Bringing the Boy Home (10 page)

12 Years, 363 Days
The Amazon

T
he song leads me down the path then suddenly seems to stop. A rumble in the distance signals another storm and I hurry forward, desperate not to lose the voice. As the wind whips my hair, I cup my hand around my ear. I shiver as the strong breeze brings the singing back to me. It is the Takunami funeral song.

Thunder booms above me and I start to jog toward the woman's voice.

Suddenly, my skin erupts into goose bumps and I freeze. There is another sound. I hold my breath.

Padding paws. An animal.
A jaguar
.

The jaguar is the only animal my tribe never hunts or kills; we believe the spirits of our dead shamans live on in this sacred cat. The only problem is, this jaguar might not have the soul of a Takunami. It could be that of an enemy.

The shadows of the forest have disappeared. Nightfall will soon make it impossible for me to see. Looking for a way to escape the cat's path, I notice a heart palm on the trail in front of me. If I climb it, the jaguar might turn toward easier prey on the ground.

Crack!
A blinding whiteness explodes around me and a great force flattens me to the jungle floor. The earth vibrates underneath me and I scramble behind a bush and pull my knees into my chest. I smell smoke. What was that? Are the Good Gods trying to punish me? Was the singing a trap?

The hairs on my arms stand at attention; the air is filled with an electricity so heavy I could cup it in my hands. Hearing the flapping of wings, I peek around the bush and see a bright green
tooka
fly through the air toward me and then continue down the trail.
“Wee-wee-o,”
it calls, beckoning me.
“Wee-wee-o.”
I take a small step and peek out onto the path, gasping when I see what caused the explosion: a tree got hit by lightning. And not just any tree, but the heart palm I had thought about climbing. When I realize what would have happened if I had been here a little earlier, or the lightning had struck a little later…my body turns cold.

I tiptoe forward, stepping over the burning pieces of forest until I'm standing at the base of a smoldering tree.
The beetle grubs that were living inside ooze out like they're the tree's intestines. My stomach rumbles and I hesitate only a second longer before stuffing a handful into my mouth. Warm and soft, they taste like cheese, and I remember how excited I used to be when we harvested them. Quickly, I swallow and grab more.

Seeing a palm frond burning in front of me, I realize this tree
is
going to save me from the jaguar after all. A fire would be the perfect way to keep the cat away, and I've got a huge lit match right in front of me. As the rain starts to pour, I break branches off nearby trees and rip down clinging vines, placing them on top of the already flaming leaves. Shoving more grubs into my mouth, I shield the newly smoldering wood with other fronds until they too are ablaze. Then I set out for more. The fire devours everything, growing higher and lighting up the surrounding forest. I make ten more trips for wood, widening my search and snatching everything within reach. Suddenly, the jaguar howls again, closer this time. Clutching the sticks to my chest, I hurry back to the safety of the tree.

Eyeing the pile of wood I've collected, I calculate that if I only use two or three pieces every couple of hours, I'll have enough to make it through the night. It won't be a roaring bonfire, but it should be enough to keep the cat
away. I circle the fire with stones, to keep it from spreading, and then bow my head.
Thank you, Good Gods.

Squish, squish, squish, squish
. The jaguar's padded paws steadily approach.

I drop one end of a stick into the red ash; a flaming poker will be extra protection.

Swoosha, swoosha, swoosha
. Her slow, rhythmic heartbeat tells me she's in no hurry.

Suddenly, she stops and scratches the forest floor. Judging from the volume of her movements, it sounds like she's still quite a way away. Sighing, she lies down and begins to purr.

I pace around the fire, confused by her actions. What jaguar acts like this? Why did she stop stalking me? I pull the stick-poker out of the fire and nod at its glowing tip before propping it between my feet. Feeling confident by her distance and slow breathing that she won't charge, I sit with my back against a tree. As the adrenaline drains from my body and the fire warms my wet clothes, the exhaustion that I've been outrunning all day finally catches up to me. Leaning my head back against the wet bark of the tree, I think about home.

Joey. By now the bomb has been dropped on him; he knows about his parents' divorce. I wonder how he's
doing. Did he go to the soccer field and smash balls into the goal like he always does when he's mad? I wonder what I should say to him when I get home. Dropping my head in my hands, I try to imagine how I would want to be treated. My mind is a big blank hole and after opening my eyes again, I decide to ask Sara.

Sara. What did she do after she read my letter? Cry? No, that's not her style. I bet she immediately ran out and started looking for me—her and Juan Diego, yelling my name, riding up and down the river. I stare at the smoke still coming out of the heart palm. I hope Juan Diego convinced her to wait until the storm passed and it was safe.

Nothing had better happen to her.

The rain has slowed to a mist and I hug my knees for warmth, staring without blinking into the flames. Forms dance in the flickering embers—a parakeet, a lizard, giant ants marching. I watch the dance until my eyes get so dry, I have to close them. It feels so good that I decide to keep them shut awhile longer, only for a short time. Just a few minutes.

 

I wake up cold and shivering. A light drizzle continues to fall and all around me the forest is dark. My fire is dead. Jumping up, I grab the smallest twigs and bark from my
woodpile. When I blow on the gray ashes, I'm relieved to see a flicker of red blink back. I coax it with tiny pieces of dead fern, stoking the flames to life. Dumb, dumb, dumb! How could I have fallen asleep? The chill from the ground has seeped into my bones. I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering and crouch by the slowly recovering fire.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I listen for the jaguar. Her steady breathing assures me she hasn't moved.

The moon shines through the gap where the burning palm once stood. My senses sound a warning: I'm being watched. Turning, I peer into the darkness.

SOMETHING IS THERE.
My father's voice pushes into my thoughts. He is back.

I promised myself not to take his help.
Go away,
I think.
I don't need you here
.

LOOK…LISTEN…SMELL.
His voice is filled with urgency.

I know what to do. I don't need him to tell me.

THIS IS NO TRICK. HE WILL KILL YOU.

I reach for the burning poker I propped between my feet earlier. It has burned down to the size of a cigar, so I throw it back and grab the top piece of wood from my stash. Rotten, it breaks in two. I seize another stick and
spin around, searching the jungle.

I sniff. There is no wind, but the rain makes every scent easy to pick up. Whatever is approaching is not human. It's an animal. A big animal. Another jaguar—a male. I circle the fire, hoping to keep it between myself and the cat.

“Yeow!”
The female is awake and running toward me, but the male is closer. I pick up the vibrations from his vocal cords before they even become a sound. They form a growl so low and deep, it enters my body through my feet.

“Yeow!”
The female howls again. She is running at full tilt.

I DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS. THE CAT IS NOT A TAKUNAMI SHAMAN.

My mind is reeling.

HE WANTS YOU. STAY CLOSE TO THE FIRE. STIR IT. YOU WILL SEE HIS EYES.

I didn't ask you
, I shoot back angrily, rotating around the fire and stirring up the flames. I would have done this anyway.

I can feel the animal…behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see two glaring eyes. The cat is watching my every move.

A flash of lightning illuminates the forest. I stop
breathing. Crouched ten feet away from me is a black jaguar as big as two grown men.

Frozen, I watch the male jaguar stride forward.

“Go away!” I wave my stick. “Get out of here!”

The animal stalks toward me, oblivious to the flames. Fat raindrops land on my head and arms as I back around the fire. The storm is not over.

Lightning. Thunder. I see a brown and black mottled shape fly though the air. The female jaguar. And then I run. Looking back, I see them rolling around the fire, jaws snapping to reach that soft spot on the neck that will end it.

The sky opens into a downpour.

THE TRAIL SPLITS AHEAD. TAKE THE PATH THAT VEERS RIGHT.

I see the fork he's talking about.

IT'S THE LONGER PATH TO THE VILLAGE, BUT IT'LL BE EASIER FOR YOUR FOOT,
my father continues.
CAN YOU MAKE IT, SON?

Son?
My face burns at what he just said. How dare he call me
Son
. And why is he faking concern for me? After deciding I wasn't strong enough to waste effort on seven years ago, he's trying to make things
easier
for me now?

TIRIO?
My father's voice sounds worried.

Forget it
, I think, narrowing my eyes and picking up my pace.
Too little too late, Paho
. And then without even slowing down—without even hesitating—I ignore him and go straight.

12 Years, 364 Sunrises
The Amazon

T
he rain pounds the roof of our hut like an angry woman beating an old frond rug. I lie in my hammock and feel the thunder shake the ground. Usually I sleep my best during storms, but last night I couldn't even close my eyes. Yesterday at the funeral, when Karara stopped singing, the Good Gods clapped their approval in the form of thunder and opened up the sky. The storms lasted all night, teasing us with short breaks before returning for a second, a third, a fourth time. Lightning illuminates the room and I see the shapes of Maha and Sulali in their hammocks.

Thunder again, but this time it's in the distance; the storm is retreating. I rise and open the door. Pausing, I leave it cracked and tiptoe to Sulali's hammock. A braid has fallen across her cheek and I brush it away. She has not let anyone touch her hair since Karara left, and it now
lies knotted and dirty across her pillow. Her father is dead and her sister is gone. If something happens to me, her only family left will be Maha, a woman who has never once played with her daughter. I can't do that to Sulali. I hope the spirits don't ask me to.

Tukkita's hut is located down a winding path, isolated from the village. It is where the shaman before Tukkita lived and where the next one will too. The next one—that will be Karara. If she ever comes home. I feel my sister's presence as I walk up to the hut. I pray that she's here. I need to talk to her—to apologize, to find out what our father was like, to convince her to resolve things with Maha. After the funeral, she disappeared into the crowd and I never had a chance.

Sensing I'm outside his door, Tukkita pokes his head out and beckons me in. I step through the doorway.

“Karara is not here,” the shaman says.

I look at the ground.

“You are early for our meeting,” he says, walking toward a table and turning his back to me.

“I want to begin,” I explain, following him.

He doesn't respond, and I tiptoe around the fire to peek over his shoulder. On top of the table, I see a wooden bowl containing black powder and four short,
hollow pieces of bamboo.

Tukkita shoves some powder into one of the bamboo pieces.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Reaching down, he picks something up and slips it over my wrist. It's a vine attached to the leg of the table. “You are about to see your future, Luka,” he says. I suck in my breath.
Me?
Someone my age is usually not allowed to perform this ritual.

Sensing my hesitation, Tukkita stops packing the powder to explain. “When a boy's father dies before he has completed his test, I turn to the spirit world for advice. I was unable to see anything except a vision of you. They want to speak to you.”

After the bowl is empty, Tukkita separates the bamboo pieces into two sets. For the first time, I notice they are different sizes. “These are mine,” he says, pointing to the bigger ones. “These are yours.” He hands me a smaller one.

“Put this inside your nose and take a deep breath,” he instructs. “When I'm sure you've done it correctly, then I will go. We will each go twice.”

I shudder, remembering how Tukkita looks after doing this type of ritual—groaning and drooling and
trembling as though he's in terrible pain—but I nod and take the bamboo. I have no choice. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch one nostril shut and inhale quickly through the other before I can change my mind. Like powdered fire, the mixture explodes in my nose and then claws its way down the back of my throat.

I hear Tukkita's familiar wail and turn to focus on him. He's doubled over, a large empty bamboo in his hand. “Go again,” he commands hoarsely.

I lurch for the table. The room is spinning as I grab a piece of bamboo and quickly snort the contents. The second time, my nose burns as badly as the first. I gag as last night's dinner rises into my throat and spit on the floor, but the acidic taste of the black powder remains. My body numbs and I close my eyes. I feel as though I'm floating.

A quietness surrounds me and I open my eyes to see my spirit drifting above my body. Tukkita is below me, shaking his head and holding the last bamboo piece. It's one of the small ones and I realize what I did wrong.

Within a few minutes, the shaman is soaring next to me. He grabs my hand roughly. “No more mistakes, Luka. Close your eyes.”

My stomach rolls and my head pounds and I stare at
the back of my eyelids. Nothing is happening and I pinch my eyes tighter. Finally, from the right corner of the blackness, I see myself emerge holding hands with a young girl. Her walk is graceful but tentative and she bows her head away from me. She grips a bouquet of orchids so tightly the juice from the stems drips down her wrist. We walk toward Tukkita and, although I cannot hear what he is saying, I recognize the mark of the gi-gi berry he is placing above our hearts. We are getting married.

The scene fades to darkness and then opens to a picture of my wife washing clothes in the river. Her back is to me, but when she turns, I see she is clutching her stomach. I gasp. Her belly is round with child. The scenes flash by quickly, but I can tell by the change of day to night to day again, the birth was difficult. I see myself holding the baby, kissing him on the forehead and handing him back to his mother. Only then do I realize I still have not seen her face.

My wife leans over our little boy as he learns to walk. He grips her thumbs with chubby fingers and tries to balance between her legs. They are both smiling as they inch across a dirt floor.

Next, my son totters in the grass, moving away from my wife, who crouches nearby protectively. But something is wrong. My wife scoops him up and hugs him as
someone approaches. It is Tukkita. He speaks to her as my son laughs and pulls her earrings. After Tukkita leaves, tears begin to flow down my wife's cheeks. She buries her face in her hand and her shoulders shake. Our little boy also covers his face, and giggles.

There is a crowd of children running. One falls behind. He is limping. He stops. It is my son. My wife appears from nowhere and scurries away with him.

My wife hides behind a tree. She is listening to the shaman and me speak. She raises clenched fists to the sky.

I wait for another picture. Tukkita releases my hand. “That is all. We are finished. Open your eyes.”

But we are not finished.

“Luka, open your eyes!” Tukkita yells from below.
“Luka. Now. Open your eyes.”
I hear him but do not listen. I am still floating, and another scene appears. I watch.

The Amazon carries a canoe in its current. My child lies inside. A woman with white skin pulls the limp child from the boat. It is my son. He is dead. No…he reaches up and clutches her neck. He is alive.

Blackness.

“Luka!”

I am standing on the dirt floor of the shaman's hut.

“What happened?” Tukkita is so close, his nose touches mine.

My mouth feels like I've swallowed a sloth and I can barely pull my lips apart to ask for water. Tukkita hands me a cup.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“What did you see after I left?”

Leaning against a wall, I try to keep my body from shaking. My head is pounding and I don't know whether it is from the potion or from seeing my life play out in front of me.

“Swirling colors. I was hoping there would be more, so I waited.”

I quickly cover my face with the cup.

“Was there anything more?”

“No.” My voice is muffled by the wood.

I can feel him glaring at me. “I am sure you have questions.”

I finish the water and ask for more. Drinking slowly, I give myself time to think. “What do the visions mean?” I finally ask him.

Tukkita pokes the fire and narrows his eyes as sparks fly around him. “It has been decided that rather than take
your soche seche tente, you will marry and have a son.”

I wait for him to continue, but instead, he walks to the door and motions me out.

Not moving, I beg him to tell me more. “Tukkita?” I plead.

Still silent, he points a finger back toward the village. Does he know I didn't tell him the truth about what I saw?

Sighing, I do as he asks, but stop in front of him. Keeping my voice steady, I ask, “When will I marry?”

“Tomorrow, on your thirteenth birthday. Instead of meeting your father, you will join lives.”

“And the girl?” I ask. “Who's the girl?”

He cocks his head as if listening to something in the wind. Finally, he nods and gives me a small smile. “Maroma. Your future wife is Maroma.”