The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  “Mom?” Caitlyn joined him. “Where are you?”

  “Look up!”

  Slowly, Michael turned to see Alex descending from the kapok, her bare feet wrapped in prusik knots, her arms strong and steady on one of the vines Olsson had left behind. Without pausing to think, Michael ran toward the gnarled tree.

  He had just hurdled one of the largest roots when Alexandra jumped from the vine, ripped the prusik loops from her feet, and ran to meet them. She threw her arms around her daughter, squeezed her tightly, then leaned back and gripped the girl’s narrow shoulders. “I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my life!”

  “Mom?” Caitlyn’s voice came out as a feeble squeak.

  “What, honey?”

  “Don’t ever go climbing trees in the dark again.”

  A glow rose in Alexandra’s face, as though she contained a candle that had just been lit.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie, if I scared you. But I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

  Stunned by the health and happiness glowing on Alexandra’s face, Michael stared at her without speaking.

  With one hand still holding her daughter’s, she turned to face him. “Thank God you’re here. I was afraid I’d miss you.”

  “Miss us?” He could manage nothing more; his mind had gone idiotic with surprise.

  “Yes.” She bit her lip as she glanced at her daughter. “I fell asleep. In the nest, I’m fairly sure I fell into a coma. Yet the sun woke me up, and though I knew what would happen and how it would happen, I didn’t know what day it was. For a moment, I was afraid Delmar had already led you out.”

  “We’re still here.”

  Her thin cheek curved in a smile. “Thank God you’re still here.”

  Caught up in a wave of some emotion Michael hadn’t expected, Alexandra pressed her hand to the back of his neck. Her touch sent shooting stars down his spine, and when she kissed him, his hands slipped up her arms, bringing her closer.

  “Go, Mom!” Caitlyn cheered from the sidelines.

  Almost embarrassed at the surge of happiness jetting through him, Michael pulled away and stared at the miracle in his arms.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze as soft as a caress. “You were right. About everything.”

  “Just a moment, please.” Unwilling to release her, Michael kept a firm grip on her arm as he tipped his head back to study the tree canopy. “Last night you could barely walk. How in the world—”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.” She bent to kiss the top of her daughter’s head, then squeezed Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Run into the shabono, honey, and tell Mr. Bancroft I need to speak to him. It’s important.”

  “Okay.” As the grinning girl sprinted away, Michael turned to face Alex. “Answers, please. I feel like a complete wally.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “An idiot. Please, Alexandra, explain yourself.”

  Her happy expression faded to calm sobriety. “Last night, the shaman found me in the jungle. I don’t know how he managed it, but that wiry old man tied me onto his back and carried me up the tree— you must have given him the idea. Somehow he knew I was sick . . . and he knew I was ready for healing.”

  Unnerved by the sudden change in the woman, Michael stared at her for a moment, then broke eye contact, his gaze drifting off to safer territory. “How’d he know how to find you?”

  A shy smile crept into her voice. “I met Yai Pada last night. I went into the jungle to die, and I would have died there if not for Yai Pada. I was lying in the jungle, unable to move and in all kinds of pain from the evil spirits—”

  “What evil spirits?”

  “From Alejandro Delmar.” Her dark, earnest eyes sought his. “He intends to kill all of us in the jungle, Michael. We’ve got to stop him.”

  He took a half step back. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He told me himself.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Alex,” Michael drew a deep breath, “last night Delmar was with me and Bancroft, searching for you. We never ventured more than a few feet into the trees.”

  “He was with me, in spirit form. I know it sounds unscientific, but I saw him, smelled him, felt him.” Her voice scraped as if she were laboring to speak, but her words began to come faster. “He’s a shaman, but he’s nothing like the shaman of this village. He has power—I saw it, I experienced it. And he wants to kill all of us so no one will ever come to this village again. He’s afraid of missionaries; he’s afraid someone will teach the people more about Yai Pada.”

  For an instant he feared she had suffered some sort of mental breakdown in the night, but the woman he held in his grip was nothing like the weakened patient he had argued with only hours before. Like Shaman’s Wife, she was still thin, but health had been restored to that emaciated frame. And if God could heal her body through the miracle of faith, surely he could heal her mind and spirit.

  “Okay,” he whispered, drawing her into the circle of his arms. “Relax. We’re not going to say anything now; Delmar would only deny it. But we’ll watch him on the trail. We’ll warn Bancroft. We’ll be fine, Alex. We’ll be ready.”

  She tipped her head back to study his face. What she saw in his eyes must have convinced her he spoke the truth, because a moment later she lowered her head in a sober nod. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “The old shaman. I’m almost positive the exertion of the climb brought on a heart attack. When I woke up this morning, he was sitting beside me in the nest . . . but he had no pulse.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Michael. If I had known what would happen, I would never have let him make the climb.”

  Pain squeezed Michael’s heart as he thought of the wise old man who had done so much for his people . . . and his uninvited guests. “He did what he wanted to do, Alexandra . . . for you.”

  Raking his hand through his hair, Michael squinted at the shabono and wondered how he would explain a dead shaman to the people of Keyba Village.

  21 APRIL 2003

  9:03 A.M.

  Alex’s cheeks burned under the pressure of dozens of pairs of eyes. After greeting her at the base of the kapok, Michael had escorted her into the shabono, where he approached the shaman’s enclosure and spoke to the shaman’s son. Delmar had approached, his eyes narrowed, and though the sight of him sent ghost spiders crawling along the back of Alex’s neck, she said nothing as he translated Michael’s horrible news.

  The old shaman was dead. His body rested in the keyba.

  The shaman’s son issued orders; a few moments later several men approached the tree with climbing ropes. Alex, Emma, and Caitlyn joined the quiet villagers who waited while the men scaled the tree, then lowered the old man’s lifeless body by means of a twisted vine.

  The shaman’s body now lay next to the fire, where weeping women were bathing the corpse and preparing it for burial. The men of the tribe sat in a circle around the women while the shaman’s son sat in the place his father had once occupied.

  Unfortunately, Delmar sat at his right hand. When the tracker looked directly at Alex for the first time that morning, hatred flickered in his eyes like heat lightning.

  The shaman’s son sat without speaking, his face stony and blank. Michael had delivered the hard news about the man’s death, now Alex had to provide an explanation.

  She stepped forward, distancing herself from her companions, for she alone bore the responsibility for what had happened.

  Though she had been perspiring all day in the tropical heat, her hands suddenly felt damper, slick with the cool, sour sweat of fear.

  She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and met the young man’s gaze. “Your father,” she said, speaking slowly so Delmar could translate without her having to look at him, “was a very great man. When I was sick, he took pity on me and carried me into the
keyba. Though he was strong, the climb was hard, and he had lived many seasons. When I opened my eyes in the healing light this morning, the shaman . . . was dead.”

  The younger man closed his eyes, squeezing them so tight his face seemed to collapse on itself. Alex looked away, unable to bear the sight of his forced stoicism. She knew very little about these people, and had no idea how—or if—they would hold her responsible for what had happened.

  No longer translating, Delmar continued to whisper into the young man’s ear. The shaman’s son recoiled, then he glanced at Delmar with suspicion in his eyes.

  Increasingly uneasy, Alex glanced at Emma. “Can you guess what he’s saying?”

  “He didn’t translate accurately.” Caitlyn spoke up, glaring at Delmar. “He said you bewitched the shaman and killed him. He says you have an evil spirit, and everyone knows this. Last night you did not rejoice with the others when they called on Yai Pada Son. He says you went up the keyba to steal the shaman’s life, for you were the one about to die.”

  “He lies!” Alex looked around the circle of natives, searching for an ally, but nearly every face mirrored the expression of distrust worn by the shaman’s son.

  Alex reached for Caitlyn’s hand. “Speak for me, Cait. Tell them what I said—they have to know what really happened.”

  “A child has no right to speak.” Delmar barked the objection, and something like smugness entered his face as he stared at Alex. “You must take her and leave this place at once. We must all go and leave these people in peace.”

  Michael stepped to Alex’s side. “We’re not going yet. Let Alexandra have her say.”

  Delmar tossed a smirk in Caitlyn’s direction. “Children do not speak in tribal council. And this is only a girl—”

  “She is a very gifted young lady.” Michael’s hands fell on Caitlyn’s shoulders. “What do you think she’s been doing during our time here? She’s been learning the language. So if she wants to speak for her mother, I think you should let her.”

  Olsson gestured toward Emma. “You speak some Yagua. Can you interpret?”

  Slowly, the older woman shook her head. “I don’t pick up things as easily as I used to. But from what I can tell, Caitlyn’s telling the absolute truth.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Bancroft growled, crossing his beefy arms as he glared down at Delmar. “Let the kid talk.”

  Speaking slowly in her lilting voice, Caitlyn uttered a string of words in the tongue of Keyba Village. The natives looked at one another as she continued, and when their eyes filled with amazement, Alex couldn’t tell if they had been surprised by Caitlyn’s gift with language or with the content of her speech.

  When she had finished, the shaman’s son turned to murmur to the native sitting next to him, then he lifted his voice and addressed the gathering.

  All noise ceased as a balloon of quiet but intense attention centered on Alex. She looked to Caitlyn for the translation. “He says,” she whispered, “that everyone can see that you now honor Yai Pada. You were sick and now you are well. The Great Spirit of the keyba does not allow one person to steal health from another; that is not his way. He is not like Omawa, who lies and kills.”

  Feeling the sting of tears in her eyes, Alex lifted her eyes to address the shaman’s son. “Last night my body was sick, my spirit was dark. I went in the jungle to die. When I could no longer bear the pain, I cried out to Yai Pada Son—” she avoided Delmar’s gaze—“and he came to me in light and warmth.”

  She paused, looking around the circle of expectant faces as Caitlyn translated. “After that, your shaman came to me and offered his help. Though my spirit had light, my body was still weak. So your shaman tied me to his back and walked up the tree with me.”

  She hesitated as the next words filled her mind. Though they felt undeniably right, they contained a mystery she had not yet begun to understand.

  Perhaps she was not meant to understand everything . . . yet. But God had spared her, and she would learn. She had a lifetime to learn.

  “Just like Yai Pada,” she continued, “who became a man and died to remove our shame, your shaman carried me to the keyba and gave his life to heal my sickness. Now I am well, and his spirit is with Yai Pada.” She looked at the fire, gazing beyond it into the future. “One day I will see your shaman in Yai Pada’s bright land, and I will honor him for his sacrifice.”

  The shaman’s son had not moved during her answer, but at the conclusion of Caitlyn’s translation his chin quivered and his eyes went glassy with tears. Inclining his head in a curt nod, he spoke again. At the conclusion of his speech the warriors turned to pluck bows, arrows, and spears from the walls of the shabono.

  Alex drew a deep breath to still her storming heart. “Cait, what are they doing?”

  A sly smile curved Caitlyn’s mouth as Alejandro Delmar stood and stalked out of the shabono. “They are preparing to enforce the shaman’s order. He told Delmar to leave at once because he is an enemy of Keyba Village.”

  The young shaman’s hazel eyes found and locked on Alex’s. “You speak truth,” he said through Caitlyn’s interpretation, “’because last night the spirit of Yai Pada came to me in a dream. I saw the hawk taking my father’s spirit to the land of Yai Pada. When I awakened, I stepped outside to see the shining men in white guarding the base of the keyba.”

  “Shining men?” Alex glanced at Michael. “Are they from some other tribe?”

  Smiling, Michael reached out and took her hand. “I’ll explain later.”

  21 APRIL 2003

  9:30 A.M.

  Cursing Keyba Village with every breath, Delmar pressed into the jungle, occasionally glancing upward to gauge the rays of the sun. He would walk northward, skirting the lands of the Angry People, and he would reach the black water lake before the ignorant nabas. He would send his spirits to act as scouts, and he would lie in wait for them. When they finally came, in two days or three or four, he would kill them with bows he would fashion out of vines and green wood.

  He would make paralyzing darts from the inayuga palm and a knife from a sharp fish fin. When the nabas lay helpless at his feet, he would find Alexandra Pace and cut out her heart, sending her to the faraway land of the one she called Yai Pada.

  Moving with a stealthy step, he called on Jaguar spirit to speed his journey. He would need time to set his traps for the nabas, time to think about how he would kill them in order to send the most graphic message to other outsiders who might invade this territory.

  He increased his pace, moving through the jungle like a shadow, dodging limbs and leaping over tangled roots. Jaguar spirit gave him speed, and the spirit of the hawk helped his feet take flight.

  His mouth twisted in irritated humor. The nabas probably thought they had defeated him, but this unexpected turn of events would actually work in his favor. Killing them on the journey back would have been difficult—he might have managed to make one or two of the killings look like accidents, but they were clever people. They wouldn’t have been fooled for long.

  Now, however, he would have the advantage of surprise . . . and time to plan.

  Content in the thought of his coming victory, he summoned Deer spirit, one of the slyest and most charming spirits he had ever entertained. She came to him on a ray of light, dancing before his eyes as he loped through the jungle.

  “My beloved friend,” she crooned, a smile lighting her narrow face. “You think you have done well?”

  “I have.” He ran faster to demonstrate how relaxed and invincible he felt. “I will kill the outsiders at the lake and drag their bodies to a well-traveled spot. Then everyone will know it is not safe to venture onto this island.”

  Deer spirit’s smile lit her brown eyes, glowing beneath long silken fringes. “You think this will stop nabas from visiting the Angry People?”

  “I do.”

  “You think these killings will stop the people of Keyba Village from seeking Yai Wana Naba Laywa?”

  “It will. They will f
orget what the nabas have told them about the one they call Yai Pada.”

  Her mouth curved in a smile, and something moved in her velvet eyes. “You are a foolish, stupid man.”

  Before Delmar could react, something smacked him from behind, cracking against his skull and filling his ears with the dull thump of a hand against a drum. He pitched forward and landed on his wrist.

  For a moment all color ran out of the jungle and the screech of the parrots faded, then indignation fired his blood. What had happened? Why would Deer spirit turn on him?

  He pushed himself up, then winced as a screaming sort of pain shot from the inside of his right wrist all the way up his arm. Looking down, he saw that his hand bent at an unnatural angle—he had broken it in the fall.

  Pulling his wounded arm to his chest, he looked up to address the spirits around him. “What have I done?”

  “You have led the outsiders to our place,” Deer spirit hissed.

  Jaguar spirit growled deep in his throat. “You have let the woman find healing.”

  “You have allowed them to speak of Yai Wana Naba Laywa.”

  “You have opened the doors to the land. Others will come.”

  A murky red mist churned across the floor of the jungle, obliterating the moss and carpet of wet leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a thunderclap exploded, its baritone rumble fading slowly in the distance.

  Delmar sat still as rain began to tap against the leaves, whispering through the jungle. “They will not come, I promise,” he called. “Help me trap them, and we can make sure they will not come again. They will fear you, and they will stay away.”

  “The people who follow Yai Wana Naba Laywa fear nothing.” Deer spirit spoke in a voice filled with quiet menace. “You were a fool to bring them here.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “We are finished with you.”

  “No!” Delmar shrieked, but the slashing rain muffled his voice. Blinking against the water in his eyes, he struggled to stand.