The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  She had descended to within twenty feet of the forest floor when a strident scream broke the stillness. Deborah Simons hung on the rope about fifty feet above her, but above Deborah, Lauren was flailing about in a full-fledged panic. Alex felt an icy finger touch the base of her spine as the line vibrated in her hand. More worrisome than the fear of falling, though, was the thought of the wasps—what if Lauren’s shrieking brought the pests out of their nest?

  “How I wonder what you are.”

  Not particularly eager to linger in such a precarious position, Alex loosened her grip and let the rope slide over her palms. She hit the ground more forcefully than she had intended, then fell backward into a patch of soft dirt Olsson had thoughtfully arranged for a landing zone.

  Lazaro Mendez, a native guide who worked for the lodge, stepped up and gallantly offered her a hand. Accepting it, Alex scrambled to her feet, then moved out of the way. Deborah Simons landed a moment later.

  Deborah chuckled as she unhitched her safety harness. “I see you had the same thought I did. Carlton’s going to have a time getting Lauren down.”

  “I’m sure he’ll sweet-talk her through it.” Alex winced at the sound of sarcasm in her voice, but not even Deborah, who seemed oblivious to everything but bugs, could have missed the undercurrents between Carlton and his girlfriend.

  Deborah smiled a grim little grin as she peeled off her gloves. “How long do you think they’ve been together?”

  “Not long—or he’d have known she wasn’t up to a trip like this. I’m thinking Miss Hayworth is going to stay in her room tomorrow while Carlton hangs back and plays nursemaid.”

  Stepping out of her harness, Deborah shook her head. “I don’t think Carlton is the nursemaid type. He’s probably not above hiring one, though.”

  Alex glanced up, but she couldn’t see anyone but Lauren on the rope. The young woman had stopped flailing, though, and that was progress.

  She forced a laugh. “What do you think, Deb? Should we ask Lazaro to take us back to the lodge? It might be an hour before the others get down.”

  “It’ll go fast once the princess arrives.” Deborah bent her knees and sat in a squat, careful to keep the seat of her jeans off the muddy ground.

  Imitating the entomologist, Alex stripped off her gear, then sat in the same fashion. “I’ll bet Mr. CEO is thinking he should have brought his sons to the jungle instead of his mistress.”

  “All I’m thinking—” an impish grin lit Deborah’s face—“is that I owe the good Lord a big thank-you. I almost asked Lauren to tuck a couple of my specimen bottles in her backpack, but something told me I should reconsider. I’m so glad I did—with all that screeching, she would have rattled my poor bugs to death.” She took a deep, contented breath. “Yes sir, Jesus was really watching out for me.”

  Alex stared up at the climbing rope as a wave of disappointment engulfed her. Until that moment, she had thought she and Deborah Simons might actually become friends.

  Too bad.

  Alex wanted nothing more than a speedy boat trip back to the lodge and a cold shower, but transportation in the Amazon was neither simple nor speedy. After regrouping on the ground, she and her teammates hiked twenty minutes to the place where Lazaro had left the boat. To her surprise, a jungle-style buffet waited in the clearing.

  “I thought we’d be hungry for something more than sandwiches,” Carlton said, slipping his backpack from his shoulders. “We’ll have a snack here, rest a bit, then go on back to the lodge for a more substantial dinner.”

  Alex dropped her pack into the safety of the boat, then looked around with delight. Two young men from the lodge had built a table of sticks and logs, upon which rested palm leaves spread with cooked fish and a neat stack of fresh plantains. She eagerly accepted a plantain from one of the boys, then walked back to the boat where she could sit and eat.

  Her companions quieted as they concentrated on food, and the chirping sounds of the jungle rushed in to fill the gaps between their conversations. Alex peeled her plantain and ate slowly, staring mindlessly at a rotting tree trunk jutting out from the riverbank. Terraces of toadstools lined the wood while a line of ants traipsed in single file from one end to the other.

  She shuddered slightly. Nothing went to waste in the jungle. The moment something fell, be it animal or plant, scavengers moved in.

  When they had finished and cleaned up the area, Lazaro offered to teach them how to fish for piranha. Alex groaned inwardly as Carlton and Olsson leaped at the opportunity. She wanted to get back to the lodge to check on Caitlyn, but she couldn’t ask the entire team to accommodate her maternal impulses.

  While the men accepted twigs, fishing line, and hooks from Lazaro, she stepped onto shore. Baklanov caught her eye as she moved toward a stand of trees. “Are you looking, excuse me, for a place to relieve yourself ?”

  She laughed. “If I am, do you think I’d announce it?”

  His mouth tipped in a faint smile. “I am sorry, I forget about the modesty of some American women. I will leave you alone. But be careful, my friend, of the insects. They sting.” He walked away, rubbing his backside. “Trust me, I know this from experience.”

  Though Alex would have given twenty bucks for the chance to use a porcelain toilet in a modern bathroom, her bladder could wait. She sought solitude.

  Taking care to keep the others in sight, she stepped carefully over the ground layer of the forest. Away from the river, the trees had reclaimed the sky, allowing only the faintest particles of sunlight to penetrate. The shade-loving plants, ferns, seedlings, and fungi grew here, and she recognized many of them—caladium and coleus, elephant’s ear, and a spectacular Heliconia, dripping with red and yellow flowers that looked more like crab claws than blossoms.

  She waded through a tangle of vines, then bent to study a moving train of leaf-cutting ants. The biology films she had watched in school came to life before her eyes as the ants moved in an unbroken line from some tree at her left to a mounded nest a few feet to her right. Each ant carried a scrap of leaf larger than his own body, yet they seemed to have no problem hoisting them like tiny sails and carrying them home.

  Squatting down, she rested her chin in her hand and studied the amazing creatures. Science had yet to plumb the mechanics of the ants’ collective consciousness. Though small and insignificant, they worked toward a common goal and cooperated not only with each other, but with nature itself. Leaf–cutting ants, she knew, did not actually eat the leaves they harvested, but offered them as food for a fungus in their nest. As the fungus consumed the leaves, it broke the plant material down into food for the ants.

  She smiled against her palm. Such symbiotic relationships existed everywhere in the jungle, but they were rare in the civilized world. How many people would confidently help a stranger believing that the act would one day benefit them? She knew too many researchers who jealously guarded their research until they could publish the results, not thinking of the people they could help if they would only provide a clue to someone else in search of a cure for the same disease. . .

  Sighing, she pressed her hands to her knees and stood. She would have to bring Caitlyn into the jungle and point out the leaf cutters. The lesson in cooperation would be good for her.

  Her smile broadened at the thought of her daughter. Caitlyn had proved to be a precocious survivor, an uncomplaining traveler, and a brilliant student with a particular facility for language. Alex had worried that growing up in a single-parent family might cause Caitlyn to feel she was missing something, but over the years Collin’s desertion proved to be more silver lining than cloud. When Alex walked away from the marriage with an infant and twenty thousand dollars in outstanding student loans, she’d thought they’d need a miracle to survive. But now, ten years later, the loans had been repaid, she had risen to the top of her profession, and her team had made remarkable strides in the field of prion research. Without a husband, she had been free to travel, and her daughter had been happy to journey with he
r.

  Instead of a father’s limited attention, Caitlyn had been schooled and spoiled by some of the world’s most brilliant scientists, including some of the people on this expedition. Since their arrival in Peru, she’d had the opportunity to hear Russian folk tales from Dr. Baklanov, stories of mountaineering from Dr. Olsson, and the hottest gossip from the French fashion industry, courtesy of Louis Fortier.

  Alex knew Caitlyn might one day want to settle into a more traditional educational experience, but until then . . .

  After glancing over her shoulder to be sure no one watched, she thrust out her arm, splayed her fingers, and watched for any sign of tremor. None—not yet, anyway. Perhaps she would still be around by the time Caitlyn graduated high school.

  She dropped her arm and turned toward the sound of her companions’ voices. Before applying for this expedition, she had made certain her daughter could be safely entertained at the lodge while Alex worked in the field. Herman Myers, the American manager of Yarupapa Lodge, had assured her that Caitlyn could join the other lodge guests for the regular daily itinerary. Fortunately, this week the only other guests were two middle-aged sisters from Florida with extra time and money on their hands. Though they snapped photos of each other every ten minutes and squealed like tourists with a capital T, Caitlyn had warmed to them like a kid to a candy store.

  Swatting at mosquitoes, Alex moved out of the forest and back into the clearing at the river’s edge. Their guide, Lazaro, stood on the bank to demonstrate the fine art of piranha fishing to Lauren. Deborah, Carlton, and Baklanov dangled lines in the water while Lauren suppressed a yawn. Louis Fortier paid the fishermen no attention; he had buried his face in a crimson flower the size of a dinner plate.

  “First you thrash your pole in the water,” Lazaro said, whipping the brown water with a thin branch. “This tells the piranha that something has fallen into the river. Then you drop in the bait.”

  Crossing her arms, Alex grinned at Milos Olsson, who held a fishfilled bucket with one hand and swatted at mosquitoes with the other. Apparently he had caught his fill of the voracious fish and was happy to give the lovely turista a chance to snag her supper.

  After throwing Carlton a frown, Lauren accepted the stick from Lazaro, then let the baited hook fall into the water. For a moment she stood stiffly, her arms locked and extended, while Carlton laughed softly.

  “Don’t think of them as man-eating fish,” he said, one corner of his mouth dipping in a wry smile. “Think of them as members of the board of directors. You’ve already proven you can handle the most bloodthirsty of them.”

  As Alex felt a smirk lift her lips, Lauren squealed and jerked her pole away from the water. A razor-toothed fish with a decided underbite swung on the end of the line.

  Lazaro laughed softly as he caught the flopping piranha by the tail. “Good job.” With two fingers he grabbed the fish behind the gills, then extracted the hook and tossed the creature into Olsson’s bucket.

  Catching Alex’s eye, the guide smiled. “Want to see something?” Bending down, he picked up another piranha. “One of the gentlemen caught this half an hour ago. But watch.”

  Carefully holding the piranha in his right hand, he scooped up a sardine and placed it near the piranha’s mouth. Without hesitation, the carnivore worked its jaws, chomping away at the smaller fish until nothing of the tail remained but a bloody nub.

  Olsson stared down into his bucket. “Good grief, how long does it take them to die?”

  “Long time.” Lazaro slipped the sardine’s remains onto the hook, then picked up the rustic fishing pole and arched a brow at Alex. “Señora, you want to fish?”

  She stared at the simple apparatus—a pole, a line, a hook—then threw a longing glance at the boat.

  “Actually,” she glanced at Carlton, “I was hoping we could head back to the lodge. I’m going to need a blood transfusion if these mosquitoes keep draining me.”

  “A good idea.” Carlton placed his hand in Lauren’s back and prodded his mistress toward the boat. “Thank you, Lazaro, for the demonstration, but I think we’ll leave the other piranha alone. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll fish some more.”

  “Thank you, Lord!” Deborah winked at Alex as she strode toward the boat. “God bless you, Dr. Pace.”

  Breathing out an exasperated sigh, Alex followed the others.

  1 APRIL 2003

  4:05 P.M.

  Sinking into the chair behind his desk, Michael propped his head in his hands, then tunneled his fingers through his hair. It had been a long and frustrating day. Since his casualty patient this morning, he’d examined twenty pediatric patients, two men with malaria, and four pregnant women. All four of the women had borne other children; one had an even dozen waiting at home.

  In each obstetrical case he had gently tried to explain the advantages of tubal ligation. Since most of his patients were Catholic in name if not in practice, discretionary methods of birth control were considered taboo. But in a country where women as young as thirteen began to bear children and most continued to produce babies until menopause, tubal ligation could be a quiet blessing.

  His explanation—or Fortuna’s translation—must not have been effective, for all four of his pregnant patients merely smiled shyly and slid off the exam table, content to go home and continue bearing children. Performing the ligation would be simple if they came to the hospital to have their babies, but he knew he would see few of his maternity patients again. Tribal women had been delivering babies in riverside villages for generations; they only sent for the doctor when things went dramatically wrong.

  Lowering his hands, Michael glanced at a bagful of drugs Fortuna had collected from his last patient. The man, who had been clearly suffering from malaria, had visited an Iquitos farmacia and walked out with a collection of medicines including cough syrup, worm pills, and a bottle of drops for “cerebral circulation”—whatever that was. None of the medicines had helped, so the man had then visited a nearby brujo, or shaman, who declared that evil had been visited upon the patient and he could provide the cure.

  The blending of old and new cultures constantly amazed Michael. While as a physician he recognized illness as a clearly definable condition within a physical body, he could not ignore the prevailing culture’s view of sickness as the result of interactions between human bodies and spiritual forces. His patients thought nothing of visiting a brujo one day and a physician the next; what one did not cure, surely the other would. And their definition of illness surprised him—any upset, be it physical, mental, or emotional, caused dis-ease, so nearly as many patients consulted him for lovesickness as for parasites.

  When faced with a lovesick patient, Michael frequently left the counsel and treatment to Fortuna, who knew far more about native spirits—and Peruvian marriage rites—than he did.

  Peculiarities of the culture often frustrated Michael, yet one aspect of jungle customs pleased him—while in other societies a man might seek vengeance upon whomever had brought about an illness through spiritual means, the people with whom he worked made no effort to determine who the “bewitching” party might be. With surprising equanimity they accepted their illness and promptly sought cures from the brujo and physician.

  Once he had asked Fortuna why this was so; she replied with a casual shrug. “There are too many people alive, too many dead, so how can you know who is responsible? You would go crazy if you tried to blame them all.”

  Thus far Michael had encountered only one exception to this rule: Early in his Iquitos practice, a little boy’s father explained that his toddling lad’s persistent diarrhea resulted from his deceased mother’s efforts to persuade the boy to join her in the next world. After meeting the boy and the father’s new wife, Michael privately suspected the stepmother had more to do with the child’s illness than the spirit world, for the new wife had candidly told Fortuna she did not want to raise another woman’s child. Native women knew their plants; the stepmother could have been giving the boy tea from a vine
in the forgetme-not family or overdosing him with any of the many plants used to kill worms; all acted as purgatives. Both Michael and the village brujo attempted to treat the sickly lad; over time, they both failed.

  Resting his head on his hand, Michael blinked the troubling images of the past away. This morning’s fiasco in the casualty ward had vividly reminded him that superstition still thrived along the river. The orderly who fled at the sight of the tattooed patient never returned to the ward, and several of the nurses had shrunk from the sight of the unusuallooking native.

  Michael glanced at his watch. That nameless patient was still fighting peritonitis and still losing the battle. His kidneys had begun to fail during the afternoon; death was only a few hours away. At midday, Fortuna had called for a priest to administer the last rites; she later reported that the patient resisted as the cleric approached, clearly wanting no part of the ritual. Michael had advised her to wait until later and then try again. While he doubted his patient was Catholic, Fortuna and the other nurses placed great emphasis on the ritual. The priest’s efforts might not be worth two pence to the patient, but at least the nurses would be comforted.

  Looking around his desk, Michael’s eyes fell upon the Englishlanguage version of El Tiempo, Peru’s largest newspaper. He had subscribed to this digest version several weeks ago, but thus far he’d done nothing with the paper but clutter his desk. On a day like this, though, it might be nice to have a gander at the English language, to read a phrase or two that evoked a memory of old Blighty and civilization.

  After glancing up to be sure his door was closed (Fortuna had a habit of promising his attention to anyone who asked for it, even on his dinner break), Michael picked up the paper and shook it open. The editors of El Tiempo routinely translated the week’s major stories, emphasizing those presumed to be of interest to travelers, students, or internationals.

  A photograph on the front page immediately caught Michael’s attention. At first glance he thought he was looking at a starfish on a grainy beach, then he read the caption: “This platform canopy, designed by French researchers, will be employed for the next three months at a site on the Yarapa River. A multinational team of researchers will pursue several scientific investigations while visiting Peru.”