by Angela Hunt
Excusing himself with a gentle tap on his chest, the old man stood and shuffled away. Alex sighed heavily, then swallowed hard and forced herself to think like a researcher, not a desperate patient. She might be working in a Stone Age village without tools, electricity, or her full strength, but at least she was working in a field ripe for the harvest. Prion diseases were on the rise throughout the world, and out of all the groups on earth, only these people claimed to have met the disease and conquered it . . .
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at her companions. Time was running out. She was traveling with dedicated scientists, but they would want to head back to civilization after a few days, if only to arrange additional trips to this part of the jungle.
So . . . if she had come to the end of her life, at least she was surrounded by other researchers who shared her thirst for knowledge and willingly shared their expertise. She was with her daughter, and she’d found a friend—an opinionated, overly religious male friend, but someone she could trust.
She turned to find Michael’s eyes resting on her, alight with speculation. “Are you all right?”
She lowered her gaze. “Right as rain, Doc. Just . . . indulging in a bit of personal assessment.”
“Can I help?”
“Tend to your patient, Kenway. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me . . . except maybe one thing.”
“What do you need?”
A choked, desperate laugh escaped her. “Aside from a cure, at least a dozen drugs, and hope, I don’t need much.” As tears threatened, she pressed her hand over her face, not willing that the others should see her despair. “You’ve become a good friend to Caitlyn. I appreciate that.”
“She’s a delightful girl.”
Pressing her lips together, Alex nodded. “If I shouldn’t make it out of here . . . or if I’m in a coma . . . will you take her back to Atlanta?”
A tiny flicker of shock widened his eyes. “You’ll make it out, Alexandra. If I have to carry you personally, I promise you’ll make it out.”
She lifted her hand, unwilling to listen. “You can’t promise me anything like that. My disease seems to be on a fast track. I don’t know if it’s been exacerbated by the tropics, a weakened immune system, or my own exposure to prions in the lab, but I’m . . . w-w-weaker than I should be at this stage.”
She dredged the admission from a place beyond independence and pride. Looking away in a rictus of embarrassment, she let her eyes follow Caitlyn, who was teaching a group of children how to count on their fingers, numbering their digits in the Indian language.
She laughed. “Know what? I’m actually glad you found out about me. Before we left the States, I thought I might be entering the early stages and that realization only goaded me forward. I thought I had months to keep working, but. . .” She shrugged as words failed. “Sometimes life cheats us. I’ve done all I can to stay in the game, but it appears we’ve reached a d-d-dead end.”
“No, no, you’re so wrong.” Crossing his legs, Michael leaned toward her, his face a study in earnestness. “This isn’t the end, we don’t ever reach the end, don’t you see? Even death is not final, for there’s heaven after that, and eternity—”
“For you believers.”
“Yes.” His voice softened. “For believers.”
“Say no more, Doc, I know where you think I’ll be going. I don’t happen to agree, but at the moment I’m not in the mood to discuss fire and brimstone. What I want is your promise to see Caitlyn s-s-safely to Atlanta. I’ll give you the name and phone number of my exhusband’s parents—they have agreed to serve as Caitlyn’s guardians should anything happen to me. It’s all spelled out in my will, but if I go into a coma, I don’t want Caitlyn languishing in some hospital waiting room. We can say our good-byes, then I want her to move on with her life.”
She pushed stray tendrils of hair away from her cheek, then met his stunned gaze. “Think you can h-h-handle that?”
He nodded. “I can. And I will.”
“Thanks.” She lowered her hands to the ground, about to push herself up, but he caught her trembling arms. “Not so fast. While I see your reasoning and admire your concern for your daughter, I can’t believe you are giving up when we are so close to the answer. It’s here, Alexandra, I know there’s something here. Look around—there’s not a single sign of shuddering disease in this village, and I saw several patients at the other tribe who could have been in the early stages.”
“You wouldn’t see signs of the disease in a bus stop in Piccadilly Square, either, but that doesn’t mean there’s a c-c-cure nearby.”
“Don’t you believe Ya-ree’s story?”
She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Didn’t you just hear the shaman say there’s no hope for this woman? Your patient was delusional. You believe his story because you want to believe it. You want to find a cure for the disease that k-killed your wife.”
“I want to find a cure for you.”
His words hung there, shimmering in the space between them, and Alex didn’t know how to respond. Rather than face the emotion in his eyes, she pushed herself up and moved away.
This time he let her go.
Oblivious to her personal drama, the others of her team had apparently been caught up in the spirit of industriousness permeating the village. The men of the shabono were gathering bows and arrows—for a hunt, she presumed. The women were feeding their babies, while older children gathered in small groups and picked up baskets before going out into the field. Following Caitlyn, who had picked up a basket of her own, Alex walked through the alana to the orchard, where a blazing sun threatened to parch the long grasses between the trees.
Baklanov was squatting near the entrance to the shabono, a smear of brown sand on his palm. “This will do,” he said, tossing her a quick glance. “As a culture medium, I think it will work.”
“Good.” She would have said more, but a lump had lodged in her throat. Moving past him on legs as wobbly as a newborn calf ’s, she walked toward Olsson, who stood at the base of the towering kapok tree.
She couldn’t help but notice Bancroft as she tottered across the field. He stood a few feet away from the shabono with his arms crossed, probably scanning the area for signs of the Angry People.
Alex shivered in a momentary panic as her mind brushed against the possibility of an attack. The other tribe certainly had good reason to assemble a war party—the nabas had left with their shaman’s woman and six warriors; eventually their scouts would find the dead men’s bodies in the brush. That would bring trouble, Emma had assured her, because among indigenous people, revenge followed bloodshed as surely as darkness followed the setting sun.
The wind scissored the grass at Alex’s feet, an unexpected and pleasant sensation, for wind rarely penetrated the dense canopy that had covered them for days. Moving with brittle dignity, she crossed the grassy field and stood in the shadow of the giant tree. With her hands on her hips, she lifted her face to the sun, squinting as she looked up through the lacy branches far above her head.
Could these people actually climb the tree? It hardly seemed possible that anyone could scale such a towering height, especially when they had no climbing tools. And the tree was far from uninhabited— insect nests hung from its branches, epiphytes grew from crevices in its trunk, and who knew what sort of creatures the knotholes sheltered?
But Delmar had first used the word approach, so perhaps they performed some ritual here among the roots . . .
She jumped when Olsson touched her shoulder.
“Sorry.” A grin flashed through his beard. “It is fascinating, yes?”
She lifted her chin to stare at the tree again. “Do you think Delmar understood the shaman correctly? Do these people actually c-c-climb this tree?”
He looked at her, his eyes curious, but he was too polite to remark upon her sudden stuttering. “Not terribly likely. It would require a marathon effort.”
She wondered if he could tell
that merely walking to the tree had been a marathon effort on her part.
Looking up, she shaded her eyes with her hand. “What can you tell me about the kapok, Milos?”
The botanist’s face brightened at the question. He stepped closer to one of the gigantic roots, then jerked his chin toward the field, where the shaman was mingling with a group of native women. “I don’t know how he uses the tree, but a tribe I visited in Africa used the kapok’s seeds, leaves, bark, and resin to treat dysentery, fevers, venereal diseases, asthma, and kidney problems.” He gripped one of the gnarled roots that rose nearly three feet out of the ground. “The kapok is a beneficial tree. It can also be a lifesaver for a thirsty man who cannot find water.”
“How’s that?”
Bending down, he tugged on a slender root snaking away from a thicker growth in the soil. “See this?” With a mighty yank, he pulled the smaller root free of the earth, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a knife.
Alex drew in her breath. “I thought we had no—”
“The knife is Kenway’s. I asked if I could borrow it to take samples. I had to promise not to let the shaman see it, though.”
Instinctively, Alex moved to block the line of sight between the botanist and the shaman. Emma had tried to explain why it was dangerous to upset the balance of power between tribes by the introduction of modern weapons, but Alex didn’t think the sight of one knife would exacerbate the hostile relationship between the healing tribe and the Angry People. Besides, the Angry People had looted their camp in the attack—they would find all sorts of objects that could serve as weapons once they figured out how to use them.
“Look here.” Olsson sliced through the root, then tilted it downward as a stream of clear water spilled onto the soil. “Excellent, yes? Filtered H2O, straight from Mother Nature’s tap.”
Alex stared, her mind working. “Has that water ever been analyzed?”
“Why? It’s just water.”
“But what if it c-c-contains . . . something extra?”
She pressed her hands to her forehead, pushing back her hair as her mind probed the possibilities. Water from this tree, pulled from the soil through the roots, could contain a microscopic organism, an enzyme, or a virus that forced prions to shut down. If these people drank water from the tree regularly, they could climb trees day and night, but the water would be keeping them healthy.
She reached into her pocket, then groaned when she remembered that she’d lost her notebook and pen in the attack. She desperately needed to record these ideas before other thoughts pushed them into a diseased corner of her brain. Remembering was hard enough when one was pushing forty; it was far more difficult when brain cells began to fire only sporadically.
She needed to bounce these theories off Michael. He’d remember what she couldn’t, and he might offer other insights.
After thanking Olsson for the demonstration, she began to make her way back to the village. Her knees wobbled atop her calves, and her ankles felt as though the ligaments in them had suddenly gone soft.
“Are you all right?” Olsson’s voice followed her.
“F-f-fine,” she called, not looking back. “Just a bit weary.”
The subject of a previous conversation flooded her mind. The shaman had said that everyone in this village was born with sickness. If this statement was accurate, how had he determined that prion diseases could be transmitted from mother to child? His conclusion agreed with Alex’s, but she’d been studying for years and he was an unschooled native.
On the other hand, what if his supposition was incorrect? The children here looked healthy, so he could be completely wrong. Then again, because most prion diseases incubated for years, he could be telling the truth about children whose brains bore the evidence of prion damage even now.
When she altered her course, turning toward Delmar and the shaman instead of the shabono, she saw that a small crowd had gathered in the center of the field. She had planned to ask the old man if anyone in this tribe had ever grown to a healthy old age without approaching the kapok, but the shaman had lifted one hand and was chanting in a singsong voice. His free hand rested on a young boy’s shoulder, a pair of smiling parents stood nearby, and for an instant Alex was reminded of the last time she had gone to church. While an American set of parents beamed, the pastor had climbed down from the pulpit to congratulate a young girl on her decision to join the body of Christ.
Alex halted in mid-step, her mind racing. Was this a similar sort of ceremony? She knew most tribes celebrated coming-of-age ceremonies for both boys and girls, so it would be natural for this tribe to work their veneration of the keyba into a similar ritual.
Delmar stood at a respectful distance behind the shaman, and Emma hovered at his side, her ear bent toward the guide’s lips as he attempted to translate. Skirting the growing crowd, Alex joined them and said nothing until the shaman had finished speaking to the assembled villagers, the parents, and then the child.
“What’s happening?” She looked from Emma to Delmar. “Did the boy kill his first monkey or something?”
Smiling, Delmar yielded to Emma’s authority.
“It’s quite interesting, actually,” Emma said, her eyes shining. “The boy has decided he is ready to approach the keyba. He will do it tonight.”
Alex looked at the boy, a thin child of not more than nine or ten years. “Why, he’ll kill himself if he tries to climb that tree!”
“He doesn’t look worried.” Emma gestured toward the young couple by his side. “His parents don’t appear overly concerned, either.”
“He also doesn’t look sick,” Michael noted. “I see no signs of tremors or unsteady gait, do you?”
Studying the child, Alex had to agree with Kenway’s assessment. She’d love to conduct a thorough examination, but without equipment, the effort would be wasted.
Delmar called a question to the shaman, who slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and called out his response. Together, the shaman and the boy began to walk toward the tree.
The interpreter lowered his voice as the crowd shifted to follow the pair. “I asked him if the boy was in danger. He says no one has ever died approaching the keyba. The Great Spirit would not allow such a thing.”
Emma’s mouth pursed in a tiny rosette, then unpuckered enough to ask, “Does this Great Spirit have a name?”
Delmar shook his head. “None they will pronounce to an outsider.”
“Right.” Emma’s voice took on a note of ruefulness. “Names have sacred power, I know.”
Alex snorted softly. “This Great Spirit must have quite a bag of tricks.”
Delmar squinted in thought. “Perhaps later we shall have the honor of seeing what they are.”
The sun was yet an hour from setting, Alex estimated, when the villagers trooped out of the shabono for the final part of the ceremony. After the child’s initial request, the shaman and the boy’s parents had walked over to look at the massive tree—for inspiration?—before returning to the shabono for feasting, dancing, and the all-important body paint.
As the sun slanted westward, a pair of men stood at the base of the kapok and beat on the drumlike roots, sending the thumping sounds over the fields and deep into the jungle. Alex kept glancing toward the dense forest, wondering if the sound would draw emissaries from the Angry People, but the shaman seemed oblivious to the danger.
The boy, elaborately “dressed” in stripes on his face, chest, arms, and legs, stood between his doting parents while men from the village danced in a wide circle around the tree. As the dancers jumped in joyous ecstasy, the boy lifted his chin and approached the tree dragging a twisted vine that had to be at least twenty feet long.
With one hand resting on Caitlyn’s shoulder, Alex caught her breath as she marveled at the boy’s ingenuity. Instead of hanging from a rope as she and her companions had in their tree climbing, the boy positioned the vine around the wide tree, then stood at its base holding both ends. Placing his feet f
lat upon the tree’s rough bark, he leaned forward and embraced the tree, then jerked the length of rope upward. As the rope clung to the rough bark, the boy leaned back and used the force of gravity on his body to hold the rope in place.
While Alex watched, the gangly boy continued embracing the tree and moving upward, inch by inch, crying out with the victory of each upward motion. Her arms ached in sympathy as she imagined the effort each movement required. Only sheer strength—and determination— could allow a child to climb a tree in that manner.
A child suffering from a prion disease could never have managed it.
“That kid must have arms of steel,” Olsson quipped, shielding his eyes as he watched the boy maneuver around a wasps’ nest. “But I can see how that sort of climb would be easier for children. With their lower body weight, they do not have as much to lift.”
“I can see why they call it walking the tree,” Emma remarked. “At the beginning, did you see how he braced himself with his feet? It is almost as if he is walking up the side of the trunk.”
Alex said nothing as she watched the boy reach the first horizontal branch. Shouting in exultation, he tied his climbing vine onto the branch, then tested several of the hanging lianas until he found one that would hold his weight. He then climbed like Tarzan, disappearing into the foliage of the lower branches.
Alex waited, her stomach clenched tight, and strained her ears for his exultant yelps. Yet the sounds of his voice grew fainter as the shadows lengthened, and by the time the sunset had spread itself like a peacock’s tail over the horizon, the boy’s cries had faded to a twilight silence.
Alex glanced at Kenway, who was staring up at the tree’s crown with disbelief and concern. “Do you think something happened to him?”
His face remained serious, but one corner of his mouth curled in an irrepressible grin. “By George, I think he’s done it.”
“But we haven’t heard anything. It’s much too quiet up there.”
He lowered his gaze, and something in his eyes softened. “I shouldn’t worry about that boy. They train from a young age, didn’t the shaman say so? I imagine the lad’s knackered after all that. Probably ready for a bit of a rest.”
