by Angela Hunt
Michael looked at Bancroft, who wore an inward look of deep abstraction. When the soldier did not answer, he turned to Deborah. “Of course we’ll come back for you.” He gave her what he hoped was a confident smile. “As soon as possible.”
Emma held up a warning hand. “Hold a minute. What if this healing tribe does nothing for the shaman’s wife? What if these stories of healing are only rumors? After all, we haven’t even seen the sick woman; she could be suffering from anything.”
Michael glanced to the thatched enclosure where the shaman had disappeared, but he could not see beyond the half-wall separating public and private space. Emma had raised an important point. He had spoken impulsively, but he’d only been trying to meet Deborah’s boldness with a bold step of his own.
He looked at Alexandra, whose eyes radiated doubt and fear. Her faith in Ya-ree’s healing tribe had to be wavering.
He shifted to face the anthropologist. “Are you a woman of faith, Emma?”
Her blue eyes narrowed and hardened. “You know I am. But the repositories of my faith are far different from yours.”
“No matter. I was rather hoping you’d understand my reasons for accepting Deborah’s brave offer. As I see it, we have a choice here—place faith in our own ability to stand and fight these well-armed people, or place faith in the stories we have now heard from two separate sources. As for me, I’ve more faith in the people of the keyba than in Bancroft’s plan.” He cast the military man a quick glance. “No offense, mate.”
Bancroft’s brows pulled into a distracted frown, but for the moment he seemed too stunned to speak.
Emma lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. If you and Deborah want to risk her life on a rumor, so be it. If nothing else, the gesture will buy us time.”
Olsson’s mouth had gone tight and grim. “We are coming back for her, yes?”
Bancroft jerked his head. “Affirmative. Absolutely. With weapons, if necessary.” He gave the entomologist a smile that was 90 percent bravado and 10 percent affection. “We won’t leave you here, Deb. You have my word on it.”
Conversation ceased as a pair of Indian women approached with dripping gourds, offering water to the thirsty captives. Michael took advantage of the distraction to lean over Alexandra and speak directly to Deborah.
“Are you absolutely certain you want to do this? Bancroft is dying to bash some heads together. We could let him have a go at it.”
She smiled, but her expression held only a trace of its former warmth. “I’m sure. I’ll live here for a while and teach these people everything I know about insects . . . and life. If the Lord wills, y’all will be back for me before too long.” Her chin trembled. “If it’s not the Lord’s will, well, at least you will know I didn’t come here with an agenda. I’m only doing what the Lord would want me to do.”
Michael looked away as his heart swelled with admiration. In his lifetime he had known many people who claimed the name of Christ, but none had ever demonstrated that allegiance so powerfully.
14 APRIL 2003
6:50 A.M.
Dawn came up in streaks and slashes over the rough edge of the thatched roof. Lying with the others near the communal fire, Michael kept his head low so as not to attract attention from the warriors who had been milling about since sunrise.
His companions lay scattered around the fire like rag dolls. Several of the men had groaned and moaned in the night, helpless to ease the pain of blisters left by the stinging vines, but the women hadn’t slept much better. Michael had awakened several times when Caitlyn cried out in a nightmare, but the sound of Alexandra’s patient shushing eased both Caitlyn and Michael back to sleep.
The tension of the previous day had eased when Delmar told the shaman they would agree to leave one of their women in his village while they transported his wife to the people of the Keyba, also known as the Tree People. They would then bring the shaman’s woman back, and they expected to receive their woman in return.
Michael had studied the shaman while Delmar labored to stitch words together and convey his message. Something brutal creased the shaman’s mouth; something feral lurked in his eyes. When Delmar asked why the shaman and his men did not transport the sick woman themselves, the medicine man replied that too much blood had flowed in wars between the two villages. His people hated the people of Keyba Village, and the people of that village had reason to fear the Angry People. So they could not approach on their own, but the people of the keyba would surely accept the nabas . . .
Michael had no trouble believing that the two tribes had been involved in bloody and brutal skirmishes; after all, Ya-ree had died from such an encounter. What surprised him was the discovery that they did not reserve their cruelty for outsiders. The warriors, most of whom came only to Michael’s upper arm, thought nothing of clubbing anyone whose attitude they did not like, including their own wives. This morning one of the native women had paused by the fire to stare at the prisoners and a moment later her husband clubbed her on the side of the head. Bleeding from the ear, she huddled like a mouse in the small enclosure where her children slept.
No wonder they were experiencing a shortage of women. They treated their wives like dogs.
Since their arrival, however, no one had struck the captives. After Delmar spoke to the shaman, a pair of warriors stepped forward to cut away the stinging vines that bound the men. Women brought gourds of murky, warm water to ease their thirst.
With the expert eyes of a physician, Michael realized that most of the people were starving. Though they had eaten meat last night, he wondered how often they met with success in the hunt. Most disturbing was the way they ate—the men partook of the kill first, leaving the leftover portions for their women. Only after the prisoners had been fed (grudging handfuls, but food nonetheless) did the women offer their children a few morsels of meat.
A few of the little ones cried almost incessantly. Most had the bloated belly Michael recognized as a symptom of malnutrition. And the tribe’s population—probably not more than one hundred, with only a dozen or so children—indicated a high infant mortality rate.
He managed a little wave as Emma, who’d been dozing on the ground next to him, pushed herself upright.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. “Are we still here?”
He released a sour laugh. “Sorry, but it wasn’t a bad dream.”
Sighing, she exhaled loudly, then began to roll up her shirtsleeves. “Can you believe this blouse was white when we left?” She pushed a rolled sleeve past her elbow. “Makes you wonder how they can survive in all this dirt, doesn’t it?”
“I wonder how they survive at all.” Michael kept his voice low, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. “The children are malnourished, and the women don’t look at all healthy. Last night they had meat, but I’m wondering how often they have that sort of success in their hunting.”
“Probably not often at all, though the natives are resourceful. If it moves, they’ll eat it. Life in a primitive village is hard, especially one as isolated as this. Look around, Doctor—do you see one knife, even a bit of metal?”
“None.”
“I’ve seen nothing, either. One of the most effective ways to lure a hidden tribe out into the open is to offer them mirrors, knives, machetes. Since these natives have nothing, I’d be surprised if they’ve had any previous contact with civilized people.”
Michael glanced at his belt, thinking of the knife in his pocket.
The anthropologist must have followed his thought. “Keep it hidden, Doctor. Tribal wars have been fought over lesser things.” She glanced across the fire, where Delmar sat with his back to them, attempting to talk to the shaman.
Emma inclined her head toward the guide. “What’s he up to?”
Michael shrugged. “I have no idea. But he’s been murmuring to the shaman since sunrise.”
“I wish I could understand this language better. It’s similar to Yagua, but not close enough for me to pick up more
than the odd word or two. I would love to learn more about them.” Emma’s voice held a wistful note, and at the sound of it, Alexandra lifted her head. Her wrinkled cheek bore the imprint of her hand, but the eyes flashing toward the anthropologist weren’t at all sleepy.
“Don’t tell me you admire these people.”
“Of course I do.” Emma waved toward a mother nursing her child. “They lead such simple lives, and they are in touch with nature in a way you and I will never be.”
Flames lit Alexandra’s brown eyes. “Don’t give me that noble savage claptrap. You can’t seriously believe these people are better off here than in a civilized settlement.”
Emma’s jaw lifted defensively. “Your prejudices are showing, Alex. That shaman over there can probably list ten medicinal uses for every plant within fifty miles of this dwelling. Isn’t that why you’re here? To discover what he already knows?”
“If these people are so clever,” Alexandra countered, sitting up, “then why have they not bettered themselves beyond this stage? Why did they stop learning?”
The anthropologist’s graceful brows lifted, then she stood and brushed dirt from her trousers. “Excuse me.” She turned toward the entrance of the shabono. “I feel a sudden need for fresh air.”
14 APRIL 2003
7:05 A.M.
Alex shifted to look at Kenway, who wore a twisted grin as he watched Emma’s exit.
“Why are you smirking? It was a perfectly valid question.”
“Indeed it was,” he agreed, “and I enjoyed watching Emma try to wriggle out of it. Quite truthfully, I have my own theory about why these people stopped learning . . . but I’m not sure you’d be too keen on it.”
“I’m all ears.”
Smiling, he traced a diagonal line in the dirt. “I believe God created man for one purpose: fellowship. As long as man remained in fellowship with God, he was able to fully exercise his brain, his physical strength, and his spirit. When sin separated man from God, however, man began to atrophy in all those areas. We now use less than 10 percent of our mental faculties, age and disease corrupt our bodies, and our spirits have become withered shadows of what God intended them to be. We physicians treat only the body, often neglecting the mind and paying only the slightest attention to the spirit.”
Alex was on the verge of agreeing with him out of sheer weariness when a small dose of reason shocked her back to her senses. “You think we’re . . . withering.”
“An apt metaphor, yes.”
“And these people—what? Are they more withered than the rest of the civilized world?”
“They are held in bondage . . . to sin, to darkness. Bondage holds them back.”
She closed her eyes as a tide of irritation began to flow through her. Just when she thought she might like the man, he began to spout utter nonsense. “Let me get this straight—despite all the advances of the twenty-first century, you think we are getting more and more stupid.”
He nodded. “We have more toys, more gadgets, yes. But we’re building on what previous generations have accomplished.”
“So you believe we’re atrophying.”
Grinning, he snapped his fingers. “By George, I think you’ve got it. The second law of thermodynamics, the law of entropy: In a closed system, energy disperses. All things deteriorate over time. Why should mankind be excluded?”
“Thanks for the lesson, Reverend Doctor, but I think you’re positively loopy.” Alex leaned forward and pushed herself up, then closed her eyes as the world swayed around her. Though she’d pretended to sleep with the others, she’d spent most of the night listening to the sounds of the jungle, her restless companions, and her frightened daughter. Caitlyn behaved like a trooper during daylight hours, but suppressed fears reigned over her nightmares.
The loss of her beloved stuffed monkey hadn’t helped matters.
She squinted into the slanting morning light. “Where’s my daughter?”
“With Deborah, out looking for fruit.” His voice deepened. “Are you all right?”
“I think you’re driving me a little nuts.” Alex forced her eyes open, then gave him what she hoped was a sarcastic smile. “If you keep it up, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go find fresh air, too.”
The corner of Kenway’s mouth drooped as he rested his hands on his folded knees. “I thought scientific research required an open mind.”
She swiped a layer of sand from her forehead, wishing she could still the pounding in her head as easily. “I’m not the one with the closed mind. I’m not clinging to creation myths when every credible scientist on the planet accepts that evolution shaped the earth and everything in it—”
The doctor cut her off with an uplifted hand. “We’re not going to argue that one.”
“Scared, huh?”
“Not likely. But Jesus once said something about being careful not to cast pearls before . . . people who wouldn’t appreciate them.”
She hesitated, certain that his comment contained some sort of insult, but movement from the shaman distracted her attention. He had risen and gestured to his men; some of his warriors were gathering weapons.
“Uh-oh.” She winced, dreading the day ahead. “I think it’s showtime.”
Delmar walked to Olsson and Baklanov, who were sleeping on their backs, as oblivious as dead men. They awoke with groaning and shuffling, then squinted at the squadron of tattooed warriors around the fire.
“Good morning,” Olsson said, idly smoothing his beard as he sat up. “Does this mean our escorts are ready to go?”
“Do you think,” Baklanov acknowledged them with bleary eyes, “they might have anything like a cigarette in this place?”
A few moments later the shaman’s intentions became clear. A group of six warriors would accompany the expedition to the healing village while one white woman remained behind. The natives would carry spears, bows, and arrows; the white men would carry the shaman’s sick wife.
As a group of men brought the sick woman forward, Alex was able to get her first look at her patient. Unable to walk, in the shabono the woman could do nothing but lie in her hammock; on the trail she would have to be transported by one of the men.
As she examined the woman, Alex found herself looking for the telltale signs of a prion disease. Though it was impossible to tell which variant the patient might have contracted—if this were, in fact, a prion case and not some tropical fever or infection—the woman exhibited several symptoms that could be attributed to kuru or CJD. Her body was emaciated, her arms limp, her mouth lax. If this were kuru, this patient had to be in the latter stage. Without proper care, she would die within days.
Kenway agreed with her observations. While Alex didn’t need his opinion to form what amounted to a shaky diagnosis, his support sent a flood of warmth rushing through her. With Carlton gone, she was now working for only herself and Caitlyn . . . but at least she wasn’t working alone.
As she stood from her patient’s side, she saw Bancroft talking to Deborah, one of his meaty hands around her arm. Apparently he was trying to talk her out of staying, for she kept shaking her head even as her hands pressed against his chest.
Overcome by the feeling that she was intruding, Alex looked away.
She would have liked to make a few preparations before setting out, but apparently these tribesmen didn’t put much stock in preplanning. Brandishing their spears, they prodded the expedition members toward the opening in the wall of the shabono, halting only long enough for Bancroft to enter the shaman’s enclosure and lift the sick woman into his arms.
Before they left the village, Alex turned to say one last farewell. Standing with a group of women who had come out to observe their departure, Deborah Simons wore a calm expression, but a look of unutterable distance filled her eyes.
“We’ll be back,” Alex called. “We won’t leave you behind.”
As Deborah nodded silently, Alex gathered her strength, then gripped her daughter’s hand and followed the others out int
o the tall grass.
They had walked only fifteen minutes when Olsson halted in midstep and lifted his hands in outright mutiny. Alex came to an abrupt stop, her heart jumping in her chest, as one of the taller warriors stepped forward and lifted his blowgun to his lips. A single dart would paralyze Olsson, and the man was too heavy to carry through the dense foliage . . .
Delmar rushed forward, lifting his hands before the warrior. As two of the natives jabbed at Olsson’s midsection with the tips of their spears, Delmar waved and babbled in the native language. After a moment, the warrior lowered his weapon.
Kenway turned to stare at the botanist. “What are you doing?”
The big Swede pointed to the woman in Bancroft’s arms. “We cannot carry that woman like this. We will be exhausted and she will suffer needlessly. But if they’ll give us a few minutes, I think I can make a travois from that specimen.” Bracing his hands on his hips, he inclined his head toward a wide tree with yellow flowers. “The journey will be a bit rough as the back end drags on the ground, but it’ll be no harder on her than the rest of us.”
Delmar pressed his lips together, then nodded. “I’ll explain it to them.” He jerked his thumb toward their guards. “You do what you must.”
While the natives watched with suspicion, Olsson demonstrated what he had in mind. Using odd bits of vine and leaves, he created a miniature version of a travois, then gestured toward the jungle and spread his hands apart. “Like this, but bigger,” he said, looking at their captors.
The light of understanding gleamed in one native’s eye, but it took Delmar another ten minutes to convince the warrior to surrender the stone hatchet tucked into the belt at his waist. Within half an hour, though, Bancroft and Baklanov had chopped two long branches to serve as poles. Reaching high over his head, Olsson used the warrior’s hatchet to slice the bark around the perimeter of the yellow-flowered tree. Then he made a vertical cut about five feet in length, followed by another slice around the perimeter of the base. As Alex and Caitlyn watched in wonder, he peeled the bark from the tree in one long piece, then flattened it on the ground. After piercing the edges and lashing it to the poles with narrow vines, Olsson held the two poles behind him while Bancroft gently lowered the native woman to the travois.
