She whispered, “I think Popeye likes you.”
The warrior gestured for them to follow. Micah fell in behind the bearers. Glancing back, he saw a tiny figure skulking through the brush, shadowing them.
Once he got a clear look at the stalker, he muttered, “You gotta be kidding.”
It was the late Queen Caveira’s monkey, warily following them. Then Micah noticed something much more alarming. The remaining warriors were eagerly testing out their newfound blades—by decapitating the dead pirates. Each proudly held up a severed head then fell in behind the group toting their trophies.
Eyeing them, Catalina said, “I’m calling that a positive sign.”
“Why?”
“’Cause they ain’t cutting our heads off.”
“They’re not untying us either.”
“Give ’em time. Remember, we’re the invaders here. If they hadn’t found that piece of meteorite our heads would probably be going on the trophy shelf. We’re lucky you didn’t throw it away.”
Micah said, “But that’s the crazy thing… I did.”
#
After a long trek, Micah saw clusters of gardens being tended by tribal women. That and the distant smell of cooking fish meant the village was close.
Through the fog-shrouded rainforest, Catalina made out structures up ahead. “I think we’re there.”
The young track star must already have spread the news. A group of warriors were gathered outside the village, awaiting their arrival.
The village itself was a cluster of large yanos, or longhouses, encircling an open communal area. From their size, Micah guessed each yano could house at least fifty people, meaning a population of between three and four hundred. At least a hundred tribesmen stood at the outskirts of the communal area, while others shyly peered out from the longhouses.
The warriors carried Faye to the center of the village, gently setting her down on some animal skins. The little girl was barely conscious, occasionally contorting from waves of pain. An elderly woman holding a gourd knelt beside Faye and poured steaming liquid into her mouth. She coughed most of it up until the woman massaged her throat, allowing the concoction to flow more easily.
A young girl unwrapped the leaves around the snake bite and spat more of the berry juice onto it. Once the wound was coated in purple saliva, she began massaging Faye’s leg.
Micah and Catalina were led to a spot about twenty feet away. The squinting warrior gestured for them to sit. Micah attempted to go to Faye’s side, but the elderly woman unleashed a torrent of what he assumed were obscenities until he took his assigned place.
A cluster of young girls knelt beside Faye, singing a ritual chorus.
Micah asked, “Why won’t they let me near her?”
“I think it’s a ritual, and they don’t want you to screw it up.”
Catalina, who’d been exposed to a myriad of languages, listened in fascination. She whispered to Micah, “It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard. They sing like birds, I mean literally like birds. It’s beautiful.”
The warriors maintained a respectful distance while proudly showing off their collection of heads to the other men. Any that ventured too close to Faye were warned off by the elderly woman.
Catalina muttered, “Yeah, bitches clearly rule around here.”
Micah watched sullenly and said, “Batista claimed these people were cannibals.”
“Well, A, Batista’s a murderous asshole. And, B, maybe that’s just what they want people to think. They might take heads just to scare away outsiders.”
“It’s workin’.”
Catalina asked, “So, we know their language is unique, but what else have you seen?”
“Huh?”
“Come on, you’re not some reality TV dildo anymore, you’re a man of science and we’re the first people to ever contact this tribe and live. So how about making some observations?”
He knew she was just trying to distract him by busying his mind but elected to play along.
“Okay, they’re tall, way taller than most Indians, and their skin is darker, more like Africans. And their legs are really long, almost like the Nilotic tribes of the Sudan.”
“What else?”
“Most, maybe all of them, have a red ring around their corneas. It might be a genetic deformity or nutritional deficiency.”
Catalina said, “Wow, am I the only one that noticed their heads?”
She was correct. Every villager’s head was elongated. It wasn’t the microcephaly, or “pinhead syndrome” seen in old sideshows. It was more of a gracefully sloped “five-head” matched with an elegantly elongated skull. They resembled ancient Egyptian statues.
Micah said, “That’s some kind of ritual head binding, like the Mangbetu of the Congo. They believe it imparts wisdom.”
“Yeah, except—” Catalina cocked her head towards a nearby woman holding an infant “—that baby’s like three weeks old.”
The newborn’s red-ringed eyes stared at them intently. Micah noticed its elongated head.
“Son of a bitch, it must be genetic.”
He studied the other tribesmen. Fortunately, the tribe considered staring to be a compliment and happily returned the gesture. He sat, studying them for at least two hours, his nerves soothed by the young girls’ heavenly chorus.
He asked Catalina, “So, CIA agent, what’ve you observed?”
“That, so far, nobody’s tried to kill us, and I have to piss like a racehorse.”
The chorus abruptly stopped, replaced by the most beautiful sound Micah had ever heard.
A soft voice whispered, “Daddy.”
“Faye!”
Micah tried to get to his feet, only to land facedown. He fumbled in the dirt until the warrior Catalina had christened Popeye helped him up.
Micah ran to his daughter, shouting, “I’m here, baby.” He dropped onto his knees, placing his head onto her chest, tearfully whispering, “Daddy’s here.”
Faye hugged him, and, in a weak voice, said, “My stomach hurts,” before throwing up on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, princess.”
The old woman shoved Micah aside and brought another gourd of the concoction to Faye’s lips.
The little girl shook her head, saying, “It’s gross.”
Struggling to get up, Micah said, “You have to drink it, princess, it’ll help.” And, for the first time in his adult life, Micah found himself thanking God and any saints he could remember from childhood.
Faye choked down the contents of the gourd, making a scrunched face.
Laughing out loud, Micah said, “Hey, that’s your spinach face.”
The old woman wiped the poultice away from the bite wound. The horrendous swelling and inflammation was gone. All that remained was a neat pair of Dracula-like punctures.
Micah muttered, “Impossible.”
The old woman spat a fresh coat of purple gunk on the wound.
Catalina came up behind him and said, “That’s incredible.”
Micah muttered, “It’s a miracle, a godda—a genuine miracle.”
The old woman tore open Micah’s already ragged shirt, spitting berry juice on his roadmap of cuts and bruises. He felt a cool sensation, and, within seconds, the pain he’d struggled to suppress began ebbing away.
The young girls clustered around Catalina, pawing at her clothes.
Micah reassuringly said, “Let ’em do their thing. This stuff’s incredible.”
The woman tore Catalina’s shirt open, revealing her bra. The bare-breasted village women whistled with laughter at the sight then coated her array of cuts in berry juice. Another girl deftly plucked some leeches off her back.
Catalina said, “I didn’t know I was so banged up.”
Micah replied, “I have a feeling we’ll be showroom quality again after this stuff.”
The leader of the warrior party came over and prodded Micah while pointing to a central longhouse.
&n
bsp; Micah said, “You know, they really like shoving people around here.”
“Don’t take it personally, I think they’re still scared of you.”
With another push, the man steered him toward the longhouse.
Micah shouted back to Catalina, “Stay with her!”
She yelled, “I ain’t going anywhere,” then smiled at the giggling young girls snapping at the elastic on her bra.
Micah was guided into a large, smoke filled longhouse, adorned with totems of carved wood and braided grass. He’d spent enough time around indigenous people to recognize a shaman’s hut. In the center, a group of elderly women clustered around a reed mat. At the far end, a trio of young girls sang in hushed, impossibly melodic voices. Though he was a lifetime agnostic, Micah couldn’t help being moved by the reverence on display. The warrior ushered him closer, this time without the shoving.
Upon seeing Micah, the elderly women stepped aside, revealing a man laid out on the mat. Micah looked down and his heart skipped a beat.
It was the old man he’d seen in the rainforest.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Micah knew the old man must be the tribal shaman, revered above all others. Up close he looked positively ancient. His face was a roadmap of deep wrinkles, with only wisps of gray hair on his head. Sweat glistened off his frail, almost emaciated body.
The warrior tugged at the flex cuffs binding Micah’s wrists. After some frustrated attempts at untying them, he slashed the plastic apart with his newly acquired knife. Once Micah was freed, he gestured for him to kneel down next to the old man.
Micah saw the bullet wounds in the shaman’s chest, each coated in the purple berry juice.
Micah muttered, “I bet those were a gift from Batista’s first expedition.”
The poultice must have kept him alive, but the combination of internal injuries and age were an unstoppable combination—the shaman was dying.
The warrior knelt down at the shaman’s side, pressing the meteorite fragment into his hand. As soon as he did the old man’s eyes opened. He looked up at Micah, and, despite the injuries, his red-rimmed eyes beamed with a childlike radiance.
This isn’t possible, Micah thought, this old geezer couldn’t even walk out of this hut, never mind wander around the rainforest. But there was no mistaking it. It was him, right down to the bullet wounds.
The old man smiled at Micah, though doing so seemed to take all his strength. The expression on his face said, I’ve been waiting for you.
Holding the shaman’s wrist, the warrior raised up his hand while gesturing for Micah to extend his. He did, his mind reeling with a thousand questions. The shaman squeezed his hand, the meteorite fragment pressed between their palms. It felt like Micah had grabbed a live electrical wire.
And, in that instant, all his questions were answered.
#
Catalina tried to stand still as Popeye sawed away at the flex cuffs binding her wrists, painfully aware that the rumbling in her stomach was reaching a crescendo.
“Try to hurry that up, Popeye, or we’re both gonna be in trouble.”
Eventually they snapped free. Popeye toyed with the plastic cuffs, amazed at their strength. Catalina massaged her bruised wrists while recalling that movie The Gods Must be Crazy. She hoped they weren’t contaminating the local culture.
Popeye watched Catalina massaging her wrists, looking concerned. Catalina smiled and gave him a reassuring thumbs up gesture. Popeye glanced into the air to see what she was pointing at. Catalina couldn’t help laughing out loud. Popeye awkwardly returned the thumbs up gesture while whistling his version of laughter.
Though still weak, Faye was sitting up and receiving small gifts from the village children.
For the adults, the novelty of their arrival had worn off and it was back to business as usual. A cluster of warriors were sharpening arrows while chattering loudly. Catalina assumed that, like most men, they were exaggerating their hunting exploits. The village women stood next to them, roasting impaled poison dart frogs over a fire. The heated frogs secreted a sticky white mucus. Once that happened, the women handed them to the warriors, who scraped the white venom onto their arrow tips. Popeye walked over to the group and the younger warriors all made a point of holding up their sharpened arrows for his approval.
Catalina watched with amusement, thinking, Wherever you go in this world, a sergeant is still a sergeant.
Noting the mountainous stack of arrows, she muttered, “Okay, something big’s going down.”
A bout of dizziness forced her to sit. Her forehead was clammy and, despite the heat, she was shivering. In the course of their exploits, she’d swallowed a ton of river water and the local insects had been using her as a chew toy. She thought, I think you’re looking at malaria with a dysentery chaser. Her stomach rumbled audibly and she muttered, “I wonder where these nice folks go to take a dump?”
The old woman heard the rumbling and shoved a gourd into Catalina’s hands, miming for her to drink. She obligingly took a long swallow. The concoction was pungent to the point of nauseating.
With a giggle, Faye said, “I told you it was nasty.”
The old woman forced her to take two more swallows before slipping into the Shaman’s longhouse.
Within minutes, Catalina’s fever died down and her rumbling bowels declared a truce.
“I’ve got to take some of that stuff for the road.”
A sense of relief washed over her. It wasn’t just the pain subsiding, it was the revelation that, somehow, they just might survive.
Faye pointed at the central longhouse, asking, “What’s Dad doing in there?”
“I don’t know, baby, but I don’t think we should interrupt whatever it is.”
And they waited … for three hours.
#
Faye was fast asleep, her head in Catalina’s lap, when Micah finally emerged from the shaman’s longhouse. Instead of joining them, he just paced back and forth, mumbling to himself while clenching and unclenching his fists. Sensing his agitation, the villagers steered clear of him.
Catalina tried to get up without awakening Faye, but the moment she moved, Faye’s eyes shot open and the little girl scampered over to her father. Micah hugged her, but his thoughts were clearly a million miles away.
Catalina asked, “Hey, when you went in there, didn’t you have a dislocated shoulder, some broken ribs and two black eyes?”
Flexing his arm, Micah said, “Yeah. They slipped me some of the magic elixir. I’m feeling almost a hundred percent.”
“Except you’re bouncing around like a teenager who lost his Ritalin. So, how about tapping the brakes for a minute and telling us what happened in there?”
Micah took a few breaths. “Sorry, it was pretty intense. I met the shaman and went on a little trip.”
“Seriously? After all that’s happened you picked today to start doing ayahuasca?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. Well, kind of like that, except without drugs. The shaman told me everything.”
“He spoke to you?”
“He didn’t have to, he showed it to me.” Micah tapped his forehead. “In here. And get this, he’s the same old man I saw in the rainforest!”
“Uh, okay, but remember, you’ve been conked on the head about nineteen times since this all started.”
“True, but ask yourself if that’s crazier than the stuff we’ve already seen.”
“I’ll admit, the definition of normal’s gotten … rubbery.”
Micah knelt down to Faye and said, “Honey, you stay out here for a minute. Nobody will hurt you.”
The little girl smiled and said, “I know that,” then scurried over to her new friends.
Micah grabbed Catalina’s hand, saying, “Come with me. Maybe he’ll show you too.”
He pulled her into the hut but stopped in his tracks when he saw the old woman reverently sewing the shaman’s body up in jaguar hides.
Micah muttered, “Oh shit, he’s dead.” H
e turned to Catalina. “But he was alive a few minutes ago, I swear.”
His voice was louder than he’d intended, earning a harsh look from the old woman.
Catalina whispered, “Relax, I believe you, now let’s give these nice folks some privacy, ’cause you’re definitely gettin’ on that old lady’s tits.”
Once they were outside, she said, “Now, how about giving me the Cliff Notes on your long strange trip?”
“Okay, short version. Batista was right about one thing. The Anomaly is old, I mean really old. But it isn’t a meteorite.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s a spacecraft, or a probe of some kind.”
“If it’s a spaceship, where’re the aliens?”
Micah gestured towards the villagers. “You’re looking at ’em.”
#
Batista stood atop the dam’s crest, watching his men’s progress. Under his iron hand the crater lake had become a hive of activity. He’d started his expedition with donkeys, tractors and enough manpower to do all the heavy lifting. In their absence the back-breaking task of hauling the generator up and over the dam was being accomplished by a combination of block and tackle, downed tree trunks and pure muscle. It was the same method the pharaohs had employed building the pyramids. Even the white-jacketed valets from his yacht were forced into becoming beasts of burden.
Hans cringed as the twenty-man work gang lost their momentum, sending the generator sliding back ten feet. Fortunately, the block and tackle caught it. Even after being stripped to its basic components the generator still weighed in at over five thousand pounds.
Wiping his brow, he asked Batista, “Do you think they’ll really be able to get it over the dam?”
“Of course. We can’t let losing our pack animals slow us down. Why, back in fifteen fifty-nine, Lope de Aguirre traversed the entire Amazon with only a hundred and fifty men, enslaving most of the tribes along the way. Most of them died, but he achieved his goal and declared himself King of Peru.”
“And why did he do that?”
“Because it was an era of true empire builders who didn’t let trivial things like rivers or natives stand in their way. An age of giants.”
Batista watched the line of men haul the generator another five feet until one of them collapsed under the strain. He lay there in the mud until Santos delivered a sharp kick in the ribs, inspiring him to get back to work.
Primeval Waters Page 23
