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

  I thought of George again. Could it be that he was the eye of the storm, keeping the secrets of the whirlpool threatening the forest? If Francisco’s words were true, and he was indeed the servant of several masters, who were these masters, exactly? Which ones was he serving willingly? Clara probably knew some of the answers to these questions, but would she be willing to share them with me?

  I parted from my friend and went to Marina’s house. On the way, I saw a porter carrying two familiar suitcases, with Clara slowly walking just behind him.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “I’m going back to my hotel room. The armed men have left, and there’s no more reason to fear them. Thanks for the help.”

  I watched her going away and thought she would no longer need the hut in the forest to meet with the stranger…and was left by myself once more.

  19

  The Pebble

  I woke up slowly the following morning, thinking of my solitude. I hadn’t felt such a burdening sense of isolation for a long time. Everyone was far from me. Marina was trapped in the coastal city, my dear ones were somewhere in my old world, and my forest friends were in theirs. Yankor had promised he would find a way to take me from the town to the forest when the time came, but where was he now, that old shaman? The jungle, so it appears, has many openings: one close to the place Yankor’s hut used to stand and another at the upper part of the river, where the trail coiled up the hill to the camp of the huts built in trees. I pondered what to do next. Should I return to reading William’s journal or visit the wise Francisco? Each option opened a window to realities I couldn’t see with my own eyes. In the end, I went to town, putting off another meeting with the book of destinies.

  The post office was locked. I had never seen it looking so deserted. I knocked on the door, but no voice answered me. I was overcome by panic. Could something have happened to Francisco? While deliberating how to act, Christina appeared. She must have come by, as she did every day, to see if there was a letter or a telegram for her. I was happy to see her, as if I had just met an old acquaintance in an unfriendly foreign city. The smile on her face indicated that she, too, was happy to see me.

  “What are you doing here so early?” I asked.

  “Francisco asked that I come and wait for him here because he has news for me.”

  And indeed, Francisco appeared a moment later.

  “You had me worried,” I said.

  “At least someone in this town is concerned about me,” he answered with a smile and motioned for me to wait. With a polite gesture, he invited Christina to follow him into the post office. A minute later, she came out, holding a paper with a trembling hand, tears in her eyes. She went away without saying a word.

  I went inside without being invited. “And what news do you have for me?” I asked Francisco.

  “A moment ago, a message arrived from the coastal city, saying that the ship has departed and is headed here. The battalion did not board the vessel; it was replaced by what they call a ‘reconnaissance party.’ The message did not say what that party would be looking for or who had sent it. Marina and Beatrice appear on the passenger list, along with other names I’m not familiar with. I wonder who these people are, and what exactly they are seeking in a place declared as dangerous.”

  I wanted to ask Francisco what was in the telegram Christina had received but decided to keep that question for a later time and asked to see the passenger list instead.

  Francisco was right, many of the passengers were foreigners. I assumed at least some of them belonged to the reconnaissance party, whose purpose and origin were impossible to guess. A strange name caught my eye, Wilcom. Was it a distortion of the name… I chased the thought from my mind. Another last name caught my attention: Schory. Francisco must have known what was bothering me. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again without a word.

  “Is it the same man?” I asked, but Francisco remained silent, shrugging as if he had no answer.

  My feet led me to the edge of town again, but this time I walked in the opposite direction, upriver rather than downriver. When you pass the last houses, you come upon a narrow trail, slightly winding between the hills before eventually meeting the river. That trail was a favorite of fishermen, and while walking down it, one could often see people throwing lines or casting nets. I went down the path and listened to the voices of the river, which were especially loud, as if new currents had been added to it during the night, making it stronger.

  Strangely, the bank was completely deserted. There wasn’t a single fisherman in sight. I looked at the white pebbles scattered on the footpath, looking for a special one to add to my collection. Then, at some distance, beyond the edge of the path, where the trees kissed the water, I saw a boat that immediately disappeared. I approached the riverbank and strained my eyes. Indeed, there was a boat there, tied with a long rope to a tree that leaned across the water. It was bobbing on the current, swinging closer, then drawing away from the shore.

  It was a large native boat, the kind used by families seeking a new place to call home. Could it be that slavers had murdered the family and had taken over the boat? Or was my imagination running away with me, and it was merely a regular boat tied there by one of the merchants after a tidal bore had prevented him from continuing on his way.

  The boat suddenly moved, as if pulled to the shore to conceal it between the trees. As I continued to walk carefully, a small pebble landed next to my foot. Another pebble was hurled at me from somewhere, followed by a third and a fourth. Now I knew for sure: Someone didn’t want me to get any closer, they probably meant for me to turn back and go away. The blowgun was used to fire pebbles at me for the time being, but unless I heeded the warning, curare-tipped darts might follow. A death wish woke in me, insisting that I walk on. I took a step forward and suddenly stumbled. I lost my footing and landed flat on the ground.

  I opened my eyes and felt my body aching. Everything hurt: my back, my head, my neck. One of my hands was swollen and throbbing with pain, as was one of my legs. I tried to get up, but my body refused. I struggled to raise my head and looked beyond the end of the pathway but couldn’t see the boat I’d been heading for. Had I imagined it and the volley of pebbles while lying there unconscious?

  When I placed my aching head back on the ground, I heard footsteps approaching. Clara appeared with George and the port officer. George examined my body with surprising skill and determined, “There aren’t any broken bones.”

  It took me some time to realize I was lying with my eyes closed, unconscious, yet still able by some miracle to see and hear everything around me. I heard the port officer asking Clara to remain by my side until the stretcher arrived, then the sound of receding footsteps. Then the comforting began. Gentle hands wet my lips then smoothed my hair. With great effort, I was able to open my eyes. I smiled at Clara, who placed my head in her lap, but her hand continued to stroke and her eyes drifted off, as if refusing to notice my smile and open eyes.

  I heard footsteps again, unable to determine where they came from, but the stroking immediately ceased and a sound came from over my head, probably from Clara’s throat. It was a muffled, terrified sound. My open eyes recognized feet caked with mud and leaves. I heard soft speech and tried to recognize the language. I thought it was Yarkiti. Clara sat paralyzed, my head in her lap. Other hands were touching my body. A pair of hands lifted my head and moved it as if it needed to be released from a rusty hinge. The massaging became more intense. A harsh smell stung my nostrils, and I heard a yelp from Clara, as if she had been pricked by a needle. The intense massaging continued, but this time with the help of leaves with an especially potent smell. I tried to recognize the plant, and mocked myself for my efforts to try and catalogue the local flora and fauna under the circumstances.

  My pains gradually disappeared, and someone whispered in my ear. A few seconds later I recognized the words, wh
ich were spoken in Yarkiti. The speaker asked me to try and move my head. I did as he asked. Once again, something was whispered in my ear. This time I was asked to sit, and I obeyed that request as well. Four young men and an old one were with me, and the old man swung a vessel that emitted smoke around me. I wanted to recognize their faces, but I couldn’t find any who were familiar from my worn-out book of memories. The figures drifted away, shrinking and expanding while walking, going up and down, as if I were dreaming or looking at them through a smoke screen. Did they give me yage while treating me? The figures danced in the mist and disappeared at the end of the trail.

  Slowly, I woke up. I was sitting by the water with Clara sleeping by my side. Her breathing was slow and regular. It was my turn to care for her. I went to the river and saw a pair of pumpkin vessels lying on a stone. I filled one with water and dabbed a little water on her forehead. She opened her eyes, saw me, and smiled. She didn’t seem surprised. Possibly she didn’t remember what had happened. I helped her sit up, and we both continued to be silent; we each had our reasons not to speak.

  A group of people appeared from the direction of Don Pedro: George, the port officer, the chief of police, two policemen, and a paramedic. One of the policemen was carrying a stretcher, and the paramedic held a first aid kit. When they came closer, I saw the embarrassment on their faces.

  “You’re all right?” asked George, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” I asked as if nothing had happened.

  Clara simply smiled. I didn’t know if her smile was intended for me or for George.

  “You’ve treated him well!” George’s voice rumbled and was answered with another shy smile.

  “We’d decided to check the town’s most vulnerable access points, to prepare for a potential invasion from the forest,” the chief of police told me. “We were afraid if the invaders from the river made it here, such a short distance from town, it would be too late. We watched you walking in front of us and saw you fall.”

  “And did you also see the boat?” I asked.

  “What boat?” asked the police chief.

  “The one you were afraid would be discovered too late,” I answered.

  The flick of the chief’s hand indicated that he considered my last remark to be an inappropriate joke.

  Clara stood up, and we all headed back to town together. Now I knew we were exposed in three directions: from both banks of the river and from the direction of the sacred cave next to Yankor’s burnt hut. It was a good thing the army wasn’t coming, its arrival could have provoked an attack.

  We parted next to the stairs of Marina’s house. Once again, a small pebble was tossed at me and landed next to my feet. I looked at the house with fear and saw the boy who had been bitten by a snake playing with a blowgun.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “Yesterday, while sitting next to the jetty, one of the forest children came and we traded things,” the youth answered. “I gave him a metal pot for boiling water, and he paid me with a short blowgun that reminded me of when I was little.”

  I smiled at him and went into the house. I shut the door of my room and decided to face the hidden truths I had been trying to avoid for the past two mornings. I opened the journal randomly. A drawing of a winding river appeared at the center of the page I’d opened and a story was written next to the drawing.

  It was explained to me that the way of the river draws one away from the world of Omauha and Minare, while the streams and creeks bring you closer to them. In the creeks and streams, the Omauha people have the upper hand because only they know how and where to move in the dangerous place where the alligator soul is leading its children, a place where the children won’t be attacked. The sons of Omauha know how to evade danger like cats, climb trees like monkeys, use the tree growing on the bank of the stream so the water won’t carry them away to the end of their road. The Nave do not know how to do all that.

  But the large river is different, and there, the Nave have the advantage. The river is very wide, wider than the roads of the heavens. The Nave have powerful boats, and they are not afraid of the strong currents. With their boats, they can get away from the shore, where the Omauha people wait in the trees. The arrows can’t reach the boats, but the weapons the Nave possess can hit the Omauha people from afar. Still, there are places where the large river gives strength to the forest dwellers, and the Nave do not know where these places are.

  I feel that something resembling an end is tying its noose around my neck. Xnen spoke with me about the things I’d seen in the cave. He asked me what I was able to understand, and I answered that I understood nothing. I think I answered him wisely. The way of those who know the secrets of the gods is not the way of mortals, and if I know more than I am allowed to, a curare-tipped arrow would be fired at me and lead me to their ancestors.

  I have already been in the death cave. Waves of migrants have visited the cave. There were the ancient ones, then the children of the mountain civilization. There were also the white people who believed this green place, the meeting point between heaven and hell, is located on a line that crosses the entire universe. This is what I was able to understand from everything that I read. I must find the way to the center. Will I find it before another way finds me?

  A small pebble landed on my table. Was the boy playing with the blowgun he had received from the forest child again? I looked through the open window to the porch overlooking the river. Another small pebble flew through the window. I went to the window and saw a boat tied to the jetty next to the house. I went out to the porch. On the boat, which looked much like the one I had seen in the morning, there was a sort of low hut, most likely a shed intended to protect the forest fruit from the sun.

  I went down the stairs to the jetty. The boat looked deserted. The voice calling me to seek my death beckoned me to board it. I approached it but didn’t step into it. Snakes were tied to the poles of the hut to protect it. A tied snake would vent its anger on any creature that dared to draw near. I stood, listening to the voices speaking inside me, when suddenly, a different voice, very clear, spoke to me in the language of the Nave.

  “The moment draws near,” the voice told me, “and you must be ready. The ship will soon reach the town, and you will return to us…” A few steps away, I suddenly saw George. Was he also able to hear the voices my head had been receiving?

  George approached me. “They sailed to town and brought with them, for the first time in quite a while, fruit and fish,” he said, as if speaking to himself.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Those who arrived on this boat and decided to dock at your jetty.”

  We parted with no further conversation. At the bottom of the stairs to the house, I saw pebbles spilling from an open sack. I went over and picked up a remarkably shiny pebble. It was beautiful, almost transparent. When I stood with the pebble in my hand, I noticed someone hiding under the stairs. A finger covered his mouth, asking for my silence. The finger belonged to Yankor.

  20

  The Hollow Eyes

  The next morning, when I came out of my room to eat breakfast, Tourki handed me an envelope.

  “It’s intended for the young lady,” she said. “One of the men who came on the boat brought it.”

  I briefly debated whether I should open the letter, which wasn’t addressed to me, but my curiosity ended up getting the better of me. Worn-out letters on a gray-brown paper joined to form the words I feared most: My dear, I’m coming back. Just five words, without a signature. I assumed the same exact words were written in Christina’s telegram. The man was alive, then, and hadn’t met his death on the day Yakura and I had found Marina by the stream. Or maybe it was an impostor, and the unknown sender knew Marina wasn’t in town and the unsigned note was intended for my eyes.

  When I returned to my room, I found another surprise waiting for me,
Clara. Why hadn’t Tourki told me of her arrival?

  “Someone drugged me, right?” she asked the moment I opened the door. “And you must know who it was…did you see who drugged me and how?”

  I explained to her that I had been unconscious and that I now found it hard to tell the difference between memory and hallucination, but Clara wouldn’t let go. “George went back for help, and suddenly you were healthy and conscious, as if nothing had happened. Someone must have taken care you. You didn’t feel anything? Didn’t see anything?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “I felt that someone was taking care of me. Someone rubbed my body with plants that had a very potent smell and released my stiff neck, but my eyes were closed, and when I opened them, it seemed that angels were treating me. I suppose, just like you do, these were healers from the forest. Their use of plants indicated this. But I’m merely guessing, because I wasn’t able to see anyone.”

  “Yes, they must be very near!” Clara whispered with excitement.

  I knew there was another reason for her visit and patiently waited for her to speak.

  “You want to know why I returned to the hotel?” she finally asked then abruptly answered her own question. “We’ve received instructions from the institute’s London branch—”

  “What do you mean ‘we’ve’ received?” I asked.

  “George and I…George is one of the institute’s agents.”

  I looked at her in shock.

  “Judging by your expression, I understand you find it hard to believe a man who ordered the murder of a shaman, and even hired professional killers to perform that task, is interested in saving the rain forests and the Indians. You may choose not to believe me, but George had warned the shaman in advance, before sending the hired killers to his hut—”