The Canopy

by Angela Hunt

  “Watch me! Give me speed, and I will run to set a trap. Give me strength and I will kill all of them, I will—”

  Something smacked him in the face, sending a shower of lights sparking through his head like a swarm of fireflies. Tasting blood in his mouth, he lifted his head and stumbled backward into a tree.

  “You love me!” Lifting his good hand, he curled it into a fist and shook it at the spirits whirling around him. “For years you have begged me to keep you close, and I have been good to you! How can you do this now?”

  The only answer was another blow, one that slammed into the side of his head and sent a spray of darkness across the backs of his eyes. He leaned sideways, pressing his uninjured hand to his face as something clubbed the back of his neck.

  He would have fallen if he had not decided to run. Sheer momentum carried him forward, but there was no escaping the voices buzzing in his ear, the horrific visions flitting before his blurry eyes.

  “You are finished!”

  “You are weak!”

  “You are old and foolish!”

  “You are a stupid excuse for a shaman!”

  Still he ran, sweat and blood soaking the hair of his chest and staining his T-shirt. Something moved the air at his right. He ducked in time to avoid another blow, this one aimed at his eyes. “I have not failed you!”

  “Liar!”

  “Stupid!”

  Gasping in panic and disbelief, he raced ahead, squirming through the wet foliage, until a low hiss filled his ear and turned his blood to ice.

  The Serpent spirit.

  Heated silver fangs sliced through the air and entered his eyes, sending blinding white pain through his head. As a scream clawed at the back of his throat, Delmar pressed his hands to his face, stumbling backward as a series of new thoughts entered his wounded brain:

  Liars. Murderers. Thieves.

  His spirits had been false all along.

  He would have screamed this opinion, but Deer spirit, the charming one who had entered his heart as a small boy and had been his best friend ever since, chose that moment to idly tap his chest, knocking him off balance and sending him backward into a nest of carnivore ants.

  In the moment before his writhing body stilled into paralysis, Delmar shrieked a curse upon the spirits of the jungle.

  17 OCTOBER 2003

  10:00 A.M.

  Bracing himself for the heat, Michael stepped through the double doors of the hospital and turned north to walk up Calle Ricardo Palma. Walking through the heavy, humid air often felt like pressing one’s way through wet wool, but the locals were right—in time, you did get used to it.

  Slipping his hands into his pockets, he whistled a tune as he strode over the cracked sidewalks of Iquitos, nodding to several passersby who shot curious glances in his direction. The constant putt-putt and honking of the motor karros filled his ears, and within two minutes a shoeshine boy was dogging his steps. “Limpio los zapatos, señor?”

  “Ahora no, gracias.” He gave the kid a sole and moved on.

  After reaching the Hotel Victoria Regia, he stepped into the lobby and shivered in the air conditioning. The Victoria Regia, the crown jewel of Iquitos, even offered air conditioning in its guest rooms.

  He nodded to the pretty brunette behind the desk. “Señora Pace, por favor.”

  Smiling, the young woman turned to ring Alexandra’s room. A few moments later Caitlyn raced into the lobby, then jumped up to throw her arms around his neck.

  “Hello, Cait! I think you’re two inches taller!”

  The girl immediately dropped her arms and smoothed her blouse, settling down to a more ladylike demeanor. “Not quite. But I have been doing more than growing.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve been studying Portuguese.”

  Michael glanced toward the elevator, saw no sign of Alexandra, then gave the girl a smile. “Lovely. We’ll have to take you to Brazil sometime.”

  “Can we go there on the honeymoon? Please?”

  He lifted a brow. “Um, no. The honeymoon is in London, where my mother is dying to spoil you with biscuits and scones. Your mother and I will be in Scotland, which is right around—”

  His thought dissolved into nothingness as the elevator doors slid open and Alex stepped into the lobby. Though only two weeks had passed since he’d last seen her, the sudden sight of her still stole his breath away. Her sleeveless white cotton dress flattered her endlessly, and he could see that health had restored the curve to her cheek and . . . well, all the proper places.

  Smiling, she came forward and slid into his arms, then kissed him. When she pulled away, Michael cleared his throat, pretending that her touch didn’t affect every atom of his being. “Sorry,” he began, unable to stop one hand from reaching out to stroke her arm, “that I wasn’t able to meet you at the airport.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Even her voice was stronger now, fuller and more alluring. “I think I’m beginning to feel quite at home in Iquitos.”

  Stepping back to look at her, he found himself at a loss for words.

  “What’s the matter, Doc?” She gave him a perfect smile. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Something like that.” Smiling, he nodded toward the street. “Shall we go? Everyone at the hospital is desperate to meet you, and Fortuna will have my head if we don’t go there first—”

  Alex caught his arm, her fascinating smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Before we go, I wanted you to see this.” Reaching into the leather bag at her shoulder, she pulled out a stapled document and presented it to him.

  He scanned the title: An Analysis of Variant Kuru (VK-TSE), a transmissible spongiform encephalopathy discovered in the native population of northeastern Amazonia, by Dr. Michael Kenway and Dr. Alexandra Pace.

  He shook his head. “You didn’t have to put my name first.”

  “Yes, I did. If not for you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Taking the manuscript, he flipped through the pages, then paused at the abstract on page one:

  After significant study and months of research, the authors have discovered that indigenous populations in the vicinity were infected with prions through oral ingestion and/or placental migration at birth. The original source of the infection is unknown, but animals that are no longer common in the area are possible suspects.

  The alarming rate of infection—nearly 100 percent of the local population—resulted in the near decimation of a tribe known as the Angry People. A neighboring tribe, however, Keyba Village, found a cure in Ceiba pentandra, commonly known as the kapok tree. The method of implementation remains an area of some dispute, for treatment does not prove effective with every patient.

  This research project opens new windows into prevailing philosophies regarding whole-patient treatment. For patients who agree with the kapok cure in mind, body, and spirit, the success rate is 100 percent. Successful treatment not only results in a halt of the disease’s symptoms, but a complete restoration of health.

  Conclusion: One particular Ceiba pentandra heals infected natives who climb it in faith. Science alone does not hold the answer to the cure’s effectiveness, and more work in the field is needed, particularly regarding the importance of undeniable links between the mind, spirit, and body. It is the authors’ opinion that this work will teach physicians and researchers to think of patients not as bodies to be treated, but as complete persons with mental, emotional, and spiritual needs.

  Lowering the pages, Michael met Alexandra’s gaze. “So . . . is there a Nobel prize in this for us?”

  She chuckled softly as she linked her arm through his. “Not likely. Though it would make a nice wedding present.”

  A knot rose in his throat as he lost himself in her gaze. In the weeks following their initial canopy experience, the frostiness and fear that had so often occupied her eyes completely melted away. They had even climbed into the canopy again, with Caitlyn, and the following morning the three of them greeted the sunrise together. />
  And as he watched Cait thrill to the Creator’s moving, molten sky, he realized that he could no longer imagine living without the American woman and her daughter.

  Now he squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “Are you sure of what we’re about to do?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Without looking away, she called, “Cait? You ready to go get married?”

  “Right-o,” Caitlyn called, nicely managing a British accent. “I think that’d be quite lovely.”

  “Right, then.” They stood together, barely touching, breathing each other’s breath, until Caitlyn tugged on Michael’s elbow.

  “Are we going to get married today or not?” she asked, exaggerating her exasperation. “I’m growing older by the minute, you know.”

  Michael kissed the tip of Alexandra’s nose, then extended his hand to the girl who would soon be his daughter. “Let’s go, you cheeky thing. First we stop at the hospital, then it’s on to the church.”

  Caitlyn did not complain, but grasped his hand and grinned as he led the two loves of his life out of the hotel lobby.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Like most of my novels, The Canopy is a blend of fact and fiction.

  The Angry People and Keyba Village are fictional, but their language, religious beliefs, and spiritual practices are based on the beliefs and practices of the Yanomamo tribe in Brazil as described in Mark Ritchie’s Spirit of the Rainforest. As I read Ritchie’s book, the nonfiction account of the Yanomamo shaman’s experience, I was stunned to learn about the tribe’s encounters with nabas (outsiders), angelic visitors in white, and the spirit they now call Yai Pada.

  The information about prion diseases is almost accurate, the exceptions being: (1) the timeline of Alex’s progression of symptoms and (2) the fact that fatal familial insomnia is presently considered to be genetically inherited. No evidence yet suggest that it is passed from mother to child as Alexandra theorizes. Prion infections, however, have been transmitted from mother to offspring in animals, so I think Alexandra’s hypothesis is reasonably valid.

  I need to make one other correction—though my research led me to believe bleach reliably killed the infective agent behind scrapie, in May 2003, only weeks away from this novel’s printing, I discovered a more recent source which states that since prions are not living organisms like bacteria or viruses, antibiotics and other drugs have no effect upon them. “You could put pure bleach or pure formaldehyde in a test tube with them and it wouldn’t destroy them,” says Arthur Caplain, chairman of the department of medical ethics at the University of Pennsylvania (The New York Times Magazine, May 11, 2003, p. 39).

  At the time of this writing, there is no cure for prion diseases, though in January 2003 The New York Times reported that researchers have found a way to treat two deadly heart ailments caused by misfolded proteins. Scientists are hoping that this treatment, consisting of a “small molecule” drug that halts the misfolding process, will eventually be used to treat other prion diseases.

  We have not heard much about transmissible spongiform encephalopathies in the United States, but in September 2002, I stumbled across an article in People magazine about three hunters who died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, most likely contracted from eating venison. CJD, as it is commonly called, is a prion disease. A December 16, 2002, Newsweek contained an article about herds of deer infected with chronic wasting disease (another prion disease) in the American midwest. While I do not believe there is a reason to panic, I do believe these diseases are among us and should be closely monitored.

  I, for one, am not going vegan . . . yet.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS FOR READING GROUPS

  1. This book can be read as an adventure story and an allegory, a work in which the characters and events are to be understood as representing other things and symbolically expressing a deeper, often spiritual meaning. What elements in this book represent other things? What do you think the author is trying to say by this use of allegory?

  2. With which character in the story did you most identify? Why?

  3. What “disease” are all humans born with? Hint: It’s not a disease of the body (though our bodies certainly feel its effects), but rather a disease of the soul. What is the “treatment” for a sick soul?

  4. Why do you think the natives’ brains were not transformed when they were healed in the tree? If they had diseased brains, how were they able to function in the physical world?

  5. In order to come to complete faith, Alex goes through three stages of belief. Can you identify them?

  6. The first stage involves mental agreement. At what point does she see proof of Michael’s story and mentally agree that he is onto something?

  7. The second stage involves emotional agreement. At what point does Alexandra bend her emotions to the point where she is willing to believe?

  8. The final stage of faith involves a surrender, an act of placing trust in someone else. At what point does Alex experience this kind of surrendering belief ?

  9. At one point in the story, Michael wishes he were better equipped to handle the religious skepticism of his fellow travelers. What could he do to equip himself?

  10. Why do so many physicians concentrate on the healing of the body while they ignore the soul?

  11. Consider the strangler fig—the tree that grows down from another tree, gradually covering it until it dies. If this tree were a metaphor, how are we like the strangler fig? How are we like the host tree?

  12. To the Romans, Paul wrote: “But God shows his anger from heaven against all sinful, wicked people who push the truth away from themselves. For the truth about God is known to them instinctively. God has put this knowledge in their hearts. From the time the world was created, people have seen the earth and sky and all that God made. They can clearly see his invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature. So they have no excuse whatsoever for not knowing God” (1:18–20). How does this passage relate to the plot of the book?

  REFERENCE LIST

  I owe thanks to the staff of Yacumama Lodge in Peru for providing comfortable lodging, a fabulous education, and a truly unforgettable Amazon experience.

  I also owe many thanks for medical advice to Dr. Harry Kraus Jr., novelist, friend, and surgeon, as well as Dr. Mel Hodde and his wife, Cheryl, who make up the writing team known as “Hannah Alexander.” Any medical mistakes are my responsibility, not theirs.

  Bushels of thanks to Susan Richardson for test-driving the manuscript more times than I can remember.

  Thanks to Gaynel Wilt for traveling with me to the Amazon jungle and for sharing her memorable photos. Thanks to my husband, Gary, who let me go to the jungle while he stayed behind to manage our home. Thank you, Bill Myers, for saying, “You really ought to go.”

  Among my many sources for research (including a weeklong trip to the jungle and too many magazine articles and Web pages to list), I found the following books useful:

  John Boorman, The Emerald Forest Diary (New York: Farrar, Straus Giroux), 1985.

  Stanley Coren, Sleep Thieves: An Eye-Opening Exploration into the Science and Mysteries of Sleep (New York: Free Press), 1996.

  Roger Harris and Peter Hutchison, The Amazon (Old Saybrook, Conn.: Globe Pequot Press), 1998.

  Margaret D. Lowman, Life in the Treetops: Adventures of a Woman in Field Biology (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press), 1999.

  Geoffrey O’Connor, Amazon Journal: Dispatches from a Vanishing Frontier (New York: Dutton), 1997.

  Richard Rhodes, Deadly Feasts: The Prion Controversy and the Public’s Health (New York: Simon and Schuster), 1997.

  Mark Andrew Ritchie, Spirit of the Rainforest: A Yanomamo Shaman’s Story (Chicago: Island Lake Press), 1996.

  Richard Evans Schultes and Robert F. Raffauf, The Healing Forest: Medicinal and Toxic Plants of the Northwest Amazonia (Portland, Oreg.: Dioscorides Press), 1990.

  Linnea Smith, M.D., La Doctora: The Journal of an American Doctor Practicing Medicine on the
Amazon River (Duluth, Minn.: Pfiefer-Hamilton Publishers), 1999.

  Patrick Tierney, Darkness in El Dorado: How Scientists and Journalists Devastated the Amazon (New York: W.W. Norton & Company), 2000.

  Also Available from Angela Hunt

  Exerpt from THE JUSTICE by Angela Hunt

  AS AN ACT OF WHIMSY, OR PERHAPS PIQUE, ON June 6, 2003, Fate gave Daryn Jane Austin the most impressive birthday gift of her forty-eight years: the presidency of the United States.

  Awakened by the screeching of the Nokia on her nightstand, she sat up in darkness and glanced at the glowing clock as she reached for the phone—3:30 A.M. Such an hour rarely brought good news, and only a handful of people had her private cell phone number. So either something had happened to her parents, or . . .

  Bracing herself, she cleared her throat. “Yes?”

  “Madam Vice President, this is Anson Quinn.”

  The name registered immediately, as did the noticeable absence of an apology. Quinn served as head of the Presidential Protection Detail, the Secret Service branch specifically dedicated to guarding the president. If this were anything other than the direst emergency, protocol would have demanded that he apologize for disturbing her sleep.

  As a flock of worries took wing, she struggled to keep her voice low and level. “What’s the trouble, Agent Quinn?”

  “A crucial situation has developed. A car will pick you up in ten minutes.”

  She pressed her hand to her brow, willing her fingers not to tremble. “Am I needed at the White House?”

  “You’ll be taken to George Washington University Hospital.” Quinn paused a moment, then spoke in a tone heavy with portent. “They’ve sent for the chief justice as well.”