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

  “More creatures were born from the uneaten pieces, looking like plants, but possessing legs. A terrible war broke out between the animals and the monsters, and death came into the world with war. The skies burst into tears, and the tears welled into lakes and rivers. From the water emerged alligators, anacondas, and predatory jaguars.”

  Xnen stopped his story for a moment, then continued. “Two worlds had come and gone, and then our gods were born and taught us how to be connected to the earth. Conceivably one day the gods will rebuild that other world, where there is no death and no war. A great sacrifice will be required in order to restore those days, but I do not know what it is. Perhaps the god will sacrifice himself, and from his body that other, happier time will be born, the time that was and is no more…”

  I closed the journal and went to bed, feeling what I had read wasn’t merely an ancient myth, but a description of what was yet to pass, perchance in the near future. I suddenly had a feeling that a door was being opened. The storm outside had resumed, and a driving rain struck the house and the river, as if the gods were crying over that destruction and this one.

  I thought I’d see Yankor, but a different figure opened the door and approached me, holding a candle. Clara sat on the edge of my bed.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, “I’m so afraid.” She blew out the candle and lay beside me.

  I gently stroked her head and said, “Goodnight.”

  She fell asleep immediately, but it was difficult for me to find rest. I suddenly woke, looked at the clock and saw that the hour was still very early. The moon shining outside indicated that the rain had stopped, and the clouds had also wandered off to visit other places. I thought about the strange candle she had held and suddenly thought I might have only hallucinated her visit.

  I went out to the corridor and approached her room. The door was ajar. I shined my flashlight into the room and saw Clara sleeping in her bed. Ashamed of my unruly imagination, I went back to my room and lay in bed. The moonlight penetrated the net protecting me from the insects of the forest, tracing squares of faint light on my body. I fell asleep again.

  18

  Newspapers

  Sunlight was flowing through my window by the time I woke up. I dressed slowly and went to see if Clara was in her room. The door was open and her bed empty. I sat on the porch and calmly ate my breakfast fruit. I felt a strange sense of serenity. Suddenly, I recalled Yankor, who had visited my room before I had fallen asleep, marking a disappearing trail with his hands. I chased away the memory. I decided it was time I stopped believing in the prophetic power of dreams and visions.

  The house was immersed in silence. I decided not to go look at the mysterious journal. I had to get over the nonsensical idea that the journal had the power to foresee my future. I set out for the drowsy town, and on my way to Francisco met the port officer. I asked him when the next boat, on which Clara and I had been asked to leave, would arrive. He told me he still did not know, as various circumstances were delaying it in the coastal city. “Don’t worry,” he added with a smile, “we reserved the seats you ordered, even though many people want urgently to get out of town.” It appeared that someone had already made reservations on our behalf.

  At the post office, I found Francisco reading the newspaper. I asked him with a smile what he found so interesting about a piece of paper that was probably history already.

  “You’re wrong,” he answered. “This is a coastal newspaper, and it’s only two days old! I don’t know who brought it here, but I found it in the square, next to the utility pole. No vessel from the coast has docked at the port in the last two days, and no helicopter or light aircraft has landed, so I find it difficult to understand how it got here. And even if some boat I hadn’t noticed arrived in town, it’s hard to believe its journey was only two days… I guess I must stop believing in what is believable, and accept that which is unbelievable as solid truth.”

  I asked him if he had seen Clara that morning, and he told me she had knocked on his office door very early.

  “I opened the door to her, feeling a little nervous,” Francisco told me, “because I couldn’t understand who needed my services that early. I was sure she wanted to call the institution offices, but to my surprise, she asked for a local call — to the hotel here in town, which is only a two-minute walk! She spoke for a few minutes and left, and because I was still tired, I didn’t bother to see which direction she took.”

  He immediately changed the subject and began to tell me items from the newspaper he was holding. There were many articles dealing with what was called, “the security situation” in the forest. It was reported that the normal flow of traffic had almost completely ceased, that a well-equipped battalion was about to set out for Don Pedro, and that there was much demand for seats on the boat to the coastal capital. I imagined Marina and her mother landing in that town, reading the newspaper, and realizing they were headed to the place everyone was running away from.

  When he stopped discussing what he had read in the newspaper, Francisco went on to assess the political situation. In the capital, and in the district capital as well, he thought a struggle between two factions was in the offing. The first group supported an all-out war against the people of the forest, and so far it seemed that approach was gaining the upper hand. But the official visiting the town surprisingly belonged to the moderate faction that opposed war, and it turned out he was much more tolerant in his views than we had imagined.

  “He uses the telephone in his room, so he does not have to come here,” said Francisco, “but I found a way to connect to his line. Sometimes he uses a computer and sends emails, and then his messages are hidden from me. And sometimes he speaks a language I’m not familiar with. But when he speaks in a language I know, usually late at night, I understand that he’s not interested in making matters worse and starting a war, and he is delaying the coming of the ship, each time with a different excuse.”

  My feet led me to the hotel. The hotel manager welcomed me with a smile and some good news. “The armed strangers have left! Another shipment of money must have arrived, I don’t know from where or how. They got on a boat very early in the morning and took off. Thank God the peace is back!”

  I asked her if the distinguished guest was in the hotel, and she told me he had gotten a telephone call early in the morning and left right after that.

  I walked along the river until reaching the border of the town and the forest. I do not know why I had chosen that route. I likely wanted the river water to lend me some of its serenity. At the end of the dirt road was a small jetty. After the jetty, the river channel was lined with a strip of sand and stones, with the forest proudly towering above. Mist rose from the water, and I couldn’t see the river coiling away from me. Only a faint glimmer indicated that the water continued to flow nearby. A wild boar that had moved closer to drink from the water looked at me from time to time, and bubbles rising near the shore indicated the presence of alligators lurking for prey. There were no innocent places in that Garden of Eden.

  I raised my eyes to look at the forest, and I thought I recognized a trail leading into the thicket. I approached the gaping opening in the foliage. Bushes and ferns pressed to the ground indicated feet had recently walked there. I decided to see where it led. The trail climbed up, forcing me to climb with it. A snake dropped from the branches and zipped away. It reminded me that a walk in the jungle is not a pleasure trip, but an excursion that involves entering another dimension from which one cannot always return. A vole scurried between the trees, running for its life, and I could see what it was running from: a curving line indicated fast movement between the bushes. The cicadas woke, and the chorus of their voices drowned out all others.

  The trail wound between the trees, gradually rising. Why hadn’t I noticed this path during all my days in town? Sunlight tried to push its way through the canopy, but only a soft twilight managed to settle
between the trunks.

  I do not know how long I climbed, but despite the early hour my body was washed with sweat. Now and then, I heard voices trying to pierce the cacophony of cicada calls, but I did not recognize them. Abruptly, the noise stopped, and the hill became a mound. I had reached the plain. Once again, I was struck by the sensation of countless eyes on me. I continued to walk inside the green, respiring tunnel, without knowing where it would lead me. There was an opening off to the side, it looked like a pig’s lair, and next to it was a puddle. This is as far as I go, I told myself. I do not know what I was looking for, but it was time to turn back before the sow protecting her piglets came out of her den and turned into a ferocious guardian.

  When I turned on my heel, I heard a shrill whistle, as if a forest bird were calling me. I raised my eyes and saw a hut in one of the trees. I looked around and discovered four more such huts. Now I realized how the path I was walking on had been born; it connected the mysterious huts with the town. The huts looked deserted. Among the inhabitants of the forest I had never met a tribe that built its homes in trees. That particular way of building reminded me of another place, New Guinea, the place where Herbert, Sr., had supposedly ended his life. An ebony bird stood on the leaf roof of a hut. It looked like a blackbird but was much larger. It produced another shrill cry, as if it were a sentinel entrusted with alerting the forest denizens to the presence of invaders.

  A little farther away, beyond the huts, the light was slightly brighter. I drew closer and discovered a small clearing with banana bushes and a narrow bed of tobacco plants. Plants for the body and plants for the soul, I thought. But where were the people who had cultivated the plants? I suppose when they heard me drawing near, they had disappeared to a hideout from which they would emerge only after I left. A small arrow, tipped with curare, was stuck in the trunk of one of the hut-bearing trees. It looked like a battle had recently taken place there.

  I decided to return to town and mark the place in my memory so I would be able to find it again. I returned to the trail leading down the river, and before going down it closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them I saw, as if through the mists of a hallucination, Yankor going up another way toward the huts with Christina walking behind him like an Indian wife trailing her husband. But Christina wasn’t an Indian, a silent cry grew inside me. The footpath and those walking it vanished like a passing dream. I shook my delusional head and turned to go down the green tunnel to the river.

  Very close to the end of the descent, the trail split. I took a few steps down the new path and discovered a hut from which one could observe the water. This dwelling was built on the ground and resemble the huts gold seekers build in their camps.

  I went closer to the hut with the knowledge that whoever lived in it had seen me and was expecting me. There was no door. Inside were food remains and traces of a small campfire. There was a native pot resting in the ashes, blackened by smoke and fire. There was only some water bubbling inside. I looked for something that might tell me the identity of the hut dwellers, but I found nothing. Someone had raked the floor of the hut and cleaned it; only one corner didn’t have a clean, uniform surface, as if a mat or a mattress had been spread there. I deduced that the place was intended for sleep as well, during the days or nights.

  Then I heard the shrill whistle of the black bird again, the one I had seen in the forest. A moment later I saw it as well, standing on the end of a branch that formed part of the hut’s roof, piercing the expanses of the forest with its voice. It wasn’t alone this time, another black bird was perched next to it.

  An alligator raised its snout out of the water. I measured the distance between the bank and me with my eyes, and when I looked up again, I saw a white-clad figure walking with careful steps down to the river. I hurried after it, and recognized Clara. When I caught up with her, we walked together without greeting each other.

  “What were you doing in the hut?” I heard myself saying after a few minutes.

  She looked up and motioned with her eyes at the figure of a distant man walking in front of us. It was George, dressed in his bizarre outfit.

  “What did you talk about?” I asked. She raised her eyes again until they met mine then immediately lowered them. No words emerged from her mouth this time either, but I imagined I saw traces of embarrassment in her eyes. I said nothing else, swallowing the rest of my questions.

  We reached town, which had meanwhile woken for another day of slumber. Boats weren’t coming and the ship had been delayed. Groceries had almost run out and there wasn’t any work. No wonder so many people wanted to leave. In the square, next to the bench, beneath a lantern, I saw a rolled-up newspaper. I had beaten Francisco to it this time. I picked it up and discovered it was only one day old. How had it reached Don Pedro from the coastal city? It seemed impossible.

  In the “Special Events” section was an article saying that the “Renowned anthropologist Beatrice Santos, daughter of the original settlers, and her daughter Marina, were seen in the city making their way back to Ciudad Don Pedro, on the border of the forest… They had asked the port officer to reserve seats for them on board the delayed ship. Our reporter asked the famous women why they want to travel to the place everyone seems to want to get away from these days. The young woman answered for both of them and said that’s where their home is and that they are not afraid. The forest and its inhabitants cannot intimidate the local women, even if the color of their skin is white.”

  The newspaper also printed an interview with the commander of the force about to board the ship. I decided to read the interview at a later time. I showed Clara the newspaper, but she didn’t seem surprised.

  “Look at the date!” I said.

  “And what is wrong with the date?” Those were the first words I had heard her say all morning.

  “How could the newspaper have reached us in a single day, when it takes at least three days to sail from the coastal city to the town? Does that make any sense to you?” She said nothing and shrugged.

  I continued to walk, thinking of the secrets shrouding us and suddenly saw that Clara had disappeared. The questions refused to let go. How could Clara, who wasn’t familiar with this place and its hidden ways, have reached the hidden hut? Even I, the veteran, wasn’t aware of its existence. And was there a connection between the hut on the ground, probably built by white people, and the mysterious huts built in the trees? And George himself, another stranger to this place, how could he have known about the hut? And why had my feet led me to that particular trail across the river and the place the two had chosen for their rendezvous? The date on the newspaper wasn’t the only thing that made no sense.

  Consumed with doubt, I turned to the post office. Francisco, as was his habit on such hot days, had found himself a shaded corner outside, and was reading the newspaper. We compared the front page of the newspapers, and discovered it was the same edition. We spread open the remaining pages. The newspapers were identical, except for one thing. In my copy, on the next to last page, was a handwritten message. If you are patient, you will know more than you do now. The message wasn’t signed, but I thought I could guess the identity of its sender. I showed the message to Francisco.

  “I guess he must be serving more than one master,” he said.

  “Francisco,” I addressed that clever man, “how did these newspapers get here? How could a coastal newspaper, printed only yesterday, be in this town on the following morning?”

  Francisco scratched his head as if pondering my questions before he answered. “It could be the solution is less mysterious and intricate than we imagine. All it takes is a computer with the right software, a printer, and the right type of paper. After all, we don’t know what the newspaper really looks like and what’s written in it. I think the person who is leaving the newspapers for us wants us to believe something mystical is at work in this town. In order to convince us of the existence of magical powers,
he uses the right setting for the play he’s written for our benefit: a bench next to an electric lantern in the town square, one or two copies of the newspaper, as necessary…all to make us believe something impossible is going on, something that defies logic.”

  I looked at Francisco with appreciation. While I delved into the world of magic, as I always do, Francisco was using his common sense, just as a survivor ought to. His words were so simple and logical that I was overcome with embarrassment. How could I have shut my ears to the voice of reason and allowed strange utterances coming from inside me to overcome rational thought? Still, the doubts continued to trouble me. I found it difficult to understand what had drawn me in the morning to go down that particular route along the river and why the complex theater production Francisco had spoken of was necessary in the first place.

  I sat next to Francisco, and together, we read the interview with the commander of the force about to embark for the forest. The commander, a colonel, said that his battalion was only the advance force. More battalions would be dispatched, if necessary. Their goal was to ensure the state’s sovereignty over the forest. The rebels didn’t have a chance. It was impossible to defeat a modern army with arrows and if need be, an aerial attack would be launched as well, and a naval force trained to operate in the rivers would be sent in. As in any democratic country, the army would operate only according to the instructions of the government, and since the government had not yet decided on the specific tasks of the regiment under his command, he was awaiting further instructions.