Alter

by Jeremy Robinson

  “In that case.” I take the rough green pill and pop it into my mouth. I chew twice before wincing and gagging.

  She laughs hard at that. “Don’t chew! Just swallow!”

  I obey and when I see how much I’ve amused her, I forget all about how bad it tasted—like a tangy shit cooked in rancid grease.

  And then…nothing.

  My mind wanders back to the song. “I don’t think I should be here.”

  “You’re home.” Her blunt and simple statement catches me off guard.

  “We don’t even have a place to live.”

  She squats down in front of me. “Home in the jungle has nothing to do with where, but with who. You are my home now.” She squat-walks over my legs, her hands on my shoulder. “And I am yours.”

  Whatever she gave me hits me all at once. My heart rate goes from lackadaisical to angered gorilla. My senses sharpen. Beads of sweat roll down her skin. Her breath smells like fruit she must have eaten while she was foraging. I can smell every part of her—the scent fills me with uncontrollable desire.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, realizing for the first time that she did not partake in her concoction.

  She moves in closer, pushing herself against me.

  “What are you doing?” I already know the answer, but I’m struggling with the sudden shift.

  “I am freeing you,” she says. “From yourself.”

  I can feel it now. The animal inside me. Surfacing again, but this time, it’s not enraged, or driven by need. It’s raw desire, uncoupled from any notion of civilization and the trappings that come with it. All bonds to what once were are dissolved.

  When I start to grunt, Ashan gyrates against me. “We’re not monkeys,” I say, smiling as the pot momentarily reasserts itself. “You can’t just cram us together.”

  “Ahh, but we are not both males.” She flashes a grin that stuns me and then lowers herself down, her aim impeccable.

  What follows is as primal as anything I’ve experienced or seen in the jungle. I lose myself in the moment. In Ashan. The past melts away to nothing, leaving only the present. Free of guilt. Free of regret. Free of civilization’s trappings, laws, guidelines, and social media shame. With each grunt, thrust, and howl, I transform into someone new.

  Something new.

  26

  “I’m hungry,” I say.

  Ashan motions to the anaconda’s twenty-foot-long remains. It lies in a thick coil, gathering flies. “There is plenty of snake remaining.”

  The twisted meat doesn’t stink yet, but it will by the day’s end. Cooked through, it would still be safe to eat, but I’ve had my fill of snake. “I want something warm-blooded.”

  When confusion flashes across her face, I realize the combination of cold and blooded in her language has no real meaning. Lacking biological study, living things are classified as predator, prey, and inedible—like the poison-dart frog. “An animal with fur.”

  “So go kill something. You were already thinking about it.” She leans over me, face hovering above mine, breasts tickling my chest. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  I grasp her face beneath her chin, firm, but not enough to hurt. With a tug, I guide her lips to mine.

  Ashan lingers in the kiss and then gives me a shove, sitting up beside me. “You’re good enough with the bow now. So go hunt. You bring me something to eat for a change.”

  I push myself up, doing my best to hide the pain I’m feeling, now that the marijuana has worn off. I’m still not sure what Ashan gave me, but I think the effects are lingering.

  I feel different.

  No longer like myself.

  I feel…better.

  I gather the bow stolen from Juma, the poisoned-tipped arrows that accompany it, my machete, and my satchel. It’s all I own in the world, and it’s more than enough. “You stay here.”

  “Until I think you’re lost,” she says.

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  She grins at that. I’ve never been assertive. Feels good. And I think Ashan likes it.

  I strike out on my own, hiking a good mile before stopping to evaluate potential game. The monkeys have sensed I’m not out for a stroll and are mostly quiet, hanging out in the uppermost branches. Even if my aim was perfect, the long arrows wouldn’t reach that high, and couldn’t pierce the layers of vegetation.

  My fellow primates are off the menu.

  Return to the river, I think. Find a game trail. Wandering in the jungle is not how to locate prey. You need to stalk the locations they’re mostly likely to visit. Water is always a safe bet.

  I adjust my course back toward the river, a good distance away from where Ashan awaits my return. Within fifteen minutes, I can smell the water. My belly grumbles at the thought of fresh food…and if I’m honest, the kill.

  But what to kill?

  Not another snake. That’s for sure.

  Like anywhere in the Amazon, the river teems with fish. My mouth waters at the memory of moist, flaky meat. But the river here is brown soup. Seeing the fish will be impossible, as will putting an arrow in one. Ashan will have to show me how to make a net, or make one for me. If I’m taking over hunting, she’ll have to pull her weight in another way.

  That’s not fair, I think, and then tell myself to shut the hell up. Ashan helped forge the man I am now. Until she complains, I’ll be who I’ve become.

  What are my other options? Giant otter. A tapir, preferably young, both because it will be more tender, but also small enough to carry. Even disemboweled and full-grown, a tapir would be too heavy to lug back to the campsite. I suppose I could hack off its hind quarters. Butcher the prime cuts. Leave the rest to the scavengers and insects.

  Speaking of which. I slap my arm, destroying a blood-filled mosquito. I crouch and dig my hands into the earth. Despite the heat and humidity, several days without rain have passed. It made for an easy fire, but the ground isn’t very wet.

  I dig past the layers of dead leaves, locating the rich soil that descends deep into the earth. When I’ve got a foot-wide hole dug, I piss into it. After mashing the dirt into a thin mud, I apply it to my whole body. To cover my back, I roll in it. When I’m done, I stand, hold out my arms and watch the mosquitoes come and go without ever settling on my skin.

  “Screw off, little bastards.”

  I reach the river ten minutes later, sliding out of the trees above a cliff of tangled roots that descend into the muddy waters. Low to the ground, I survey the area. Lit by clear skies, the river’s far side draws my eye. Slow-moving shallows have allowed tall grasses to grow. It’s the perfect place for an anaconda to linger in wait of its preferred prey, but I’m close enough to where I killed the giant snake that I doubt there are any competitors hanging around. Which means the animal shifting the tall grass probably lacks pointed teeth.

  It would be a thirty-foot shot. Difficult, but not impossible, especially if I remain unseen and my target remains still.

  But I need to see it first.

  Revealing myself will send the creature into retreat, so I linger in the forest’s shade and wait.

  Lying on the ground while crawling things make their way around, beneath, and over me, I think about nothing aside from the creature waiting below. What it has to offer me. How fast it will perish. What it will sound like. Smell like. Taste like.

  An hour into my wait, I realize I’m smiling, relishing the hunt.

  “It’s time,” I whisper to the hidden animal. “Show yourself.”

  Ten minutes later, it does. The brown, boxy head rises from the grass, its jaw working away on dripping plants. Its movements are slow. Had I not already been watching, I might have missed it. Despite a careful search of its surroundings, the creature doesn’t see me.

  Water ripples away from the reeds as the dog-sized rodent meanders toward shore. Capybara are the largest rodents on earth, so much so that they lack the stigma garnered by its smaller cousins. Instead of being exterminated, they’re put on display in zoos. They’
re not much to look at, remaining immobile most of the time, but they’re not reviled either.

  The real question is: what do they taste like?

  I stand slowly, nocking an arrow and drawing back the string. One shot is all I’ll get. And no matter where I strike the Capybara, one is all I’ll need.

  The capybara steps toward shore, emerging from the grass, and pauses. An easy shot.

  My fingers relax. Breathing slows. The drawn string rolls over my fingertips.

  And then, the rodent squeals and leaps back. I flinch, loosing the arrow angled upward. It sails skyward and disappears in the jungle on the river’s far side.

  Did it spot me? I wonder, and quickly realize the truth. I’m not the only hunter with eyes on the capybara.

  While the rodent backs away toward the river in which it can swim well, a jaguar slides out of the jungle, low to the ground, preparing to pounce. Both animals creep toward the water, each one waiting for the other to trigger the fast chase that will follow the crawl.

  There’s something familiar about the cat. Its right eye bares a familiar scar.

  “You,” I whisper, recognizing the cat that nearly made a meal of me at the crash site. The cat that I fed with my pilot’s corpse. I step out of the jungle, irate. “Hey!”

  Jaguar and capybara freeze in place. I can sense their combined desire to turn and look at the person shouting at them, but neither animal is willing to break the staring match.

  “That asshole is mine,” I shout, stepping to the root wall’s edge, the river eight feet below.

  The cat’s yellow eye flicks toward me. It’s just for a moment, but that’s all it takes.

  The capybara reels around and dashes toward the river. Jaguars are adept swimmers, but swimming is second nature to the rodent. If it reaches the cloudy depths, it will disappear.

  I nock a fresh arrow, draw it back and lead my target.

  As the cat lunges, arms outstretched, claws extended, I release the arrow.

  There’s a squeal as the arrow and the jaguar’s talons pierce the capybara’s skin simultaneously. Water and grass thrashes as the cat pounces, moving in to finish the kill. Unable to see either animal, I shout, “That’s mine!” and I leap into the river.

  Halfway across, my body reminds me that it’s not impervious to harm or exhaustion. Adrenaline and anger drives me to ignore the pain and I make it across before the jaguar can finish the job.

  I rise from the water, machete in hand, piss-mud dripping away. “Let. Him. Go.” I follow the demand with a growl and a show of teeth. The cat’s language and mine are even more disparate than Ashan’s and mine once were, but it understands exactly what I’m communicating.

  And it doesn’t like it.

  Pinning the capybara down, the cat bares its teeth and hisses at me.

  I respond with a roar, raising the machete up and taking an aggressive step toward the cat.

  However it saw me when I clambered out of the plane, that’s not how it sees me now. It’s pissed and defiant, but it’s not looking at me with the same eyes it once did—the way it looked at the capybara.

  The rodent tries to thrash free, but the movements are feeble, not because the jaguar has injured it, but because the poison is doing its work. This kill is mine.

  The jaguar lunges and swipes its claws at my midsection. It misses by several feet—a warning. I reply by surging forward, screaming, and swinging the machete toward the cat’s head.

  If it didn’t dive away, I would have struck and killed it. Instead, the blade chops into the capybara’s neck, silencing its lingering struggle.

  The cat paces at the jungle’s fringe, watching me as I take the kill by the leg, drag it into the water, and start swimming toward the far side. Upon reaching the root wall, I scale my way up one-handed, holding the capybara in my right arm. Halfway up, I pause to catch my breath and rest my arms. The capybara could be a lot bigger, but it’s easily a hundred plus pounds.

  Feeling judged by the cat, I climb a little higher and then heave the capybara into the jungle above. Then I turn back to look the cat in the eyes. It returns my glare with one of its own.

  “If you want it, come and get it.” I heave myself up and over the edge, eager to tell Ashan my story and deliver her my first solo kill. After throwing the capybara over my shoulders, I head into the jungle, moving up river, where I’ll find our camp.

  I don’t give the jaguar another thought.

  27

  The worst part of cooking a capybara over an open flame isn’t the bloodletting or disemboweling that happens first; it’s the stench of all that hair burning away. It’s the most toxic scent I’ve encountered since my arrival, and it’s only just begun.

  The hair on its dangling legs catches first, striking me like a punch to the nose. I reel away as the growing flames light the young night. “I think we should have skinned it first.”

  “So much of you has changed,” Ashan says with a grin. “But there is still some weakness in you.”

  “Hey.” I stand, fists clenched.

  Ashan’s eyes move to my hands and the potential violence they project. Her smile widens. “False threats don’t tell me I’m wrong. But don’t worry, you’re still changing.”

  “I killed all those men,” I say. “For you. I defeated the anaconda. I defied Mapinguari. I…I brought you a capybara.”

  “A boy does such things for a woman,” she says. “A man does them for himself.”

  The culture difference between life in the jungle and the modern world rears up between us, reminding me that, while I’ve acclimated to this life, I’m still an outsider, as much as I don’t want to be. Taking her viewpoint to its logical end leads to disturbing conclusions. “Juma and his son. When I found you. Were they being men?”

  She nods. “They were.”

  “And that is right?”

  “If I am too weak to resist, then—”

  “Bullshit.”

  She rolls her eyes. She doesn’t know what a bull is, but she understands the English expression. “We are surrounded by death. It waits for us.” She motions to the dark jungle around us, full of nighttime sounds. “Out there. Man. Beast. Insect. All of it plots death against us. Only the strong survive. Those that aren’t, don’t.”

  She’s just laid out the most basic, and accurate, understanding of Darwin’s theory of natural selection. In the outside world, my job was to defy natural selection, to take the weak and sick, and free them from the laws of nature that have shaped all life on the planet. Out here, natural selection is still the rule of law that governs man and beast alike.

  Kill or be killed.

  That’s not to say there aren’t tribal rules, or laws imposed by the chiefs, but in the end, the uncontacted tribes of the Amazon haven’t forgotten that life is governed by ancient laws that are still real and true, even if modern man tries hard to defy them.

  “Survival of the fittest.”

  Ashan’s eyes widen. “Yes. Exactly. That’s what you’re becoming.”

  “Becoming?”

  “The fittest. Can’t you feel it?”

  I do feel different, but how could I not? I’ve gone from healer to hunter, pacifist to fighter, hopeless to self-reliant. But that’s not what she’s talking about. She’s talking about the animal inside me. She’s talking about real change.

  “What did you give me?” I ask.

  The rest of the capybara’s body flares to life, becoming a rotisserie bonfire of unimaginable stench. When Ashan doesn’t flinch away from the smell, I force myself to endure it, too.

  “The scorched skin will hold in the juices,” she says, and I’m annoyed that anything still needs to be explained to me. I’ve cooked enough in my life that I should have been able to figure that out.

  A growl rises in my throat, catching me off guard.

  What was that?

  Ashan just smiles. “You are in process. You are becoming.”

  “Becoming what?”

  “What I’ve
always believed you could be.”

  Mapinguari.

  “I wasn’t sure until the river,” she says.

  In all the stories of Mapinguari I’ve heard, the creature is solitary. A lone hunter tracking down evil men and exacting a kind of jungle justice. In the Amazon, no other monster compares to its legendary penchant for violence, but as much as Ashan fears the Mapinguari, she also respects it, or at least what it stands for.

  “There can be more than one?” I ask.

  Ashan chuckles. “No.”

  “But…oh.” Ashan has put me on a collision course with the current Mapinguari. “He’s a man.”

  “Mapinguari is no man,” Ashan says. “She is a woman. Was a woman. She is no more human than the beasts of the jungle.”

  “And this is what you would have me become? A monster?”

  “You were already changing,” she says. “I am only helping.”

  I want to take the news with the strong indifference Ashan expects of me, but the notion that I am becoming a real monster, rather than a metaphorical monster, leaves me shaken.

  I gaze into the fire while Ashan tends to the roasting meat, rotating the charred body.

  Is such a thing even possible? Can a person become something else? I search my dormant medical mind for possibilities. It doesn’t take long. There’s a list of conditions that can disfigure a person in ways that are historically considered monstrous: epidermodysplasia verruciformis, leprosy, proteus syndrome, elephantiasis, hypertrichosis. Hell, there are some conditions that lead to people growing bona fide horns, like the case of Madame Dimanche, who had a ten-inch horn growing from her forehead.

  If the concoction Ashan gave me triggered conditions similar to any of them, I could become disfigured, covered with hair, and by most standards a mythical monster. Becoming a cyclops is unlikely—Cyclopia only happens at birth. I also don’t think I can grow a second mouth—also only possible at birth in cases of severe conjoined twins. But like most legendary creatures based on something real, exaggeration is part of the equation. Though I’ve seen Mapinguari for myself, I couldn’t give an accurate description of it. Of her. If I was standing around a campfire with friends, I might be tempted to embellish a bit.