by Nahum Megged
I woke up, stifling the Noneshi’s scream. The Noneshi was the spitting image of me during my youth. The real moon washed the room with its white light, and the silent night spoke with all the voices of the river and the forest. The voices intensified as the shadow covering the moon grew. A torrential rain suddenly struck the roof of the house and the walls. It was only then that I realized it hadn’t rained since we had arrived in town. I fell back asleep to the pounding of the rain.
In the early morning, I heard someone knocking at the door. Francisco waited for me with a grim expression. He dared not speak at first but soon opened his mouth.
“The police radio chattered all night long. Calls were received from a mining camp desperately requesting help, even though it was obvious such help couldn’t arrive in time. The miners said that many Indians had taken advantage of the rain and come to their camp unnoticed. Almost everyone was sleeping, and the guards were hiding under the roofs because of the downpour.
“The Indians, who are not afraid of the rain, raided the buildings, destroyed all the machinery and began to attack people. They had poisoned arrows, spears, and possibly some rifles. The caller said the raiders were closing in on the barracks where he was hiding. ‘These are my final moments,’ he said. He added that a few Indian women, brought to the camp by the slave traders, were taken out of the houses. The forest people knew exactly where they were held. The freed women were asked to point out those who had raped or abused them. Anyone the women pointed out was immediately put to death with a poisoned arrow. Get ready, the great rebellion is upon us…’ Those were the last words heard on the radio before the transmission ended.”
I knew that difficult days now faced the forest. Retaliation was only a matter of time. The army would go into the jungle, and the soldiers would be ordered to hunt and kill any Indian they saw. I feared for Xnen, Yakura, and the rest of my large forest family. That could have been what the Noneshi and Yakura had wanted to tell me in my dream. Perhaps the snake in Yakura’s hair bore a different message from the one I had interpreted and had nothing to do with the snake that had bitten the boy.
We went out of the house together. The town was in turmoil. Representatives of the authorities called the residents to an emergency meeting. I managed to find the local chief of police, the senior legal authority in town. He told me he had asked for assistance from the nearest city, the one near the sea, but the raiders might reach the town before reinforcements arrived. He instructed the few policemen to patrol the riverbanks, as the invaders must arrive by boat. They had not identified the mining camp the call had come from, so he could not guess how long it would take the raiders to reach Don Pedro.
I saw Marina in town, looking as frightened and upset as all the other residents. She came over to me as soon as she noticed me and asked if I thought the raiders might attack the town. The memory of her traumatic encounter in the forest was clearly evident on her ashen face. I tried to calm her and said I didn’t think the town was in any real danger.
“I have no doubt the attackers have a score to settle with the miners,” I said. “And it is probably a tribe whose women were kidnapped by the slavers. We might hear of other places in the forest where similar raids have taken place, but there is no reason to assume they will come here.”
I knew what I should do next. I parted from Marina and went to the mountain bordering the forest to seek the old marikitare’s hut. He welcomed me as if he had just woken from sleep or from a deep trance and pointed at a stool at the hut’s threshold.
“What happened, Marikitare?” I asked with a whisper as I sat down.
“The forest drums speak of difficult things,” the old man answered. “They say that the moment the tribes have been waiting for is now upon us, and the gods intend to aid them. They will help them to clean the forest.”
“Which gods?” I asked. “Omauha and Minare?”
“Possibly,” he said, “but there are other gods. They say that the gods of the various tribes are now working together.”
I found it difficult to believe that the rival tribes, constantly fighting each other, were now working together, but the sky and the earth could have come together to give birth to this special moment.
“And how were you able to hear the drums?” I asked. “The forest is very far from here, and at night the rain overwhelms even the nearest sounds.”
The old marikitare gave me a penetrating look before answering. “I inhaled vihu and flew into the forest, where I saw and heard everything.”
“And what about me, Marikitare, does this war have something to do with me?”
He closed his eyes and nodded in agreement. “You are central to this war.”
“Is the rebellion somehow connected to the snake they brought to my room?”
“There is a connection, but the forefathers did not tell me what it is.”
We each turned to our own thoughts. The rain began to fall again, and I thought I heard footsteps beside the hut.
“There are people in the town who think just like the ones who attacked tonight and others who think just like the ones who were attacked,” said the old man offhandedly, as if speaking to himself.
I was suddenly puzzled: How did this old man, living in a secluded hut, know so much about what was happening in the town and the vast realms surrounding it?
“You will soon know the answer to your question!” the old man said, as if he had read my mind.
“And what should I do?”
“You should go on with your life. Everything has already been written.”
As I left for town, I sensed a shadow slipping past the old man’s hut. I was worried for the marikitare, living in such seclusion. The forest was home to people who lived and worked together. It was the only way for them to defend themselves. How would the old shaman protect himself if attacked?
A terrible nervousness overtook the townspeople. The managers of the shady operations, from whose offices the miners and slavers departed for the forest, quickly boarded a ship leaving for the great city, where they would remain and wait for calmer times. The “converted” natives found it difficult to understand how the powerful white people, whose customs they were trying to imitate, could possibly fear the people of the world they had come from, a world that was seemingly without a future.
On the way to Marina’s house, I stopped in Francisco’s office. He too feared for his life and property. His nervousness was apparent in his every gesture and movement.
“Don’t worry.” I tried to calm him just as I had tried to comfort Marina earlier that morning. “They are trying to ‘clean out’ the forest, and I don’t think they will come to a town so distant from their homes.”
He gave me a nervous smile and handed over two telegrams intended for me as the intermediary between Herbert, Jr., and the world outside the forest. The first telegram had been sent from the law offices. The writer thanked me for my prompt reply and asked me to check with Mr. William, when possible, for his instructions regarding the family property. The second telegram, sent by an organization called the Institute for the Preservation of the Forests, made it clear to Mr. William that the heads of the institute regarded some of the actions he had been planning as undesirable, but they were waiting for additional reports before making their final decision.
A thunderous noise suddenly shook the skies. Three military helicopters circled over the town and eventually landed in the square. Three soldiers emerged from one of the helicopters with weapons drawn. They were followed by a captain and five additional armed soldiers who guarded him. The chief of police scurried over to welcome them. When the soldiers recognized him and realized the town had not yet been attacked, they signaled for the soldiers in the two other helicopters that it was safe. Two squads emerged, including a colonel. The soldiers put down their weapons and began to unload additional automatic weapons and grenade launchers from the helic
opter. Then they took out tents, including an especially large one that would likely serve as their headquarters. The colonel told the police chief that he was assuming charge and that the main force was camped in the city by the sea, but it could be flown to the town at a moment’s notice.
“I hope you won’t be living in this tent. I have plenty of room in my house,” said the chief of police to the army officer.
“Well, of course I won’t be living in this tent. You will, along with the soldiers who just arrived and your men. My captain will live in your deputy’s house, and I will live in your house. There’s a new order of things in this town now.”
The police chief was horrified by the colonel’s words. “But, sir,” he stammered, “my family lives with me. I can’t have them living in the tents…”
The colonel didn’t even bother to reply, he just waved him off with a dismissive gesture. I knew that I was now witnessing the rebels’ greatest victory: Not only had they instilled fear in the hearts of the white people, they had also forced a new world order on them. From now on, the residents of the town would feel the oppression the forest dwellers had been feeling for many years.
The forest was cleared beside the marikitare’s hut, and the military camp was erected there. I didn’t understand why the camp was built so far from the river, the only point of entry for the rebels. The townspeople would all be murdered long before the soldiers could defend them. But it appeared that the army had a different view of things. The rebels, should they attack, would first raid the town, allowing the soldiers time to get organized. This was not the defense the townspeople had expected.
I tried to sneak into the old marikitare’s hut, close to the new camp. I was hoping the soldiers wouldn’t recognize me and that an older white man who looked like a foreigner wouldn’t raise any suspicions.
I heard someone calling my name. I turned around and saw that it was the colonel, who must have been there to supervise the construction of the camp. I approached and asked how he knew my name and what he wanted from me. Ignoring my questions, he showed me a file folder, containing photos of me and other foreigners.
“These are photos of people we are considering deporting from the town,” he said coyly.
I recognized photos of Herbert, Sr., and Herbert, Jr. Next to the father’s photo were the words: Living with a local citizen. There was nothing in the records connecting father and son.
“Your people, in the forest, think they can do whatever they want. This is all because of the government being too soft,” the colonel barked at me. “We could solve all the problems in no time!”
“Colonel,” I said, “there hasn’t been and won’t be any attack on this town. From the radio transmission received from the attacked camp, it is safe to assume their camp contained local women who were abducted to serve as unpaid prostitutes for the miners. Where was this country’s justice system when the Indians’ wives were abducted?”
Anger lit up the colonel’s eyes. “Do you know I could arrest you for obstruction of justice and send you back to your own country? Sadly, deportees often die in strange ways before reaching home. Some are even murdered by the Indians before we can rescue them.”
I returned his glare, understanding the threat.
“We need you, because you speak their languages…but you had better watch yourself and think twice before you speak!” Then he walked off and rejoined his men.
I kept walking, taking side paths so the soldiers wouldn’t know where I was headed. When I reached the marikitare’s hut, I was welcomed by a disturbing silence. I gently pushed the door open, and what I saw inside confirmed my fears. All the furniture in the hut had been destroyed, including the sacrificial instruments. The old man was lying on the floor, wounded, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth. I ripped the gag off then took disinfectants and bandages from one of my many pockets and treated him.
“They came,” the old man wept. “I told them this place is sacred and mustn’t be defiled. They beat me with their rifles, pushed me into the hut, tied me up, and said they will come back tonight to finish me. They were commanded by one of us, a Mashko. A converted man, a soldier, he has stripes on his sleeves!”
I raised the old man to his feet and asked if there was another way to the town or the forest that wouldn’t take us past the military. He nodded. I supported him, made sure there were no soldiers nearby, and we left through a back door and headed to the forest.
A hidden trail led to a mountain with forested slopes. We walked until we reached a cave the marikitare knew well.
“This is where you go when you need to be alone and speak to the gods?” I asked, but the old man didn’t answer. I helped him slowly drop to the cave floor and only then noticed how difficult the climb had been. We went to a hidden cistern next to the cave opening and drank from its waters until regaining some of our strength.
It was obvious that the cave had been used for prayer and ritual for a long time. The discovery of the cave filled me with dread because it showed that the town could also be reached from the forest, not only from the river. We were concealed by vegetation but could see everything happening below. The soldiers and their tents looked miniscule. The roof of the hut we had been in such a hurry to leave looked incredibly small as well.
A familiar odor of smoke suddenly filled the air. I looked again at the military camp and saw the marikitare’s hut burning. Tiny creatures surrounded it in a macabre dance. I had managed to help the shaman escape at the very last moment. Those creatures circling beneath us, around the burning hut, had planned to burn him alive, bound and gagged.
The marikitare looked at me and said, “They were right. You are not an ordinary Nave. Your soul is bonded with ours and with Omauha’s mountain.
“Who was right?” I asked but discovered that though my lips had moved, my voice wasn’t heard. I must have dreaded asking my question aloud. I feared that the circles of my life were closing in on me again. I promised the old man I would bring food before dawn and asked his permission to go back to town to learn what was happening.
I returned to Marina’s house. The snake-bitten boy was already up and around, but I noticed anxiety and sadness in Tourki’s eyes. I went into my room and immediately knew: Someone had gone through my things. Even my open journal showed signs that a stranger’s hand had touched it. I asked Tourki if a stranger had been in the house. She didn’t answer and averted her eyes from mine in fear. I calmed myself with the knowledge that whoever had visited my room couldn’t understand a single word written in my journal. I immediately sat down to write the story of the past few days in my own secret cipher.
The boy opened the door of my room. He didn’t say a word, but I knew he wanted to tell me something. I invited him in. I was organizing my papers when he opened his mouth and spoke.
“Sir,” he said, “you must be careful. Everyone is out for your soul.”
“Everyone?” I asked.
“Yes, even those who live there, inside…” he said and pointed at the forest.
Before he could go on, we heard Marina coming into the house. The boy slipped from my room, and I went out to greet her.
“We can’t go on like this,” she told me angrily. “We need to get away from the town, even go back to the forest. Life here has become insufferable. There are constant reports of theft, and two teenage girls told me they had been raped by soldiers. And there’s no one to complain to! Everyone is afraid. The brutality of the soldiers is much worse that the brutality of the insurgents!”
Once again, I tried to soother her, but I knew this time she was right.
“This hell must stop before there are more victims,” she continued, ignoring me. “The soldiers have arrested a few converts and accused them of cooperating with the rebels. The people they arrested now serve as their slaves in the new camp.”
I hurried to the post office to get updated on the go
ings-on. Francisco told me that the colonel had demanded access to every letter, telegram, and phone call. Soon, one of the soldiers would arrive to supervise the office. I asked that he allow me to make a few phone calls before the soldier came.
I called my children and told them I was doing well and that, as always, I was occupied by wonderful things. My son told me about a lot of mail that had accumulated and incessant phone calls, including strange inquiries by English-speaking people who refused to identify themselves. Then I called the Institute for the Preservation of the Forests, the organization that had sent one of the telegrams addressed to Herbert William, Jr.
I spoke to a person named Tom, who appeared to be in charge of communicating with William. I told him what was going on in Don Pedro and asked that the institute try to pull some strings to prevent the coming slaughter. I asked them not to report to me about their actions or send any more telegrams addressed to William until I contacted them to confirm the situation had improved. I thanked Francisco for his help and slipped outside.
Don Pedro looked like a ghost town. Almost everyone was hiding indoors and not a single woman dared to walk the streets. Commerce had almost completely ceased. There was hardly any traffic by the port either. I heard no more reports of raids in the forest, and the inactivity had turned the soldiers even more dangerous.
