yanomami have a very interesting culture, you know. They believe in equality among peoples, which means they actually have no chief.” As interesting as the people and their new surroundings were, Tasha was thoroughly beat.
She laid down on the hammock remembering thinking that it felt very comfortable, apart from the fact that the rocking motion made her feel a little seasick, only to be awoken around evening by her uncle who was summoning her for a feast.
“You are very lucky” he said “they have put a feast on, just for you.”
She looked at him with blurry eyes and got up slowly following him to the feast.
Xavier was already there, laughing away with the locals. She didn’t realise he knew how to speak their dialect, but she figured there was probably still a lot she didn’t know about him.
“Uncle” she said solemnly. “We really need to talk. I thought you were in serious danger.”
“Yes, yes” he said “I’m awfully sorry about that. I knew you wouldn’t come otherwise. Anyway, I was definitely being followed in Caracas.”
“Yes” she said “but probably because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”
He looked at her confused “Xavier told me uncle,” she said castigating him, “about you drinking at that bar.”
He flushed and his shoulders sank a little. “I’m sorry, I have been a little selfish. I really need your help Tasha,” he pleaded changing the subject.
“Ok” she said, “but where are your two guides? The ones you left Caracas with?”
He blushed slightly more, his face going red like a boiled lobster “I left them in Ciudad Bolivar.” He pushed his hat sheepishly back off his reddened face. “You are the only one capable of reading the map, and quite honestly, I have come to realise on this trip more than ever, I’m an old man now, I can’t handle any further trekking into the jungle.”
“What are you saying Uncle? You’re not coming with us?”
“My darling Tasha” he said, “it took all the spirit I had left in me to get this far. Finding this map and whatever it holds has been the culmination of my lifes’ work, my dream. When I got to Cuidad I realised how foolish I was being. I’m too old, I’m not made for this malarky anymore. I can’t go on any further. That is why I need you - and Xavier. You are the only person I know who I can trust this to.”
She looked at him, shadows dancing across his aged face in the firelight. She knew he was getting old and arthritic and a trip like this was even too much for someone like her, let alone an old man who was looking like he was getting close to needing a retirement home
“So, what do you say?” he asked holding his arms out beckoning. “Where is your spirit of adventure?”
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this” she said “I guess I have come this far. Yes ok” she told him.
“I knew you would” he cried wrappin
g his arms around her. “This calls for a proper celebration, come on! Let’s join the tribe.”
He took her out to the celebrations and she sat next to Xavier. He was sitting by a crackling fire drinking something foreign to her. His eyes danced in the firelight when he saw her. She looked away, sure she must look a mess by now.
She hadn’t washed or changed since this morning and her hair was falling out of the ponytail she had carefully placed it in those few hours before, she figured it was about as tousled as a lamb's tail. She could not believe so much had happened in such a short time, leading her here, to the jungle, with an adventurous man named Xavier.
“Here” said Xavier offering her some of the local beverage. She tried not to make a face of disgust and politely waved it away. Whatever it was, it smelled almost as bad as it looked.
“It’s called Cochili” said Xavier, slurring his words. “It’s made by the local Indians from squeezing juice from a plant they grow. The juice is allowed to ferment, in the open air for a few weeks, and voila - you get this nectar of the gods.” She tried not to dry reach as she looked at it. It was a milky white substance with clumps of bread-like soggy goo, a bit like pollywog eggs along with greenish brown mold mixed in. She had not doubt from the way he was acting it kicked a pretty impressive punch too.
Her uncle waived his hand and they passed him some. She had no doubt he was in his element here. Judging by the way he was drinking, he was going to be doing a battle with gout the next morning, she was quite sure of that. She could see he had picked up some of the language and chatted away with them, mostly in sign language whilst he drank.
Knowing a little bit about languages, she knew there were 101 languages listed for Venezuela in the Ethnologue database. Of that eighty are still spoken as living languages. His quickness of mind never ceased to amaze her, especially since languages were not his field of specialty. All-in-all it probably didn’t matter what was said, they all looked like they were incoherent after a few rounds of that rocket fuel.
She noticed a man watching her and she began to feel a little uncomfortable. He started motioning to her.
“Xavier” she begged “what does he want? He’s, kind of scaring me.”
“Oh him” replied Xavier “he’s harmless. He’s the village Shaman.”
“Shaman?” she repeated nervously, “that doesn’t sound harmless. What does he want?”
Xavier waved to the Shaman and he came over sitting near them. He said something to the Shaman and then the Shaman started talking to him, for what seemed like a few minutes.
Xavier turned back to Tasha and tried to translate what the Shaman had said, the best he could in his inebriated state
“The Shaman of these tribes can see a spirit or Xapiripe. Think of them like a version of our fairies. They are very small and bright like the light. There are many, many Xapiripe, thousands of them, bright like the stars of the sky. They are beautiful, decorated with parrot feathers, earrings and painted. They dance and sing beautifully.” She smiled at the Shaman nodding. “He is saying that he can see them now, they are gathered around you. They are fascinated by your golden hair. They think you must be a descendant of a fallen star.
Tasha looked at the Shaman, he was continuing to smile at her nodding his head.
“Tell him thank you” she said. He turned to the Shaman relating what she had said. He still continued to smile and nod his head, creeping her out a little.
“I wouldn’t worry too much” laughed Xavier “the guy is probably high. They have to inhale a hallucinogenic snuff called yakoana to see the spirits of the Xapiripe through trance like visions. Simply put he’s off his nut. But” he looked at her naughtily “I might agree with him about you fallin’ from heaven.”
Tasha blushed (she was getting used to doing that). She looked at Xavier, although he was still relatively coherent it was obvious by the way he was slurring his words and carrying himself he was inebriated. He held his cup out for another drink.
“Maybe you should slow down on that a little?” It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement masquerading as one for politeness.
“Why?” he asked “if you can handle this stuff, you can handle anything.” She had no doubt that was true.
“According to your uncle, you are an Egyptologist, you specialise in reading hieroglyphs?” Xavier asked.
She laughed “it's actually gets even more complicated that. I’m actually called a Demotist. Demotic writing came after hieroglyphs. The writing on that map is neither, it is hieratic Script, it came into existence in between hieroglyphs and demotic script.”
“So your demonic? Good to know” he said raising his cup for another gulp.
“That all just actually went straight over your head didn’t it?”
He grinned sluggishly “I don’t have a PhD like you do. I have however, done practically everything else. I have a PhD in life.” She didn’t doubt that for a second.
She was starting to feel hungry, she was grateful she had thought to pack food when she went to the shops. She figured if she ate that, and managed to stick to boiled water, she might be able to keep the stomach bugs at bay.
She had seen the locals’ food and she wasn’t game to try it, it looked like a scoop of salmonella with a side of dish of listeria for good measure. She was sure their stomachs were used to it, but hers, well she wouldn’t like to gamble on that one, she’d probably bet against herself.
She went to get a survival bar from her backpack and when she returned she noticed that by this stage, Xavier was absolutely and hopelessly drunk. Her uncle didn’t look like he was very far behind, he was sitting cackling like a loon with the natives. What is wrong with these men she thought. We are in the middle of the Amazon jungle with every imaginable threat out there and they are going practically blind from alcohol intoxication. Way to keep your wits about you.
She got up again, disgusted. “I’m off to bed.”
Xavier stood up slowly, unsteady on his feet. “Let me help you.” He held out a wavering hand, as if a he was like a prince bowing to a princess.
“I’m perfectly capable of taking myself to bed” she dismissed him, turning away.
“All the same” he slurred, following her. She reached her hammock and
without any warning he leaned forward trying to kiss her, his hands groping clumsily for her breasts.
“Hey” she cried “back off.” She pushed him backwards. He staggered a little and fell. It certainly was not her intention and if he wasn’t so drunk he wouldn’t have fallen.
He got up clumsily. “Why did you have to go and do that for?” he asked wiping the dirt from his hands. “I spilt my drink.”
“I’m sorry” she said “but please don’t try that again.”
“You don’t want to kiss me hey?” Because you think you are too good for me right?” He was swaying uncomfortably in front of her, it was dizzyingly distracting like a viper dancing for its prey. She felt like he was going to fall again any second, and his rocking was making her seasick.
“No, no I didn’t say that” she said. “You’re drunk.”
“So if I wasn’t drunk, then you’d kiss me then would you?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that either.”
“So if I wasn’t drunk you wouldn’t kiss me, if I was drunk you wouldn’t kiss me, If I wasn’t drunk and I was drunk would you kiss me then?”
“You are not making any sense now” she said rolling her eyes until it made her look like she was possessed. “Please, just go to bed.”
“Ah, so you won’t kiss me but you will go to bed with me?” his eyes were dark and intense and looked directly at hers.
“For god’s sake, just get out of here will you. I will not kiss you and I will not got to bed with you, not now, not ever, got it?”
“Got it” he said stumbling away “see” he said talking to his cup which he had raised to eye level, “ she won’t sleep with me because she doesn’t sleep, she’s really a blood suc
king vampire.”
“Oh for crying out loud” she sighed under her breath “the guy really is an imbecile.”
She laid in the hammock, crossing her arms angrily after her encounter with Xavier, and tried desperately to go to sleep. It was obvious that the natives liked to party, and they were settled in for the night.
Even worse, something she hadn’t imagined before now, was the fact that the jungle came alive at night. It was alive, and kicking, with an incredible amount of noise coming out of it. The sound of nocturnal night-prowling animals burst full and loud, in an almost continuous babel of varied and savage predatory noise.
With all the noise she barely slept a wink. Unlike like her uncle and Xavier, who once they had finished partying with the natives had crashed comatose on their hammocks in a drunken stupor, snoring like two overgrown hyenas.
Her mind wandered vaguely at this point, thinking that sleep was like the unicorn - they were rumored to exist, but she doubted she would see any, unless, she chuckled wildly to herself, they were carnivorous, and then they probably would come across one in this infernal jungle.
The next morning was a morning of reckoning for all. Xavier could barely look at Tasha after his performance from the night before, and Tasha, well, despite her best efforts was feeling like her stomach was about to pack its bag and run away. She had brought some tablets for that and took a few in an effort to calm her stomach. Lack of sleep was gnawing at her mind like a dog gnawing at a bone.
She sat quietly, taking the time to look thoroughly at the map with her uncle.
“I can decipher most of it,” she said to her uncle “but I definitely need your help” she looked down at the map, continuing “I know the Ancient Egyptians were obsessed with astronomy. They even carved maps of the stars into the inside of the pharaohs coffins, they think they did this so that they could navigate the stars in the afterlife with the gods. So am I right in assuming this is a star map?”
The Artifact: Natasha Burrows Series Book One Page 6
