When Time is Cracked and Trees Cry: A mysterious novel that takes you deep into a Magical tour in the secrets of the Amazon jungle and the psychological depths of the human soul

by Nahum Megged

  Part 2

  In the Town

  10

  Francisco

  Ciudad Don Pedro was a strange backwater town, but to those returning from the forest, it appeared a vast metropolis. Boats and canoes continuously traveled down the great river, and the window of my new room was like the porthole of a constantly moving ship. People whose forefathers — or even who themselves — had lived a life of freedom in the forest were now servants in the house I stayed in and other houses around town. They were chained to those who gave them the magic papers with which they could get food and medicine — food that was so different from what they used to hunt or forage, and medicine nothing like the marikitare had given them. Even their spirits were now beholden to a foreign god who had settled in this town and in others across the river. A god whose nets were woven of hymns, sermons, threats, and money, capturing men and women who had once had different ways and believed in other gods. Destiny, hunger, and human hunters had forced them to accept a pale imitation of the only culture considered meaningful in the eyes of the white people.

  Marina’s wooden house was mounted on stilts and stood on a hill that had once served as the bed of forest trees. It had more rooms than all the huts in the Yarkiti camp combined. A large balcony overlooked the river and the forested slopes of a mountain towering to the west.

  The mysterious father, the missing explorer whose path kept crossing mine, used to live in my room. Marina’s mother had lived there too, until she became sick and was moved to another room. A long corridor both separated and connected the two rooms. My living space was almost empty. I hadn’t found any notes, photos, or objects belonging to its former tenant other than a fine walking stick.

  When we arrived, the servants had told Marina a messenger from among the forest people had come from time to time — a different man each time — and asked in her name for a certain object belonging to her or to her parents. The objects were gone, and there was no way of telling who had sent the messengers.

  I hardly saw Marina anymore, which was only to be expected. She had returned to her natural habitat, which was so alien to me. How would she introduce me to her friends and acquaintances? Even in the evenings we didn’t see each other; and the long corridor separated our rooms. From time to time, we met to eat a fruit breakfast and did our best to hide our discomfort. It was clear that I wouldn’t be able to linger in that stage of my life for too long. Even though I had contacted my children, and they screamed for joy upon hearing my voice, I still didn’t want to return to my distant world. I was sure the next stage of my life, just like the previous one, would be with Yarkiti and the forest.

  In the meantime, I spent some time with several of the locals, including those who worked in Marina’s house. Marina’s servants had told me that her mother was the daughter of a wealthy family, one of the first white families to settle in the region. Her parents had come from the distant capital and were at first rubber manufacturers. When the price of rubber dropped, the settlers claimed large sections of the forest, cleared the land, and cultivated bananas and soybeans. They shipped the produce via the river to the sea, and from the nearest port to the distant places inhabited by the “thinking people,” as the Yarkiti call, perhaps mockingly, the men and women of our culture.

  Beatrice, Marina’s mother, was born in Ciudad Don Pedro. She studied at schools belonging to the Institute of Linguistics, a protestant establishment whose purpose was to disseminate the word of “the true god” in the tongues of the natives. Beatrice had studied and mastered many of the local dialects, but she had never learned English. Unlike many white people, she did not despise the locals and, much to the chagrin of her parents, had developed personal relationships with many of the servants and their children.

  She befriended an old marikitare who had moved to town after an unknown disease had annihilated every other member of his tribe — a disease the missionaries had brought with them or possibly the anthropologists who followed. In his desperation, the marikitare had left the forest and settled in the only place some members of his lost people still lived. The old man used to sit with the white girl and tell her the history of the tribe as preserved in its myths. He told her of healing plants, prayers, initiations, and rituals. The two continued to secretly uphold some of the traditions, on the mountain on the border between the town and the forest.

  Beatrice used to accompany research expeditions into the forest, and people said she had fallen in love with a young chief. After returning from one of her excursions in the jungle, during which she had flown on wings of vihu to the upper regions and spent many nights with the chief, anthropologist Herbert William had arrived in town.

  William, who was then a young and promising researcher, was convinced the forest would reveal to him the universal hieroglyphics — the one, original language that preceded the Tower of Babel. William managed to infuse Beatrice with his enthusiasm, and her parents were happy to discover she was falling in love with a white man, a man of their culture. They assumed Beatrice would lose interest in the wild forest-born.

  Beatrice immediately became pregnant, and Marina came into the world without grandparents. Beatrice’s parents were killed in a mysterious accident —their boat had crashed in the river rapids. Without parents, and after becoming a young mother, Beatrice’s new life began. The father of her daughter refused to marry her, as was required by all the religions of the town and the forest that surrounded it. He would often disappear into the forest and Beatrice, aided by her loyal servants, managed the farm she inherited from her parents on her own. Sometimes she would join him on his travels. She also traveled on her own from time to time, as she had before meeting him. Gossipmongers among the servants said that she continued to secretly meet the chief with whom she had once flown on the wings of vihu.

  When William did not return from his final journey, Beatrice sank into depression. She was treated by doctors and soothsayers, even by the old marikitare who shared the secrets of his tribe with her, but she was never able to regain her shadow. Beatrice had gradually shrunk, until it was decided to fly her to the big city so she could be treated there by methods unavailable in the small town. In the big city, the fire of her life had almost died out. Many mourned her as if she had already died, including the house servants who loved her so dearly. When Marina left as well, the servants were afraid they would end up being given to new masters, and in their desperation they turned to all the spirits of the forest for help. And indeed, Marina had returned.

  These thrilling stories, and many others, I heard from the house staff, mainly from one elderly maid who still remembered Beatrice’s parents and their cruelty. She told me that the servants had requested a powerful spell to be cast upon them, and that was why they had found their deaths in the river rapids.

  “They returned to the womb of the forest to be reborn as natives and atone for what they had done in their previous lives,” Tourki whispered to me.

  I loved walking about the little town and visiting the cozy harbor, which was frequented by boats of all sizes coming from the forest or the sea. Those that came from the jungle often trailed a long raft carrying priceless trees. There was a private jetty at Marina’s house, so the household staff did not often go to the town port, except to buy fruit and fish.

  I was concerned about other materials coming from the unknown — gold flakes and diamonds. When the echoes would spread the empty message the so-called “thinking people” deemed important, the place would be raided not only by woodcutters, soul hunters, and land-hungry people, but also by adventurers of a different sort — penniless people with dreams of becoming rich overnight and wealthy people hungry for more wealth.

  I sat beside a pillar, watching the ships docking, when a young white man approached me. He introduced himself as an employee of the postal and telephone company’s local office, which connects the town to the larger world with the aid of a satellite dish. He told me in additi
on to his work at the post office, he also ran a small store.

  He had come to Don Pedro from a distant city, where he had fallen into debt. His wife and three children still lived in that city, and he had promised them he would one day return when his situation improved and allowed him to pay his debts.

  He had decided that close to the forest, in a semi-inhabited region, he could be the one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. Before long, he realized what was missing in the town: a photocopier that would allow the townspeople to duplicate documents immediately, without having to wait long weeks for the official in charge of the sole government camera. The photocopier became a financial success and he used the profits to become a loan shark.

  He charged high interest, and as guarantees he collected gold, precious stones, even diamonds, and sometimes, the bows of the forest dwellers, which are very valuable among collectors. He quickly amassed a fortune, and working for the post office served an as excellent cover for his activities. He thought it would be better if government officials didn’t learn of his newly accumulated riches. He had already managed to pay his debts but wasn’t in any hurry to leave the town and go back to his far-away family.

  “And why are you telling me so many things you are hiding from others?” I asked.

  “Because you won’t tell anyone,” answered the stranger, “and I had to tell someone. I heard you speaking on the phone with your children and remembered my own. I miss them just like you do, and like you, I can’t go back to them, because something greater keeps us both here…” He took a deep breath, then added, “I know many things about you and your deeds. I feel as if I’m intimately familiar with you, and this is why I trust you with all my heart. I’ve read the telegrams your friends and family have sent and listened to their telephone calls. They turned to the Institute of Linguistics and the local authorities and it was evident they feared for you, I guess because they knew how much harm you are capable of inflicting upon yourself. Were you able to find what you were seeking in the forest? Did the wound heal?”

  The stranger’s words were knives opening old wounds. I covered my face with my hands and began to cry, releasing all the tears I had not been able to shed during my long days in the forest. I found myself crying sorrowful tears in front of a stranger who was more familiar with the workings of my soul than I was.

  Your face suddenly appeared against the screen of hands pressed against my eyes. You wanted to tell me something, but I could not understand. Your gestures indicated a danger. But where did that peril lie, and what should I be wary of? Was the threat lurking for me there, with the stranger? Or was it in the forest I wanted to return to?

  The stranger wasn’t indifferent to my distress. He put his arm around my shoulder and we cried together.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice choked with tears. “Life has taught me to be careful, and I really wanted to warn you not to reveal to anyone the secret burdening your soul.”

  I raised my tearful eyes to his and once again, we embraced as allies.

  Francisco — the stranger who had instantly turned into a close friend — knew all the townspeople’s secrets. He knew which of them were cheating the authorities, who had left his wife and home and now lived in the bosom of another, and who had found treasures in the forest, metal and stones, or discovered artifacts that were sold overseas anonymously. He read every telegram and opened each letter, then sealed them again without anyone noticing. He listened to many phone calls and often recorded them. I had never known a man more familiar with the minutest details of the place he lived in.

  He told me that Beatrice, Marina’s mother, was aware her man was leading a double life. And not only a double life: Herbert had traveled all over the jungle and frequented many tribes. Who knew how many of the forest people were his children? Beatrice’s family fortune was run, according to Francisco, by people who weren’t especially honest. One of them had wired funds to an account in a different country, money probably belonging to Marina. I told Francisco about the forest people who had visited Marina’s house when she was gone, asking for various items of hers on her behalf. Francisco smiled and said that whoever had sent them could be one of the people managing Beatrice’s estate, and it was safe to assume he had earned a lot of money from selling her belongings.

  I went back home agitated and met Marina. My swollen eyes must have spoken of the turmoil inside me. Marina softened and abandoned her aloof behavior and silently came and stroked my head.

  “They say the drums were heard, and there are those who claim they saw my brother dressed as one of the forest people, escaping with them from white people who had tried to ambush the locals to find out where precious stones could be found,” she told me once I had settled down.

  “You will hear many such stories,” I told her. “Many rumors travel the forest, mainly spread by those interested in ruining it. This story could be true, but it would be safer to assume it was invented by white people who want to raid the forest people in order to ‘rescue’ the famous stranger from their hands.” Now I was the one who comforted her.

  “I haven’t forgotten you,” said Marina. “But I need to understand what happened between us… I don’t want to relive my mother’s life.”

  I knew she was right. Many things had conspired to separate us: our native countries, the cultures that had nurtured us, my advanced age. Only the culture of the forest united us, a culture where we were only visitors, in a place where each of us was lonely, struggling just to stay alive.

  We sat on the shaded porch facing the river, letting the wind dry our sweating bodies. Boats and canoes passed by. Then, as if in a vision, I saw a familiar face. I could not recall where I had seen it before. He sat by the rail of a large boat, his hand trailing in the water. From the look in his eyes, one could see the place was new and alien to him, and he was making an effort to take in the various sights.

  I told Marina I must leave, ran out of the house straight to the harbor. His boat was docked there, and I saw him disembarking. I greeted him in my native language. He turned around, and panic filled him when he recognized me. He immediately turned his back on me and ran, disappearing from sight. Now I knew where he had come from and was sure I’d seen him before but still couldn’t recall where or when. I knew he had to return to his boat if he wanted to continue on his way, so I waited for him at the port.

  Hours passed, the boat had sailed, but there was still no sign of him. I knew we were both trapped in the same maze, and our paths would cross again. I returned to Marina’s house and told her about the stranger and how he had slipped away from me. She said nothing, just took my hand and pulled me into the darkness of her distant room, and just as in the forest we forgot everything and were alone in the world again.

  11

  A Snake in a Box

  I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep. I was lying in Marina’s room, but she was no longer there. I hurried to my room to bathe and get dressed and found her sleeping in my bed. I returned to her room and looked at the many photographs hanging on the walls: Beatrice and Herbert. Marina in the garden. Marina standing on the riverbank. Marina as a teenager. Marina as a baby. The husband and wife with the forest people. The mother by herself with the natives. A very young Beatrice with a youthful man of the forest. Other photos showed Beatrice with young white men and women, not in town, but somewhere I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know if it was Beatrice who had hung the photographs or Marina after claiming the room as her own. According to the servants’ stories, Marina had completely changed the appearance of the house after Beatrice had been sent to the big city.

  When I left Marina’s room, Tourki, the old maid, asked me to help her fix a leaking water pipe. She smiled at me as if she knew, or guessed, with whom I’d slept last night. Her smile was soft and kind-hearted. After eating my regular breakfast of fruit and taking care of the leaking pipe, I set out for the waking town.

  I
went to the post office. Francisco had a secretive smile on his face. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Last night, an agitated young man came to my office. His hands were shaking, and he stammered. He wanted me to let him make a long distance call. To cover the cost of the call, he left me this gold watch. It’s probably stolen.” Francisco paused and handed me the watch as if it could help me recognize the man. “I recorded the long conversation he had, but he spoke in a foreign language, I think it’s yours. Would you like to hear the recording?”

  Without waiting for my answer, Francisco turned on a portable tape recorder and indeed, the language of my homeland issued from it. The stranger had told an unknown woman that he was far away. With his voice trembling, he had asked for money. Then he gave her the name and address of a hotel in the capital where she could wire the money to him. The call was disconnected several times, and the stranger nervously called back each time. The woman’s voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t say who she was. Could my past be haunting me all the way there, in that distant backwoods town?

  I realized the man would not likely receive any money, and even if he did, I found it hard to understand how he’d be able to get to the big city to retrieve it. I explained to Francisco that the man had sounded desperate, and that his despair might lead him to do something dangerous. I asked if we should notify the authorities.

  “The authorities?” Francisco laughed as he echoed my words. “What authorities would you be talking about? But don’t worry, early this morning I saw him boarding a slave hunters’ boat. I guess he’d found a way to earn some money, so I assume things will work out for him.”

  “Slave hunters?” I said with disbelief.