“You mean to give up?” Ashan’s voice is heavy with disappointment.
“I mean to alter our strategy,” I say. “We are hunting a master hunter, who can conceal herself as a man, a beast, or a tree…” So the legends say. “She leaves no trail to follow. She is like a ghost.”
“As are we,” Ashan says, motioning behind us where there is no hint of our passing.
“Are you expecting us to bump into Mapinguari by chance? That one morning we will wake up to discover we have been sleeping beside her during the night, all of us unaware of the other?”
Ashan shoots blow darts at me with her eyes. My critique mocks her methods.
“We need to outsmart her,” I say. “We need—”
“A trap.” Ashan stands a little straighter.
“We feign weakness, leave ourselves exposed.”
“Mapinguari will come for us,” she says. “But we’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I correct. “She is mine to kill.”
Ashan grins. “How do we set such a trap?”
“We get sloppy,” I say. “Slowly. Like we’re struggling.”
“Like wounded animals.”
“Or sick ones.”
“It could take weeks for Mapinguari to cross our trail,” she says, “Even if she is still hunting us. The jungle is vast.”
“Then we speed things up.”
Ashan squints at me.
“We spread the word.”
“Speaking with Mapinguari is not possible. She is a solitary creature. She—”
“Will I be a solitary creature when I am Mapinguari?” I ask.
Ashan starts to speak, but clamps her lips shut. “No.”
“Animal, but still human, right?”
She nods.
“People are social. Even the wildest. So, who would Mapinguari talk to? Who was she before?”
Ashan’s eyes widen. In all our talks about Mapinguari, even after I learned that the monster had once been a woman, we haven’t talked about who she’d been before. “An adopted daughter of the Arawanti. Her parents were killed during her becoming, but her brother, Tikuna still lives.”
“She killed her parents? Is that normal when becoming Mapinguari? Could I do that to you?”
Ashan puts a hand on my arm, touched by my concern. “They tried to stop it. Being Mapinguari means leaving the past behind. Means becoming more than human. Her parents believed she was becoming less than human.”
“More than, by becoming less than,” I say. That’s how I understand it. Mapinguari is a monster in appearance and action, but in a way, it’s really just a devolution to pure humanity and pre-civilization, to a state of mind and body before people became tribal. Since arriving in the jungle, I’ve already gone through a long process of becoming, of moving away from the past, of being remade. I doubt my transition to Mapinguari will be much more dramatic.
“What was her name?”
“She is Mapinguari,” Ashan says.
“That was the name her parents gave her?”
“When the change is complete, the person you were never was.” The intensity with which Ashan speaks the words says even more. This is a tradition. A rule of law that cannot be broken. I’m sure that there is some superstition attached to it, maybe even a curse. But I’m not worried about those things. As primal as I might become, I still understand that science governs the world and that the supernatural is a hoax.
I lean in close, whispering, “When have we worried about customs or rules?”
“I was not always like this,” Ashan says, a hint of shame in her voice.
I’ve never stopped to think about how Ashan had lived before our paths crossed. She was a hunter for sure, but the irreverent anger…that might be new. All along, I’ve believed that Ashan has been guiding me down this path of devolution, but we’re traveling the spiral together. My destination is just lower than hers.
“Her name will undo her,” I say, and I consider explaining how hearing one’s name affects the brain, that the middle-frontal cortex, middle and superior temporal cortex, and the cuneus light up. The effects are even more profound when your name is spoken by a familiar voice. It’s like smelling something from childhood. A mental transportation from the here and now, however brief. Short of a year-long science lesson featuring the past few millennia of medical breakthroughs, detailed anatomy and neuroscience, electricity, magnets, and ending with an explanation of MRIs, there’s no way she will comprehend how I know this. So I simplify. “It will bring her back. Even if it’s just for a moment. It could leave her vulnerable.”
Ashan takes a step back. “I can’t.”
“You want me to defeat Mapinguari, but aren’t willing to give me all the weapons I need?” It’s a manipulative tactic, and it feels wrong—Ashan deserves better—but what do I care about right and wrong? My desire is all that matters.
“I said, I can’t.”
The force behind her words snaps me out of my flirtation with abject non-caring. The truth is, even if I become the most feared beast in the Amazon, I will still care for Ashan. Still want her to be safe. And happy.
If disrespecting Mapinguari in this way crosses a boundary, I’ll respect it.
For now.
The seed is planted, though. She just needs time to mull it over. To let go of her own past, even if she isn’t becoming Mapinguari.
“Which way to Arawanti?” I ask.
“West,” Ashan says, and when I turn, I realize I’ve had my bearings in the jungle for a long time. Whether I can see the sky or not, I know which direction I’m facing. The Dalandala have different words for north, south, east, and west, and a simple understanding of how much territory they define. But I understand them well enough to know that traveling north or south won’t get me anywhere fast, but if I traveled due east, I would eventually reach Brazilian civilization. And if I ventured far to the west, beyond Arawanti, I would reach the mountains of Peru, and beyond them, the modern world.
I could leave this place.
I could save myself.
I’m already saved, I think, and I strike out to the west, where a man named Tikuna will inadvertently lay a trap for the monster that is his sister.
The monster that I am to become.
30
“Someone is following us,” Ashan says without showing any outward sign of concern.
“Uh-huh.” My simple response gets more of a reaction from her than the revelation that we’re not alone.
“What do you mean, ‘uh-huh?’”
She understands the wordless expression. I’ve been using it since we first met, along with, ‘yep, woot, huh, heh, hmm, and meh.” What she doesn’t know is that we’ve been followed for the past three weeks since striking out for Arawanti, and that it’s my fault.
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“It could be Mapinguari.”
“It’s not,” I say, feigning confidence. The truth is, I’m pretty sure it’s not. It started one night when I woke from a dream in which I was a moray eel waiting for an octopus to knock crabs off the rocks above. The deep dark pressure of the ocean unnerved me, and while I sat in the dark contemplating the dream’s meaning, I heard the sound of strong, chewing jaws.
In the jungle, only one land-predator can crunch through bones, so I knew it was a jaguar. That Ashan and I had not been attacked hinted that it had been Oro. In the morning, when the remains of our kill were missing, I said I had already buried them.
Since then, I have left food for Oro outside our camp and the cat—I think—has been following us since.
“Then who is it?”
“Oro,” I say, and when she looks at me like I’m crazy, I explain. “I have been feeding her. Leaving food.”
Ashan stalks toward me, anger flaring. “You left a trail?” She shoves my chest. “We want to trap Mapinguari, not allow her to slaughter us in our sleep.” Another shove, sending me into a tree’s rough bark. In the past, being stared down by anyone, m
an or woman, with as much force as Ashan is able to muster, I would have deflated. I would have placated, open-palmed. Anything to maintain the peace. But I am not that man anymore.
So I smile, knowing it will be gas to the fire.
Ashan shoves me again, this time with both hands. I’m not angered or hurt by the violence. It is deserved. She might even be right. “All this time with me, and I thought you had learned. I thought you were more. That you could become.” She shakes her head and scoffs. “But you’re still just a stupid outsider with the survival abilities of a blind, tailless monkey with shriveled testicles.”
My smile widens, this time unintentionally. That was honestly funny. The result is immediate and violent. Ashan draws one of her poison darts from the pouch on her hip and holds it against my neck, her body pressed against mine. Despite the threat to my life, I start to become aroused, and my smile does not fade.
It’s not long before Ashan notices, her eyes flicking down for a moment. She’s not sure what to think. Fearlessness is part of being Mapinguari. At the same time, it’s preventing her from making her point, which angers her even further.
“Can you do it?” The words come like a growl, and are then followed up by an actual growl, but not from Ashan.
And not from me.
We turn our heads toward the sound.
Oro’s head is partially concealed by a large leaf, but what we can see—her scarred eye and snarling snout—means business. She’s close to pouncing.
Ashan removes the dart from my neck. “If she attacks…”
One good jab from the dart will do the job, but I’m pretty sure Oro would fillet at least one of us before the poison took effect.
“I don’t think she will.” I say. “Step back. Slowly.” When she hesitates, I put my hand on her sternum and guide her away.
Oro’s lips twitch. Her eyes are locked on Ashan. Not me.
“Easy,” I tell the cat while opening my satchel.
“What are you doing?” Ashan asks, watching me with the same intensity Oro is broadcasting in her direction.
I ignore the question and remove a bundle of leaf-wrapped meat. I crouch with the bundle, unwrapping it. “Easy…”
When the meat is revealed, Oro’s wide yellow eyes are drawn away from Ashan. The snarl is wiped away by a licking tongue.
I peel away a strip of monkey. The two-day old meat is dry and doesn’t taste great, but I’ve seen Oro eat far worse. To a big cat, meat is meat. It means survival, and on more than one occasion, I have been the source of meat. Of survival. For the past few weeks, she’s watched me from the shadows, leaving her food.
I reach out, hand steady.
Oro’s nose twitches. She licks her snout, then looks from my eyes to the meat and back again, waiting for me to toss the food. That she approached during the day in full view of Ashan means she’s hungry. But I’m not about to just hand it over.
“You’re going to have to work for it,” I tell the cat.
She hisses at me, but her ears aren’t folded back, and her muscles are relaxed. She isn’t happy with me, but she’s not about to attack.
Ashan senses the shift as well, backing a few steps away and then squatting to watch.
I pinch the meat between my fingers and wiggle it around. “C’mon…”
Oro inches out from behind the leaf. I reward her progress by leaning in a bit and giving the meat another shake. “Go on, take it.”
She hisses again, but this time just seems more frustrated with herself than with me. With the inexorable slowness of a tortoise orgasm, she eases herself closer. When the meat touches her nose, she opens her mouth and gingerly clamps her teeth down on the meat. After a quick swallow, her eyes grow eager once more.
I produce another chunk of monkey, but don’t reach out for her. Instead, I slide down into a vulnerable seated position against the tree. Ashan and Oro both tense. In a world ruled by unwritten laws, I’ve confounded the pair by putting myself in a position of weakness, while still somehow maintaining my position of power. Oro could take the meat from me. She could kill me. And eat me. But she’s smart enough to know that I provide a steady, danger-free flow of meat.
When I hold out another strip, Oro’s mental confusion turns to simple-minded desire. She wants what I have and no longer fears me. So she steps closer with a suddenness that catches even me off guard.
It takes a level of discipline I didn’t know I had to not flinch or draw back my hand. I manage it, but the sudden shift of nerves leaves me having to poop. Clenching my ass, I hold my ground and let Oro take the meat from my hand again. Her teeth scrape against my fingers, letting me feel her power.
“You are beautiful,” I tell the jaguar.
She sits between my legs, chewing twice and then swallowing.
I tear away another strip. Oro could take it from me, but she waits, licking her lips. This time, when I offer the meat in my right hand, I raise my left toward her head. Her lip twitches, shifting from snarled warning to eager hunger.
“Don’t,” Ashan says. “She’ll take your hand.”
Oro focusses on the flesh when it reaches her nose. As she takes hold of it, I place my hand on the side of her neck. She flinches, and growls, but holds on to the meat. The monkey flesh is suspended between her teeth and my hand. As she tugs, I scratch. “Oro. Good, Oro.”
Her short fur is soft on the surface and course underneath. The large, black-rimmed, yellow eyes look almost gentle now. It’s an illusion, of course. Jaguars are almost impossible to keep as pets because they’re somewhat volatile. But I’m not trying to make Oro a pet, just a friend, someone she’d rather not eat when there are other options.
With each bite, Oro allows me to pet her a little more. “Oro,” I say again and again, withholding food until she makes eye contact upon hearing her name. When I feed her, I say, “Eat!” Then I scratch the side of her neck, behind her ears and the top of her head, positively reinforcing our contact with food. It’s a trick that works with any intelligent animal species, and I can see an instinctual intelligence in Oro that I once feared, and now respect.
“Who’s a good girl?” I say in adorable English. “Who’s a good girl?”
Oro dips her head down, looking for the next nugget of flesh. I place my forehead against hers, eyes closed. “Good, Oro.”
I place the last piece of meat on the ground between us. She glances at the food and starts moving to take it when I say, “Oro.” She stops and looks at me. I pet her. “Good, Oro. Good.”
“Eat!” She gobbles up the last nugget, and I rub her neck on both sides.
She lingers for a moment and then lifts her head, still hungry.
“All gone,” I tell her, showing my palms. “All gone.”
When I sense her gentle nature slipping away, I slide my hands from around her neck, scratching as I go. Then I move in for the kill, scratching under her chin. Her neck stretches out as she pushes down on my fingers, making my scratch harder. The more I scratch, the lower she gets.
When her head strikes my leg, she rolls onto her side, and then her back. I keep scratching, moving my hands down to her broad chest. And then I hear it, the rumbling purr of a man-eater. Food or not, Oro is content. After a few more minutes of rubbing, Oro swats her paws at me. If her claws weren’t retracted, she’s have sliced through my skin. Instead I feel the soft pads of her feet slapping my arms. I push her paws away, playing her game.
In the middle of my feline frolicking, I look to Ashan for the first time since our encounter began. Her cheeks are wet with tears, her eyes full of affection. She hasn’t said the words, but I know she loves me.
And I love her.
“And you,” I say to Oro, tugging on her cheeks as she swats at me.
I’m about to tell Ashan as much when Oro flips around, head raised, ears perked, eyes locked on the jungle to the east. Her nose twitches with the smell of something. She doesn’t hiss or growl, but she doesn’t linger either. Moving in complete silence, she walk
s low to the ground, heading west, away from whatever it is she’s detected.
Ashan rubs her thumb and index finger together. It’s her stealthy version of a snap, meant to get my attention. It could be a hunting party, or Mapinguari herself. One is a fight we don’t want, and the other is one we’re not yet prepared for, but neither of us like being followed, so we lay in wait.
Ten minutes later, we spot them in the distance. Ten men, each carrying a basket heavy with fruit and plants. We could tear through them in minutes. But we don’t. Ashan motions in the direction Oro fled and we head out once more, hiking through the day, and into the night, stopping only when the scent of smoke and the sounds of celebration fill the night.
31
It’s a party. I’m not sure what’s being celebrated—could be a wedding, birthday, or any number of seasonal events or harvests. While I’ve been steeped in the culture of Ashan, I still know little about tribal customs.
Unlike the Guaruamo and Jebubo tribes, which are closer to hunter-gatherers, the Arawanti are agricultural. Orchards of fruit trees and edible plants grow all around the large village, sweetening the air. Ashan claims they have several more growing grounds throughout their territory, and that many of the people here eat only what grows from the earth.
Strange that Mapinguari would come from a place like this.
The people seem happy.
There are a few bows scattered about, but no one is currently armed.
What happened to make a woman from this tribe become a feared monster?
What happened to me?
The question slams into my gut, but is quickly smothered by indifference to who I once was. That man, and everything he cared about, is a stranger to me now, too pitiful to even think about.
Ashan and I lie beneath a mango tree on the village’s outskirts. We’re covered in her special homemade piss-mud blend, which no longer bothers me. The party is in full swing. People feast and drink, sing and dance. The Arawanti people, unlike the other Amazonian tribes, are relatively free of body paints and piercings. They’re stocky people, accustomed to hard labor. Both men and women have the same, almost 1970s style, bowl haircuts. They wear thick sashes around their waists. The women’s sashes are open on the bottom, while the men’s look more like diapers.
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