Alter

by Jeremy Robinson

  But what about the psychological possibilities? To be a monster, you have to believe you’re a monster, or maybe just lose your mind completely. The latter happens all the time. People snap. Cases of people trying to become animals or believing they’ve become animals aren’t unheard of. Some of them made the conscious choice, but others just went insane, living, acting, and communicating like tigers, goats, parrots, and horses.

  Perhaps most common and steeped in history is clinical lycanthropy—the belief that you are, or can become, a wolf—aka: a werewolf. It’s a real psychiatric syndrome that’s been affecting people for thousands of years. Psychosis combined with hallucinations leave the affected person with the unshakable belief that they’re no longer human. Combined with physical deformations, I imagine the syndrome would be convincing to anyone encountering the afflicted.

  Is that what Mapinguari is?

  Is that what I will become?

  Would that be so bad?

  I shake my head. No. Surviving means adapting. The animal in me has kept me alive. I’ve been changing since I arrived in the Amazon. Whatever I become, I’ll embrace it. That’s the only way forward.

  There’s just one lingering doubt. “Will you be with me? After I change?”

  Ashan cracks open the capybara’s skin crust, digs a finger inside and hooks it around a strand of cooked muscle. She peels the steaming flesh from the body and offers it to me. “Mapinguari is not mindless. And its attention can be swayed.”

  “That’s why it’s hunting us?”

  “Juma made a bargain,” she says.

  “For what?”

  A shrug. “But when you are Mapinguari, bargains will not be necessary. None beyond those already made.” Her grin leaves little doubt that she’s referring to the recent evolution of our relationship.

  She’s turning me into a weapon, I realize. Her weapon.

  If I didn’t empathize with her so entirely, I might have a problem with all this. Mostly, I’m looking forward to finishing what Juma started, whatever it takes. Maybe that’s the burgeoning Mapinguari in me, but I really don’t care. About anything…other than Ashan.

  I take the meat in dirty hands and eat. I moan. The warm, juicy meat tastes like smoked bacon, drawing a second moan from my lips.

  “Can we eat this every day?” I ask, devouring the meat, letting the grease run down my chin and drip to my chest.

  “When you are Mapinguari, you can do as you wish.”

  We’ve already eaten whatever we’ve come across, and haven’t been bound by the laws of the modern world or even the local tribes. The implications of this revelation are far reaching. If I am Mapinguari, the uncontacted people of the Amazon will show me the same fear and respect as Ashan does the current Mapinguari.

  She will be safe.

  And I will be free…to do anything.

  A darkness inside of me gurgles to life. Anything.

  I smile.

  “How do we finish?” I ask. “How do I become the real Mapinguari?”

  “You have to kill her,” she says. “You have to wear her.”

  Wear her?

  I’m about to ask what that means when a deep growl rolls from somewhere in the dark jungle.

  28

  I’m not sure if it’s exhaustion, the drugs, my ongoing transformation into Mapinguari, or the utter contentment delivered by eating really good meat, but my response to the threat is minimal. I could reach for the gun, or a poisoned arrow—both weapons deliver death without serious effort. Instead, I put a hand on the machete’s handle, but don’t draw it. I don’t even grip it.

  Ashan lunges away from the fire, loading a dart into her blowgun. “Get up,” she hisses at me.

  I lick the meaty grease from my left hand’s fingers.

  “It’s a jaguar,” she warns.

  “I am Mapinguari,” I say with a grin.

  “Not yet.” She points into the darkness. “And even Mapinguari respects the jaguar.”

  Movement catches my eye. The cat stalks just beyond the firelight, low to the ground.

  “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  I push myself to my feet, casual, unconcerned. I know who it is. My old friend come to claim his pilfered meal. As dangerous as the jaguar might be, it’s still a cat, and fairly intelligent. If it’s the same cat from the plane, and the river, it remembers me, too. I’ve earned its respect, and I’ve fed it. That combination might be why it hasn’t pounced.

  I take a risk and turn my back to the cat.

  A growl makes me pause, but there’s no roar, no sound of an attack, and Ashan remains locked in position, ready to act.

  “What are you doing?” I see more doubt in Ashan’s eyes than anything. She’s probably wondering if pushing me to become Mapinguari was a mistake, that I’m losing my mind. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? To become a monster, I must no longer be human, and that means not fearing death.

  I keep my back turned, draw my machete, and hack off one of the capybara’s hind legs, making sure to include the meaty flank and rump.

  “Greg…” Ashan hasn’t used my name in a long time.

  “Don’t kill it,” I tell her.

  “Kill it? I can’t even see it.”

  “You will.”

  I turn back to the jungle, my gaze drawing a fresh growl that stops when I hold up the cooked limb. I sit back down and cut away a chunk of meat. I take a bite of it and then toss the rest into the dark. There’s a hiss, a rustle of brush, and then the sounds of chewing.

  “What are you doing?” She sounds upset enough to turn the blowgun on me.

  “Making friends.”

  She huffs a laugh, aghast. “Friends? With a jaguar?”

  “People do it all the time. Where I’m from.” It’s a gross exaggeration. Jaguars can be trained, but like Ashan’s monkey, it’s safest when done from birth. Even then, it’s not without serious risks. I have no illusions about snuggling up with this cat, but it has earned my respect. And it’s shown me mercy in the past. I don’t want to kill it. “If you see a scar above its eye, let it be. If you don’t…”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I am who you’re helping me become.” The next chunk of meat falls short of the darkness. To get it, the cat will have to leave the shadows.

  There’s a long silence, and then movement.

  The jaguar slides out of the jungle, low to the ground, poised to pounce.

  Ashan whispers a string of curses I taught her, mixed with some of her own.

  It’s a beautiful creature, marred only by the scar. Yellow eyes remain locked on mine as it reaches out, tilts it head to the side, and grasps the meat.

  “Good kitty.” After carving another chunk, I toss it out, a little closer.

  “It’s close enough,” Ashan says.

  “Sit down. Eat. You’re making him nervous.”

  “Her nervous,” Ashan says. “Not everything dangerous is male.”

  I smile. Feminism is a different creature in the Amazon, but I’m glad to see it still exists to some extent.

  Ashan tears away some meat and squats down, keeping her blowgun loaded and ready, and the fire between herself and the cat.

  The jaguar gives me a snarl and a hiss. When I don’t react, it inches forward and takes my offering. It’s just fifteen feet away. If it decided to make a meal of me, I doubt Ashan or I would be fast enough to stop its inch-long canines from puncturing my skull.

  After cutting a strip of meat for myself, I toss the entire leg to the ground. It’s just ten feet away, forcing the cat to come closer, to break its mental boundaries and decide that we’re safe. The process looks painful, as the jaguar hisses, crawls closer, snarls, and crawls again.

  “Go on,” I say, taking a bite. “I’m the guy that fed you before. We’ve done this already.” I remember the cat’s closeness, in the plane, just feet from me, yanking human remains through the window. It was nervous then, too. Perhaps it has always sensed the Mapinguari in me. I smile at
the thought, and then wider when the jaguar plants a paw atop the limb and digs in.

  I expected the cat to snag the meat and run, but that’s not what happens. It settles in for a meal, content in the knowledge that there is more than enough meat to go around and we’re willing to share.

  Ashan’s stunned expression makes me laugh, which gets a growl from the cat, but it never stops eating. “How… You…” Tears fill her eyes. “You will be the greatest Mapinguari to have ever lived.”

  Will be.

  Not yet. Not while she’s still out there, hunting us on Juma’s behalf.

  We eat in silence for thirty minutes. I watch how the cat tears away chunks, chews twice and swallows the meat. The only time it really seems to be enjoying the flavor is when it pauses to lick the grease from its snout. I wonder how this compares to the raw meat it’s accustomed to. Does it even notice the difference, or care? Is the cat enjoying this meal more than the first I gave it?

  Part of me wants to imitate the way the cat eats—there’s a lot I could learn from it—but the capybara tastes too good to not savor. The rest of me might go wild, but my palette will remain refined, especially when much of what I eat now doesn’t taste spectacular.

  When I’ve had my fill, I roll another joint, take several long drags, and pass it over to Ashan, who’s been watching the jaguar with a mix of fascination and concern. After a few puffs, she relaxes. Perhaps sensing the reduction in tension, the cat relaxes, taking its eyes off us and gnawing on the thick femur.

  Finished with its meal, the jaguar licks itself clean for a moment.

  “It’s cute, right?” I say.

  Ashan passes the joint to me. “You’re insane.”

  “I know you are, but what am I?”

  Her faces fills with more wrinkled tributaries than there are in the Amazon. “What?”

  “Something Pee-wee Herman said.”

  “Pee-wee Her…man?”

  “A wise man,” I tell her. “Who consulted with creatures and spirits.”

  “He could speak to them?”

  I fill my lungs with smoke, my mind drifting through time and space, to Pee-wee’s Playhouse. “There was Terry. He was a pterodactyl. A…bird. And Jambi. He was a genie.”

  “What is a genie?”

  “It’s like a spirit, but it grants wishes.” I’ve used the English word for ‘wish’ because the concept hasn’t come up before. “A wish is something you desire. Something you ask for that is then granted by a higher power. In this case, a genie in a box.”

  “It sounds like a prayer,” she observes. Her people worship a pantheon of nature-derived gods, including some that smack of Incan myths, but I’m not certain. Ashan doesn’t strike me as very devout, but when things get rough, she whispers to someone that isn’t me.

  “They’re related, I suppose,” I say. “But you can see a genie, and wishes are granted—or not—right away. There’s no waiting or wondering where you stand.”

  “Have you ever made a wish to a genie?”

  “I’ve never had the opportunity.” I pass the joint back, feeling a bit like a genie myself. With my belly full, my mind loosened by the marijuana, the firelight dancing on the canopy’s underside, and my strange and dangerous company, the otherworldly feeling that Pee-wee’s Playhouse generated in my child-mind pales in comparison.

  “Have you ever prayed?”

  I glance at the satchel. “Just once.”

  “And?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “Just…no.” I push myself up, drawing my machete. The cat eyes me, its lip twitching into a sneer, but it doesn’t hiss or growl. It’s just nervous. “I don’t want what I asked for anyway.”

  “Perhaps you should do more than ask?” she says. “Gods like to be thanked. To be admired. For all that they have created and done.”

  “What has God ever done for me?”

  Her eyebrows rise as her amused expression melts into a glower. “You’re alive. You are becoming Mapinguari. The jaguar that spared your life now eats by your side. And…” Her expression lightens. “…you have me. Perhaps you simply asked for the wrong things? Perhaps you are not smart enough to see the answers, or not patient enough to wait for them? Does everyone in your tribe expect their desires to be met immediately?”

  I sigh long and hard enough to get a hiss out of the jaguar. The cat is on edge again, ready to attack or bolt. I’m not sure which. “Calm down,” I say, and when Ashan growls, I add, “I was talking to the jaguar.”

  “Oro,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I’m naming her Oro. Your jaguar.”

  Oro stands and starts backing away. The conversation, my movement, and perhaps the pot smoke has unnerved her.

  “Hey,” I say, and I snap my fingers at Oro. She snaps to attention, eyes on me. “Wait.”

  With a hard swing, I sever the capybara’s head from what remains of its picked apart body. The cat hisses, but remains locked in place. I pick up the head, fingers in its empty eye sockets and mouth, like I’m about to go bowling. I approach the cat, crouching as I move. I reach the head out, offering it to Oro.

  She glares at me, the intensity of her eyes similar to Ashan’s. “Take it.”

  A growl is her only reply.

  “You’re not getting it unless you take it from my hand.” I inch closer, letting her smell the cooked flesh and brain. “Go on.”

  The cat doesn’t move any closer, but it doesn’t retreat either. When the head is just a foot from her face, I see Oro’s nose twitching. She licks her snout, eyes flicking between me and the offering.

  When she steps closer, I hold still. In my peripheral vision I see Ashan locked in place, her breath held.

  Oro licks the head once, opens her mouth, and grasps the skull. When teeth punch through bone, I withdraw my hand. “Good girl.”

  Like an arrow fired by a bow, she springs to life, retreating into the forest with her prize, disappearing into the dark.

  Grinning like a piece of shit, I turn around to face Ashan. “How was tha—”

  Ashan catches me off guard, shoving me to the ground. She stands above me, puffing on the joint. Then she holds up a familiar green nugget. Another animal pill. Time for my next dosage…and what comes with it.

  Ashan tosses the herbal concoction down. I catch it and pop it in my mouth.

  Swallowing, I say, “Tomorrow, we will no longer run. We will no longer be hunted. Instead, we will hunt.”

  I don’t need to say what—or in this case, who—we will be hunting. Our goals for my future, for my becoming, are in concert. Tomorrow, Mapinguari becomes our prey.

  My prey.

  When I swallow, Ashan lingers above me, swaying back and forth until I can no longer take it. I pull her atop me, and the jungle fills with the sound of screaming once more.

  29

  Weeks of nothing follow.

  Well, I shouldn’t say nothing. There is hunting, and eating, and screwing, and living. For the first time, really living. I feel young again. Colors are brighter. Smells and tastes are stronger. Life is vivid now.

  Things like fear, worry, and panic no longer have seats at the council of my thoughts. Running behind for a patient used to rattle me. Doctors are always late—not because they’re unorganized or don’t care, but because every patient wants more time, wants to talk about every ache and pain, every possible growth, and the stories related to discovering their ailments. As soon as one person goes overtime, the entire day is off. The real problem is that every patient goes over time. And it used to eat me up.

  How many appointments have I missed?

  I slip between two smooth-barked trees, careful to not rub against the fire ants marching up the surface.

  Hundreds. All of my patients have been displaced. Not only are they missing appointments, but they’re having to find another doctor. Another practice, maybe.

  I only feel bad for them for being so weak. At least a quarter of my patients
are fine. They experience the day-to-day pain of life as a reminder of their own mortality, living each day sure it will be their last. Another fifty percent come in with a common cold for which I can do nothing beyond give advice that will likely not be followed. Another twenty percent have bacterial infections, for which I can prescribe antibiotics they’ll most likely use incorrectly. A smaller four percent have things like lice, bedbugs, and scabies. And then there’s the one percent who have something more serious. Signs of cancer. A tick-borne disease. Something genetic. Those are the people who needed my help, whose lives could be radically altered or even saved because of my intervention.

  I pause.

  How many of them were there? Of all my patients, twenty-one of them had serious ailments.

  “What is it?” Ashan asks. She’s crouched down beside me, wary of danger, hand on her blowgun.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Think while you move.” She pokes me in the back.

  I push on, eyes on the ground, concentrating on not leaving a trail, while looking for one. We have been hunting for Mapinguari since our meal with the jaguar, but we’ve found no trace.

  There have been other tracks along the way. Hunting parties, Ashan says, but their lack of concealment means they’re hunting animals, not us. It seems the tribal peoples have given up on finding and killing us, leaving the task to Mapinguari alone.

  After a few more minutes of silent stalking, Ashan asks, “What are you thinking about?”

  Trying to explain would not only take a long time, it would also expose my lingering humanity. That’s not me anymore. My patients will live and die without me, probably no differently than they would have if I’d come home. There are doctors to spare back in the States. Out here, I am unique. And when my becoming is complete, I will stand between life and death once more, though instead of always defying death, I will sometimes allow it…or speed it along.

  “We’re doing this wrong,” I say. “Hunting Mapinguari is a mistake.”