The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  14 APRIL 2003

  6:45 P.M.

  Taking care not to disturb her sleeping daughter, Alex stretched in the cramped hammock designed to hold one small native, not two well-nourished American females. Suspended within the sight, sound, and smell of her companions, she slapped at another mosquito, then heard an answering slap from one of the other trees.

  A rueful smile crossed her face. Tonight her friends might rest as fitfully as she. Without netting or a fire to drive the insects away, most of the humans would spend the night slapping and scratching.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking the traditional pose of the dead in every horror flick she’d ever seen. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she could actually approach a dozing state by pretending to be dead, but not even that trick had worked last night. For the first time since her college all-nighters, Alex had passed an entire night without sleeping at all.

  In the jungle she had been able to doze for one or two fifteen-minute intervals, but despite singing a dozen choruses of “Twinkle, Twinkle” in the village of the Angry People, she could not enter even the drowsy stage of sleep. Her heightened nerves might have had something to do with her condition, but the others, who were just as worried, had succumbed to the crackling fire and collapsed like the dead.

  Alex had lain awake by Caitlyn’s side, occasionally meeting the startled eyes of native children who wandered by for a closer look at the strangers in their midst. Alex tried to smile at them, but they retreated from her friendliness and scurried back to their sleeping mothers. Sighing, she had closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, wishing she had a decent piece of meat and bread to give each of them.

  Even now her thoughts returned to those cherubic faces. How long would those children live, and how many would survive to old age? Would the little girls be given to men who clubbed them for the slightest provocation? Would the little boys grow up to become tattooed warriors like Michael’s ill-fated Ya-ree?

  Dangers lurked behind every shadow here—poisonous snakes, piranha, the constant threat of animal attack or disease—yet the Angry People seemed determined to add to the violence. Men treated their women like slaves, and while the women seemed to cherish their children, that concern did not extend to self-sacrifice. Every woman Alex saw ate her fill before feeding her children, the only exception being the few babies who were still nursing.

  What a sad day weaning must be!

  Amazing, that people could live so close together and not feel more affection for one another. The shaman, fierce as he was, seemed to be an exception, for at least he had exhibited concern for his wife. But even as Alex cared for the helpless invalid, she couldn’t help fearing for Deborah Simons. What would happen if Shaman’s Wife died before they reached the healing village? What if the people of the Keyba Village had no healing powers at all? One of her greatest fears—a thought that might have kept her awake even without a malfunctioning brain—was that they would find the healing village and observe dozens of healthy people who could not account for their good fortune. Medical history was replete with patients who swore one substance cured them, when the cure actually stemmed from something else altogether. Given the state of Alex’s own body, she had no time to waste exploring lunar moon cycles or investigating folk legends.

  The worst thing would be stumbling over the cure and not recognizing it. If she were not careful, she could die the death she had feared for years while holding the cure within her hands.

  No . . . the absolute worst thing that could happen would be learning that Michael Kenway was a complete crank, the prion photograph a forgery, and his patient Ya-ree certifiably insane. If they had risked their lives in search of a tribe that proved to be phantoms or folklore, she might be tempted to tie the good doctor to a tree occupied by a wasps’ nest . . . a monstrous one. That fate would be far more merciful than what he deserved.

  Yes, he could be charming. Yes, he knew how to handle children, and Caitlyn genuinely liked him. But Alex had met too many charming men to entrust her life to another one.

  Hunching into the arc of the hammock, she pillowed her cheek on her hand and blew out her breath in a slow and steady stream. At times like this, she wished she could believe in a deity other than GODWITS. If a deity could hover above and listen to her prayers, she would beg for wisdom and supernatural vision so she would be sure to recognize what she needed when she found it.

  If God could guarantee that . . . she could almost believe.

  17 APRIL 2003

  3:35 P.M.

  They had been traveling four days when Milos Olsson threw what Michael supposed was a Swedish temper tantrum. They were navigating a particularly dense stand of brush, swatting at mosquitoes and stinging vines, when Olsson abruptly lowered the travois and began storming in his native language. Lifting his fist, he looked at the green canopy overhead and shouted unintelligible epithets that startled both his teammates and their native guides.

  Everyone halted and turned to stare at the broad-chested Swede. For an instant Michael feared the Indians would react in anger or fear, but they looked at Olsson with the curiosity they might have shown an unfamiliar animal. Moving cautiously, they padded toward the brawling botanist, their hands moving reflexively toward the shafts of their spears.

  “It never ends,” Olsson yelled, switching to English. “How do we know they are not leading us in circles? I’m hungry, I need a bath, and this poor woman needs a proper hospital. If we had taken her to the river instead of going deeper into the jungle, we might have been able to provide her with some genuine help.”

  “Milos.” Emma stepped forward, lifting her dainty arm to the man’s shoulder. “You are tired, we all are. But every step is one less we will have to take.”

  Looking around, Michael realized they had all neared the breaking point. Bancroft looked as if he would be happy to snap the necks of their native escorts, and the nicotine-deprived Russian grumbled beneath sweat-drenched brows. Emma, who had glibly chatted about various tribes during much of the first two days, had lately fallen silent as weariness sapped her strength.

  Alexandra looked like walking death. Her cheekbones were like tent poles under stretched canvas, her lips shrunken to narrow lines of gray. For the last several hours she had walked with one arm tossed over her daughter’s shoulders, vainly attempting to hide her frailty. Michael had already decided that tonight he would ask Bancroft to help him build another stretcher when they made camp.

  Doctors, so the saying went, made the worst patients, and he had a feeling Alexandra would be the most stubborn patient he had ever tried to help. But she weakened with each passing day, and at some point that stubborn pride would have to submit.

  He gestured to Delmar. “Ask them how much farther we have to go.”

  The guide rubbed his smooth chin, then stepped toward the Indians and barked a question.

  The leader held up his hand, all five fingers extended, then folded all his digits but the thumb. “I’m not certain,” Delmar turned to face Michael, “but I think we’re very close. If it is a five-day journey, we’ve covered four-fifths of the distance.”

  “We hope.” Bancroft grunted as he assumed the burden of the travois. “We may not be traveling as fast as hunters who aren’t carrying a load.”

  “My feet have blisters.” Caitlyn, who had kept up without a word of complaint, looked at her mother. “I’m going to have to take my shoes off.”

  Alex lowered her gaze to the ground, and Michael knew she was weighing the risks of walking with bare feet versus the agony of canvas scraping against raw skin. “Okay,” she finally said. “With all the noise we’re making, it’s not likely we’ll encounter a snake on the trail. But watch where you’re stepping. Your feet aren’t tough like the Indians’.”

  Leaning on Alex’s shoulder, Caitlyn slipped her foot out of a sneaker, then peeled off a soiled, bloody sock and held it before her mother’s eyes.

  Alex crinkled her nose. “Put it in your shoe, Cait. We�
�ll clean it later.”

  Grimacing, Caitlyn stuffed the soiled sock into her sneaker. She was about to remove her other shoe when the leaves behind her rustled slightly. Michael’s blood chilled when he glimpsed a painted face in the leaves—another native, this one painted in stripes of red, white, and black.

  “Bancroft,” he called, halting in mid-step. “We’re not alone.”

  A sharp, lonely whistle echoed through the understory and vibrated in the silence.

  “It’s just a toucan,” Caitlyn remarked, pulling off her second sneaker. She looked toward the canopy. “Do you see it anywhere?”

  Michael drew a breath, about to call another warning, but his words fled away when the toucan sounded again and the forest began to bristle. Natives poured out of the woods from every direction, spears at the ready. Wearing nothing but strings around their waists, a score of diminutive men surrounded the traveling party.

  Caitlyn stared with wide eyes as Alexandra drew her close.

  “Down!” Bancroft yelled. “Get down now!”

  Michael obeyed the order, covering his head as he bent in the trail. The warriors from the Angry People lifted their spears in a desperate attempt at defense, but other natives still hidden in the greenery reacted with deadly precision. Each threatening spear was answered with an arrow, and each would-be defender fell before he could launch his weapon.

  Michael waited until the last of their captors lay still. The visible natives said nothing as the trees became conspiratorial, plotting together in whispers.

  “Mom?” Caitlyn’s plaintive cry echoed in the stillness. “Are they going to kill us, too?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” As tense as a cat, Bancroft rose to his feet. He turned to study the circle of invaders, then slowly lifted his hands in the universal position for surrender.

  Following Bancroft’s example, Michael stood from his crouch and raised his arms. “I think we’re going to be fine,” he said, keeping his voice low. “If we are in Keyba territory, this attack was defensive, not aggressive.”

  Delmar stood as well. “The doctor is right.” Walking to the front of the line with his arms extended, he stammered out a greeting in the tongue he’d spoken with the Angry People.

  Slowly, arrows jutting through the greenery lowered. One of the natives, a small man with a sharp profile, came forward and jabbed the earth with his spear.

  Holding both hands to his chest, Delmar addressed the man who had stepped out as leader. Though Michael couldn’t understand what he said, the words proved effective. The unseen archers in the brush— at least a dozen, by Michael’s count, moved onto the makeshift trail. One of them, an older man with grizzled white hair, approached the travois and looked at Shaman’s Wife with pity in his hazel eyes.

  Michael thought Delmar had asked a question of the man with the spear, but he did not answer. All of the natives shifted their attention to the older man, who knelt by the travois, then tenderly lifted the ailing woman’s hand.

  After studying the invalid for a moment, the old man shouted out a question.

  Delmar answered in the same tongue.

  “He asked what we are seeking, and Delmar told him we seek the Tree People,” Emma whispered. She caught Michael’s questioning glance, then shrugged. “At least, I think that’s what he said. Hard to know for sure.”

  “You’re right,” Caitlyn answered. She grinned up at the anthropologist. “I’ve picked up a few words on the way.”

  The old man raised his eyes, then stood and turned slowly, his eyes acknowledging every member of their party. His brown gaze lingered on Alexandra, and Michael found himself wondering what had caught the old man’s attention.

  Apparently satisfied that none of them posed a threat, the old man gestured toward the left. The thirty or so natives led the expedition members through the tangled vines, then spread out on a welltrampled trail.

  As they followed it into the depths of the jungle, for the first time in days Michael breathed deeply, reveling in pure and simple relief.

  17 APRIL 2003

  4:02 P.M.

  Holding tight to her daughter’s hand, Alex followed the others toward a shabono that from the outside looked almost like the one they had left four days earlier. The structures were similar, yet she could see several striking differences. The natives here had cleared a circle of land immediately around the structure to grow fruit trees, including papaya, mangoes, and bananas. One towering tree dominated the field, casting a circle of shade upon the shabono, and fields of knee-high grass covered the open areas between the plants, rippling with the wind like a green sea.

  Emma stared at the field with wide eyes. “It appears they’ve moved from a migrant to an agrarian society. These are orchards, not the sort of crops that are easily abandoned. Amazing.”

  Olsson narrowed his eyes as he studied the crops. “These trees would make it harder for them to defend the shabono, though. They could see an enemy approaching through a flat field, but this?”

  “That’s probably why they had sentinels in the woods,” Bancroft said. “They saw us coming long before we arrived. Obviously, they had time to raise an alarm and assemble a pretty efficient war party.”

  Olsson shrugged. “Still seems an inefficient way to defend a village.”

  Wordlessly, Alex lifted her free hand and pointed toward the fringe of the jungle, where a pair of natives had just stepped out of the dense greenery. Between them, draped over their shoulders, they carried an anaconda that had to be sixteen feet long.

  Emma winked at Caitlyn. “We may be looking at our dinner. But don’t worry—I hear it tastes just like chicken.”

  Caitlyn gulped, then returned Emma’s smile. “I’m hungry enough to eat a snake. I think I’d eat anything anybody gave me.”

  The arrival of newcomers interrupted their discussion. Summoned by whoops from the war party, a band of women and children poured out of the shabono, their faces alert and curious. Careful to maintain their distance from the strangers, they welcomed the men with smiles and shouts.

  Before greeting the women and children, however, each warrior walked toward a small hardwood tree growing outside the shabono. Without speaking, each man hung his bow, quiver, and spear from the tree’s spindly branches, then turned to greet his loved ones.

  Alex caught Emma’s eye. “Aren’t they afraid those things will be stolen?”

  A gentle smile ruffled the anthropologist’s mouth as she watched the odd ritual. “I’ve heard of this ceremony, but I’ve never seen it practiced.”

  “What ceremony?” Caitlyn asked. “Are they decorating the tree?”

  “No—they are letting the tree take their shame. Because those weapons were used today for killing, the men are unclean and unable to touch their wives, their children, or even themselves. Yet when they place their weapons on the tree, the tree accepts their shame, leaving them clean.” She bit her lip as a warrior bent to pick up a small child who had run to greet him. “Rather touching, isn’t it?”

  Alex followed the anthropologist’s gaze. “The strong family structure?”

  Emma shook her head. “The ritual. If Americans could set their guilt aside as easily, I’ve a feeling we could practically clear the appointment books of every therapist in the nation.”

  “These people do seem well-adjusted.” Alex watched as another woman offered her baby to one of the returning warriors. “And healthy.”

  Alex squeezed her daughter’s hand as she stooped to enter the wooden structure. Unlike the home of the Angry People, this shabono had been built much like a seashell—a narrow passageway led around the circular wall, forcing them to walk almost halfway around the shabono before encountering the actual entrance.

  Bancroft grunted his approval. “This is clever.”

  Alex squinted at him. “What’s so clever about making us walk another fifty yards?”

  A grudging smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “An intruder would not only have to kill the sentry at the opening,
but once the alarm was raised, he’d have to fight his way through every available man before reaching the women and children.”

  “Oh.” Feeling stupid, Alex lowered her head. Her brain had not been functioning as it should, but whether her dullness resulted from fatigue or illness, she couldn’t say.

  But the others had noticed her increasing weakness. Several times she’d caught Kenway looking at her with concern, and soon he’d be prying even more deeply into her affairs.

  Once they reached the inside, the warriors who had escorted them shed the last vestiges of their wariness. Leaving the foreigners in the center of the shabono, the women returned to their fires, the children to the small enclosures that afforded the families a bit of privacy. The men gathered in small groups, patting each other on the back as if congratulating themselves on a mission accomplished.

  Alex and her companions sank to the sandy ground around the communal fire. The women who tended the flames seemed healthy enough—though they were thin, Alex could see no signs of malnutrition or skin disease. Many of the women in the tribe had lustrous hair cascading past their waistlines; several worked with chubby infants nursing in the crook of an arm.

  “I don’t know much about these things,” Alex leaned toward Emma, “but I’d say this tribe’s infant mortality rate is quite a bit lower than that of the Angry People. Have you noticed how many small children are scampering about?”

  Emma bent her knees, then linked her arms around them. “The entire village is more balanced, but I’m not sure I understand why. Two groups separated by only a few miles and speaking the same language should share the same quality of life. Given the unique color of their eyes, I’m certain they sprang from the same tribe, but what made them split? Most of the native groups in this area are nomadic; they tend to splinter when food becomes scarce or an enemy threatens.”