While I have no experience fighting, these two men are clearly hunters—killers—who I’ve managed to catch off guard. Despite what I might look like to them, they’re not going to back down or run away in fear.
“Chema don richo,” the woman says, eyes locked on me. It sounds like a warning.
In a knock-down drag out fight, I’m going to lose. Armed or not, my body is weak, and I’m as coordinated as a drunk squirrel.
I need to scare them, I decide.
Machete raised, I step toward the man, shouting. I meant it to sound like a roar, but to me it sounds silly.
The father jumps back, but doesn’t retreat. His eyes linger on the blade, understanding its deadly potential, but like a hyena harassing a lion, he remains just out of reach and keeps circling.
“Shazi!” the woman shouts, just as the sound of running bare feet reaches my ears.
I swing out with the machete, feel the subtlest of resistance, and then hear a shout.
I’ve struck the boy.
Before I can assess the damage, the woman shouts again, and I swing in the other direction, this time striking nothing. The father leaps out of the way, no trace of fear in his eyes.
I stab the machete at him and shout, “I don’t want to hurt you!” I point the gun toward a random patch of forest. “Go… Go!”
The circling continues.
I manage a glance back at the son. A thin red line, dripping wet, cuts across his stomach. It’s hardly a scratch. Nothing a few band-aids couldn’t handle. But another inch closer and he’d have been eviscerated.
When the father starts speaking harshly to the younger man, I’m pretty sure this is the message being relayed.
While the moment is a life lesson for the boy, I find it profoundly disturbing. I nearly killed a man. I’ve spent the majority of my life avoiding violence and preventing death and suffering. And now, to save one life, I might need to take another, or two.
But that’s not right either. This isn’t choosing one life over two. It’s an even split. Either the woman and I will live, or the father and his boy. Unless they never intended to kill the woman. I have no idea what is considered normal social behavior by these people. But I know what’s right, and that their sexual assault was unwanted.
I have to stop them, even if it means killing them.
The gun shakes in my hand as I raise it toward the father’s chest. He watches it rise, but shows no fear.
“Leave,” I growl, and the sound of my desperate voice seems to unnerve him for just a moment. Then he’s moving again, and so is his son.
“Damn you,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Had these two men been from the modern world, they’d understand what I just attempted and would have already rushed me. But the man doesn’t even register my attempted murder. He just remains calm and steady, now just ten feet from their scant clothing and bows and arrows. I hear the boy moving again, and catch movement out of my left side peripheral vision.
They’re both heading for the bows.
Let them go, I think, maneuvering to face them both, putting the woman at my back.
They pick up the pace once they’re around me. When they dash for the bows, taking their eyes off me, I look over the gun, find the safety switch, and flick it off.
They’re both lifting bows and nocking arrows when I point the gun forward. I could kill them. Both of them. And the woman behind me, now pleading, would like me to do it.
Kill or be killed.
That’s the way of the jungle.
But it’s not my way.
I raise the gun above their heads and shout again. “Leave! Now!”
As arrows are turned in my direction, I pull the trigger.
The boom drops both men to the ground, their arrows fired wild, disappearing into the trees. They shout back and forth at each other, eyes wide and searching for the sound’s source.
I shout again, drawing their attention back toward me. Then I pull the trigger again.
The men snap back, eyeing me, understanding that I am the source of a sound so loud it hurts their ears.
I grit my teeth at them and hiss. I don’t really put any thought into the action, but it feels right. Like a warning.
“Leave!” I shout, and then I fire the weapon again.
The men scramble away from me, twisting and fumbling in the dirt. Then they bolt for the trees, loincloths and weapons left behind. I watch them go, making sure they don’t stop, slow, or change course. When I can no longer see them, I flip the safety back on, slip the hand gun into my pocket, and turn around.
The woman stands before me, stark naked, horrified, and wielding a small blowgun that’s pointed at my chest.
10
“Whoa,” I say, hoping the tone of my voice communicates my apprehension. I take a slow step back, lowering myself and my weapons. “Whoa…”
I crouch slowly, watching the blowgun track my every motion. On the outside, it’s not a very intimidating weapon, but most Amazonian tribes use poisoned darts for hunting. A puff of air is all it would take for her to kill me.
“It’s okay.” I keep my voice soothing, like I’m helping Juni come down from a tantrum. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I place the machete on the ground. The gun, too, even though she doesn’t know what it is. I have no intention of hurting this woman, even to save my own life.
I’m not sure the same can be said for her. Free of the men assaulting her, she has the steady gaze of a hunter. The father and son must have caught her off guard, preventing her from using the blowgun in self-defense.
Hands empty, I extend my open palms and take a few more lowered steps back. We can’t speak the same language, but some things, like smiles, laughs, and open palms are understood by all cultures around the world. They’re behaviors developed by our earliest ancestors and hardwired into the DNA of every human being since.
The woman watches me with confused eyes. Perhaps she thought I was claiming her for myself. Maybe she’s rattled by my appearance, gear, and the thunderous report of a modern weapon. She’s still afraid, but not enough to kill me.
I stop beside her discarded clothing. There’s not much to it. Some fabric and twine. I’m not even sure how it would be worn. But it’s hers. So I crouch down, pick it up, and offer the bundle to her.
The blowgun angles downward. The woman squints at me, suspicious, but she also turns her lips aside and lets out the breath she’d been holding.
I inch toward her, my posture submissive, bundle extended.
“Chut,” she says, her voice forceful.
I’m pretty sure she’s told me to ‘stop,’ so I do, and I wait for further instructions. She eyes me up and down, perplexed, but still fearful. A moment ago, I wielded a power the likes of which she’d never seen nor heard, and now I am submitting to her authority. I’m not sure if all Amazonian tribes are patriarchal, but global history suggests that would be the case. If so, she’s probably never seen a man act like this.
If she even sees me as a man.
My hair, clothing, gear, and the gun’s boom are probably as alien to her as a UFO to the civilized world. My submission to her is probably even stranger. I’m powerful enough to frighten away two skilled hunters, but I cringe before a lone woman. I realize that’s a sexist point of view, especially given the blowgun pointed in my direction, but they are primitive tribal people. Then again, maybe the stereotypes about indigenous peoples are as rife with errors as they were when the Europeans slaughtered millions of ‘savages’ in the Americas. For all I know, this woman’s tribe of actual Amazons is as matriarchal as Wonder Woman’s fictional Amazonians.
The woman makes a “ffft” sound with her lips, motions to the clothing and then waves her hand toward herself. She wants what I’m offering, but doesn’t want me coming any closer.
I toss the garment to her feet and take a step back.
Her unwavering gaze locked on me, she bends down,
picks up the cloth, and then with the suddenness of a surprised deer, springs into motion.
She bounds away, leaping foliage and disappearing before I can shout a desperate, “No! Wait!”
A few seconds later, I can’t even hear her.
“Shit,” I grumble. “God damnit!”
That woman…even the two men…they were my best chance of escaping the jungle. They might still live in tribes, but they must have encountered civilization at some point, or know people who have.
My eyes linger on the spot where the woman had stood naked before me. Two things leap out—her footprints, and a splash of bright red.
After retrieving the machete and the gun, I crouch by her footprints and move aside the detritus covering the red object. It’s an arm band, I think, like the ones the men were wearing. It’s made from tightly woven feathers. Bright red, green, yellow, and blue. The work is intricate and beautiful. I suspect the woman would have worn it on her upper arm. It just barely fits onto my wrist.
My attention shifts to the woman’s footprints. There’s a trail of them, leading into the brush and the jungle beyond. I’m by no means a tracker. I have trouble finding my keys most days. But the woman’s footprints are easy to follow. And if I can follow her tracks, the two hunters I sent running will have no trouble finding her either.
If she doesn’t kill me, I might even be able to communicate my need to escape the jungle.
Before heading out, I collect the hunters’ long arrows, wrapping their black tips—what I assume is poison—in a shirt, and then inserting the bundle in my backpack, feathered end protruding three feet from the top. I take both bows, strapping one around my chest and keeping the other in my hand.
Unlike the gun, I have used a bow in the past, but it’s been a long time since wielding a compound bow at Camp Keswick in the Berkshires. Curiosity drives me to pull an arrow from my oversized, makeshift quiver. I nock it, draw the string back and take aim at a nearby tree. The bow feels sturdy, and the string is taut. Its potential power strains against my weary muscles.
With a thwip, the arrow flies, strikes the tree, and shatters. The firm, dry wood would make short work of an animal’s—or a human’s—soft flesh, but it doesn’t stand any more chance against the thick tree than the doomed Cessna.
I’m tempted to nock an arrow and keep it at the ready during my travels, but if the woman spots me coming, and I’m sure she will, I don’t want to look like I’m hunting her.
I leave the men’s meager garments on the ground and set out after the woman. It’s a risky move. She could kill me on sight. Could send a hunting party after me. But she’s still my best chance of survival. I did save her. Maybe not her life. I have no idea if the two men would have killed her. But I’m sure rape is as abhorrent to victims in the depths of the jungle as it is to those in the rest of the world. I’m hoping gratitude will transform into mercy.
Following the trail of footprints is easy for the first mile. She ran the entire distance. Each print left a deep impression, visible even where the leaf litter is thickest.
I lose her trail in a stand of trees with a wide-reaching network of roots. She used the natural formation to depart the ground and erase her trail. It’s possible I could traverse the border of the root-laden land, but it covers a lot of terrain, and her passage through it seems like an intentional attempt at leaving no trail. If that’s the case, I doubt I’ll find any trace of her.
But her disappearance isn’t my only problem. The search for her has left me exhausted once more. My muscles, pumping with adrenaline for the past thirty minutes, now ache and twitch with every step. I’m going to need to rest soon. And as easy as the woman’s path was to follow, the tracks left by my boots might as well be neon signs reading, “The white man you want to kill went this way.”
I’ve never really had a nemesis or an enemy. I get along with most people. But now, two out of the three people I’ve encountered in the rainforest probably want me dead. And I’m not sure about the third.
What are my options?
Reverse course back to the scene of the crime and then follow my tracks back to the stream and continue to follow it. That’s probably doable, but I have no idea where the stream will lead, and my path will be easy to track. How long before the hunters return with friends?
Will they even come back at all?
I made an impression. Of that there is no doubt. But was it enough to keep them from coming after me? From seeking revenge? If they tell anyone their story, they might seek me out just to prove that I exist. And when they do find me, how long will it be before one of the men decides to prove his strength by killing me?
It’s all fiction at this point, but I can see it happening. It doesn’t feel like a stretch. Human nature is the same the world around, especially when it comes to men with injured pride.
My other option is to continue forward, use the woman’s root-crossing technique to hide my own path and hope I find her again. There’s no way to know if she continued straight on or diverted in another direction. Even if I don’t find her, not leaving a trail is probably a good thing.
I set out across the roots and have a hard time not touching the ground. The solid boots roll over each root, leave patterned divots in the ground, and mud smeared on the bark. Ten feet in, I’m leaving as obvious a trail as I was before.
“Damnit…” I lean against a tall, winding root and look down at my mud-covered boots. They’re damp, and heavy, turning my feet into blistery raisins, and now, leaving a trail. Going against what every hiking guide says, I untie my boots and pry them off. If bare feet works for the natives, why not for me?
The socks peel away slowly. I flinch as skin from popped blisters go with them, peeling away in neat strips like frayed skin around fingernails—except more painful.
After tying the boots to my back and stuffing the socks inside, I take a tentative step. I flinch in pain as my unprotected foot compresses on a solid, narrow root. But when I take a step, I don’t slip, and my feet stay free from the ground. It takes a good ten minutes to find a rhythm, but then I’m moving over the roots at a normal pace, hands extended for balance, and leaving no trail in my wake. A half mile further, the tangle of roots come to an end. I step gingerly onto the leaf-covered ground on the far side and then another, looking back to see if there’s a path.
If there is, I can’t see it. But then, I’m not a hunter.
A true hunter might see what I don’t.
Might not need to see anything.
At close range, I could probably be tracked by scent.
From a distance, even if I’m silent, the jungle’s song might give me away. What has become a constant background noise to me, might tell native hunters a complete story about who or what is where.
But I can do that, too, can’t I?
I stop, close my eyes, and listen, straining my ears for the sound of monkeys. Or silence. I’m familiar with the cries issued at my approach. Wouldn’t they do the same if tribal hunters were nearby?
And that’s when I hear it.
The warning.
But it’s not the sound of monkeys, or birds, or silence that tips me off.
It’s the sound of men.
A lot of men.
11
They’re still far away, and though I can’t understand the language, the sound of arguing is universal. They’re not sure which way to go, I think. Confounded by the roots and the disappearing tracks. But who are they chasing? Me, or the woman?
Doesn’t matter. If they find a trail to follow, it will be mine.
I step as carefully as possible, using roots when I can and avoiding any brush that might be disturbed by my passing. But this is the rainforest. Aside from the towering trees with their matching tangles of roots and branches, everything is mobile. Leaves bend and sway as I pass. Dead leaves fold and stick beneath my feet. The soft earth, free of rocks, grass, and a firm bedrock below, compresses under my weight. With my pack and gear, I’m at least twic
e the weight of the men I encountered. A behemoth in a world where those who tread lightly survive the longest.
I’m also deep in their territory. The father and son didn’t take long to return with help, so they’re either part of a larger hunting party, or we’re not far from their village. Whatever the case, I’m sure that they know this land. They’ll be able to spot changes easily and move through the terrain with calm efficiency.
How many people live in the average Amazon tribal village?
I have no idea, and I’m not sure it matters. I couldn’t kill two men intent on raping a woman. Slaughtering all the men and women capable of hunting me from their village isn’t remotely possible. I’m either going to escape, or die trying. As melodramatic as that sounds—like the description of some thriller novel—it’s a pretty good summary of the past week. Life and death hang in the balance with every decision I make. That I’m still alive has little to do with me and everything to do with a fortuitous page turn of the Choose Your Own Adventure into which my life has devolved. One bad decision, or unlucky turn of the page, and my story will come to an end.
I start to relax when the voices fade behind me, but is that because I’m distancing myself from them, or because they’re back on the hunt, quiet and stealthy?
My gut and my nerves say it’s the latter, that any second now, a poison-tipped arrow will pierce my back, and I’ll die a horrible slow death, watched by a red-painted hunting party. They’ll be pleased. They’ll feel powerful. And after they pillage my belongings, they’ll have had their first contact with the modern world. Despite all this, I feel bad in advance for the man who plunders the gun and pulls the trigger. If he’s lucky, it will fire into the air and simply terrify him. But it seems just as likely that he’ll shoot a friend, or himself.
A swell of nervous energy puts my bladder into overdrive. I have a near unbearable urge to urinate, but I’m certain any good hunter will have little trouble spotting the wetness. It might be even easier to smell. In my dehydrated state, my pee is going to be potent.
I make it another fifty feet before I have no choice but to stop, drop trou, and relieve myself. Another few seconds and I’m pretty sure I would have pissed my pants, making me easy to find, if not to the human hunters, then to the other predators stalking the jungle. Then again, it’s been days since I last showered, and I’m constantly bathed in sweat. I’ve grown accustomed to my own stench, but I have little doubt my scent would be hard to miss for anyone nearby.
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