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

  We were invited into the shade beneath the large tree. The stranger opened a sack, took out a stone tablet and showed it to Yankor, who turned pale.

  “Where did you bring this from?” he asked the stranger with dread.

  “It was with one of them,” answered the stranger.

  Yankor turned the tablet to me. To my curiosity, I saw a small engraving of the clasped hands. “The mating,” I exclaimed.

  “The mating,” Yankor echoed. “The sun and the moon, Omauha and Minare, the mating of the spirits and the creation of the world and the forest!”

  The Indian added that the tablet had been stolen by one of the Nave who unearth bones from the ground. The Nave had taken the tablet out of Minare’s sealed home.

  “Marikitare!” I shouted. “What is going on in the forest? Are they being eliminated one by one, those who have brought disaster upon the forest, cut the hair off Minare’s head, and pulled the bones out of the earth?”

  At first, only his bleak eyes answered, then his mouth added, “Dark days are coming. Devastation is at the gate. This won’t end well, it simply won’t end well…” He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Yankor’s two guests came out of the hut and brought him water. Their bodies were covered by war paint. I realized they had somehow crossed forests within the forest and had emerged from it.

  “Yes,” I told Yankor, “I see. The forest has declared war. But war only has a beginning, never an end. It ends only when people come to their end, sometimes the animals and the forest as well…”

  The warriors looked at me. One of them held something in his mouth, which made his lips seem wide and distorted. I couldn’t help but shudder. I realized he looked very much like the Noneshi who had visited me so many nights.

  One of the warriors took incense burners from the hut and began to spread smoke around us. When he purified me with the smoke, he spoke a prayer that came from the depths. In time, he took out a wooden spear and a stone spear and passed them over my head. From the words he had spoken to Yankor I was able to understand only four words: “The days are coming.” I felt a knot tightening around me and that my wanderings were about to begin anew. Or maybe it was that my wanderings would cease at last.

  Yankor answered my thoughts. “Great things are about to happen. I feel our actions will be to the gods’ liking, and the children of the forest will escape disaster.”

  I felt that my destiny would soon lead me down pathways without a path. I stood up and mumbled an apology. “I’m leaving,” I said, “but the spirits will keep blessing your home.”

  The two warriors approached me and pressed a hollow instrument against my body, mumbling something unintelligible.

  “The spirits have visited my home,” Yankor finished the exchange of blessings.

  I left, and Clara came after me. It was only then that I remembered her presence. When we reached Don Pedro, we saw the beautiful mother holding the hand of the girl who had already transformed in my mind into my spiritual daughter. This time the mother smiled at us.

  “Did you visit the marikitare?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Happy are you, happy are you!” she repeated again and again, then a dark cloud settled on her face once more. Then she turned her back on us and walked on.

  15

  The Stranger and the Secret

  When we reached Marina’s house, Tourki met us at the door and asked if I had any news of the young mistress and her mother.

  “I wish I had,” I answered. “She probably has no means of communication. Maybe she’s still traveling, as the capital is very far.” I told Clara I was going to shower and change and said she could use Marina’s shower. When I saw her closing the door of Marina’s room I felt a pang of deep longing.

  I leaned over Herbert, Sr.’s journal so I could continue to read the next chapters of my life. The writer continued to tell of his confinement with the relics he had found and his attempts to interpret the written secrets. It is obvious to me the text wasn’t written in Hebrew, or any other known language. Perhaps that man of Malaga or his friends had met people or encountered a writing system that had completely changed their lives and language…

  Light tapping sounded at the door. I crossed the room to open it, and for a second thought I was seeing Marina. Clara, wearing one of Marina’s dresses, suddenly looked younger. The white dress emphasized the tanned color of her skin. She must have spent a lot of time at the beach.

  “You snuck in here to read without me,” Clara said with a smile, looking at the open journal.

  I returned to the journal, flipped through it, stopped at one of the pages, and translated the text to Clara. I am standing in front of the clasped hands. What was their meaning? Why had they built such a large temple here, knowing the forest would simply swallow it? This stone edifice is a stranger to the forest, to the living green. It is a dead god wishing to take the place of the living god. This is why the god and the spirits of the forest decided to swallow the impostor. Many cities were built in the forest; all were swallowed by it. Man makes his own monuments to what he dares to call “the greatness of his faith,” and these monuments destroy the living god, his house that breathes in every plant and spring. Man annihilates the forest and replaces it with a soulless stone-forest, full of lost souls with green yearning in their hearts.

  The Yarkiti build round houses from perishable branches, and when the house’s time comes to an end, just like any other temporary thing, the tribespeople move on. Only slight scars in the vegetation mark the movement of man. They too are wiped away, and the god continues to live, and all the spirits of the forest live with him. I asked Xnen how they had managed to preserve the written book in the harsh conditions of the forest. He explained to me that the spirits had preserved it. The book houses the spirits. Today, they can no longer read what is written in it. Instead of writing in the book they write on their bodies, on sculptures, or on their very hearts…

  I put down the journal, tears running down my face. Clara came closer and tried to brush away the tears with her kisses. I stroked her head in gratitude.

  “Now I understand why Herbert is so radical,” she said. “He felt that saving the forest wasn’t only about preserving the Earth’s oxygen supply or rescuing tribes that would disappear from the world along with it. He felt that he who rescues the forest is also rescuing the very soul of the universe, the living god.”

  We were silent for long minutes, until I asked, “Where is all this leading us, Clara? Where are we supposed to go?”

  She started to answer. Her hands moved and her mouth opened, but she immediately changed her mind and said nothing. Meanwhile, the skies had darkened, announcing a tropical storm, and a few minutes later rain began to fall in terrible downpours. I suggested to Clara that we have something to eat and asked Tourki to set a table for two.

  Before she left for the kitchen, Tourki handed me a piece of paper. “Francisco brought this when you two were bathing. I didn’t want to interrupt.” It was a telegram from Marina.

  My dear, I am far away and miss the forest, the town, the winds, the rains and you. Mother’s condition has considerably improved. She recognized me immediately and was delighted with my visit. She wouldn’t stop talking, just like in the good old days, and told me she has a secret she will reveal to me in due time. She asked me to take her back to Don Pedro as soon as the doctors confirm that her condition has improved. I promised her and sealed my promise with a kiss. Her secret will be revealed at some point, my darling, but ours is still left unspoken and I did not mention it to her. Yours, Marina.

  The wind was howling outside as we began to eat. I asked Clara to tell me about Herbert, Jr., and the organization she managed.

  My inquiry was greeted with silence. On her face, I could see the struggle between the almost spoken words and the reluctance that was holding them back. Suddenl
y, we were startled by a roaring blast. The noise was terrible, as if a bomber plane had dropped its deadly cargo close to the house. We ran to the water-soaked porch and could see many people emerging from their homes to discover the source of the terrible explosion. It didn’t take long to see that lightning had struck the tree next to our jetty and cleaved it in two. Its heart was black, and its two halves had crashed to the ground, each pointing in a different direction, like the hands of a clock.

  The sight both fascinated and disturbed us. “Unbelievable,” said Clara. “Fire and water came together, and the tree is the sacrifice of their copulation.” We held hands and contemplated the destruction. Then we returned to the house and to our mutual silence.

  When all that remained of the downpour were thin trickles, we went out to the porch again, to take another look at the charred tree and the river that looked as if it might overflow. In the distance, we saw a boat approaching from the seashore, renewing the town’s irregular contact with the outside world. We headed to the town port to welcome it. The pier was full of porters and curious people who seemed to have come back to life after a long period of forced idleness. Among the crowd I noticed a man with a distinct European visage who looked to be in his thirties or forties. His clothes were those of a forest explorer but seemed completely inappropriate to the local weather and conditions, as if they had been selected based on adventure stories of early twentieth-century explorers in Africa or India. I wasn’t surprised to see the woman who owned the only hotel in Don Pedro waiting for the man; she must have received advance notice of his arrival. The man came into town accompanied by a large entourage. One of the porters held an open umbrella over his head so the light drizzle no one else even noticed wouldn’t wet his clothes.

  As usual, Francisco showed up as well. “He is a ‘secret’ representative of the authorities,” he whispered to me, facetiously emphasizing the word “secret.” “He won’t tell anyone who he is or who sent him, but he definitely looks the part. The distant authorities aren’t indifferent to what might be happening in this town and its surroundings. The governor himself must have invested in the illegal mines and has already sent a few planes to fly over the forest and see what could be discovered from up high. This man will try to find out why the town is so silent, while something potentially threatening is taking place around it.”

  Once more, I couldn’t help but admire Francisco’s observational capabilities.

  Clara, who had listened to him attentively, said, “I came here to find a missing person, now I understand this is about something much larger…”

  Francisco looked at her as if he had just noticed her, then added sardonically, “Yes, the senior official who just showed up is not the only impostor in town.” He offered no explanation for his mysterious remark.

  We accompanied Clara to the hotel, not just out of politeness, but also to indulge our curiosity about the stranger.

  We sat under the fan in the reception area and eyed the entourage of porters surrounding the guest. The stranger had rented four rooms and was busy giving instructions to the porters, explaining which suitcases and boxes should go to which room. The beds had been removed from three of the rooms, and the town carpenter had been called to assemble tables, whose various parts were taken from two of the boxes. For the first time since I had arrived in the forest, I saw a laptop again.

  “It’s not nice to spy on the guest,” the hotel manager hissed at us, while all the time peering over my shoulder.

  The stranger had passed us a few times without looking at me or Francisco, even though, at least so I had imagined, he snuck a surprised look at Clara. When he had disappeared into the room that housed the computer, I asked the hotel owner who he was. Based on her responses, one might assume he was a rich merchant coming to examine the natural resources in the jungle and the possibilities of extracting them. At least he hadn’t completely lied about that part, I thought — what interests those who had sent him and his enemies were the forest’s natural resources, and the best ways of exploiting them.

  Then the stranger stormed out of his room and screamed at the hotel manager that he must have his own private telephone line, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to send and receive emails from his room. We looked at each other with a smile. She explained to him with admirable patience that there were no private telephone lines anywhere in town, not even in the hotel. She led the stranger over and introduced Francisco to him.

  “This gentleman is in charge of all mail and telephone communication in the town,” she said. “He will know how to help you.”

  The embarrassed Francisco explained to the stranger why he couldn’t fulfill his wish, and added that if his superiors instructed that one line should be dedicated to the hotel or to the gentleman’s room, and send technicians to do the job, then he would be delighted to help.

  The stranger instructed Francisco to take him to the post office to make the necessary phone call. Clara and I tagged along.

  When we reached Francisco’s office, the man handed him a note with a telephone number and insisted that the note should be destroyed immediately after the call was completed. The stranger screamed into the receiver. Fifteen minutes later, a representative from the phone company called and said they were sending technicians to install the line. Francisco destroyed the note in front of the stranger’s eyes, and the latter turned and left without paying for the call. When the stranger had disappeared, Francisco showed us the note with the secret telephone number. The paper he had torn up wasn’t the one the stranger had given him.

  The following day a helicopter brought the technicians. For the first time in the town’s history, a private telephone had been installed in one of its buildings, the hotel, in order to serve one man. The townspeople had to give up one of the few public telephone line allotted them.

  Clara wanted to make a long distance call and asked me to accompany her to the post office. Francisco connected her to the institute offices, and she dryly and briefly told them about recent developments and said they should prepare for any possibility. Then she added a few vague words that could have been coded messages.

  “The battle over the forest is about to begin,” she said when she had finished the call. I asked her why she wasn’t calling her family. “I don’t have a family,” she answered, and I regretted having asked the question.

  When Clara finished her affairs in the post office, Francisco couldn’t resist the temptation and dialed the “secret number,” that the so-called “man of authority” had told him to destroy. When the familiar voice of the governor’s office manager answered on the other end, Francisco disconnected immediately. “One day this number might save us,” he said.

  I remembered I still had Marina’s telegram in my pocket. I opened it and saw that it included a telephone number in the capital. I asked Francisco to dial the number. I was answered by the hospital’s psychiatric department. I asked after Beatrice’s well-being then asked to speak with her daughter. I almost choked with excitement when she came on the line.

  “How are you?” Those were the only words I managed.

  Marina seemed to have lost her ability to speak, but she slowly regained her confidence and told me about her days in the city and her recovering mother. Lastly, she promised she would soon return with Beatrice. When the call was over, I put down the receiver with a trembling hand.

  “Did something happen?” asked Clara. I shook my head with embarrassment and felt tears blinding my eyes. I did my best to conceal my excitement, then I paid, thanked Francisco warmly, and left. Clara, as usual, followed me.

  I didn’t know how to treat that woman, who wouldn’t let me go for a single moment. We walked silently until reaching Marina’s house. As I stepped inside, I looked back at her and saw that she was waiting for me to invite her in. I simply continued to look at her wordlessly, holding the door. At length, she turned around and went on her way.

 
; Happy to be alone again, I went to my room. Seashells had been placed on the table. I had no doubt they belonged to Yakura. A piece of paper was next to one of the shells. I looked at it with dread.

  It had been torn out of your address book.

  Tourki came in and told me an Indian had brought the torn page. “He said you would know who it’s from and what it is.”

  I felt lost in a fog. What was the meaning of this inexplicable delivery? Could someone be threatening Yakura? Was she trying to ask for my help?

  And what were you doing in the midst of this story?

  Perhaps I’d had that page among my possessions, had forgotten it in the hut, and the tribespeople decided to send it to me. In order to make it clear who the sender was, they added Yakura’s seashells to it.

  Troubled and praying for answers, I returned to William’s journal hoping for illumination. The journal was open and waiting, as if it had known I would get back to it. I flipped through the pages again and randomly stopped, allowing destiny to guide my eyes.

  In the beginning, the world was two things: a sky and a lower world. But the sky turned tired, its skin wrinkled, its face looked like an old man’s on his way to his Tepoi, and a piece of worn skin dropped from it. Inside that piece of skin were two who lived with it and flew with it. One was Omauha; the other was a bird. Omauha took a woman-fish out of the water, but she could not give birth, because there were no holes in her body. Omauha punctured a hole in her, mated with the river-daughter and birthed with her some of the Yarkiti. The bird had mated with her as well and they birthed the rest of the Yarkiti…

  I raised my eyes from the journal to feel the taste of the forest fruit rising from the words. I thought about the wonderful mating of the god, ejected from the ancient sky, with the river-daughter born without holes in her body, and my mind wandered to Marina, then to Yakura and the mysterious author. I heard a knock on the door. Tourki let me know that Yankor, the marikitare, was asking to see me. Was he a messenger of fate?