Bringing the Boy Home (13 page)

13 Years, 1 Sunrise
The Amazon

I
fell sound asleep as soon as my father left. The last thing I remember is swinging my uninjured leg out of the hammock and listening to the hushed sounds of the village getting ready for bed. An anaconda could have slithered into the hut and swallowed me whole and I wouldn't have realized until I woke up in its belly the next morning.

“Drink,” Paho says when I finally open my eyes. He helps me into a sitting position and hands me some tea. “For your leg.”

I take a sip and cringe at the bitterness. My father hands me some honey. “You can escape from a hungry jaguar yet you cannot drink tea without honey?” he teases.

I hear the clanging of pots outside and two women talking. I think of Sara and my heart sinks. I'm sure she's still looking for me. She won't stop until they find me…
or my body. “How long did I sleep?”

“The sun is now midsky.”

I do the math in my head. I've been gone three and a half days. She must be crazy with worry.

Glancing down at my leg, I see it's been bandaged with a po-no leaf and crisscrossed with vines. I look like I'm wearing Roman gladiator boots.

“Sulali covered it while you were asleep. To keep the flies off,” my father explains. He nods behind me. “She figured you might try to walk today.”

Leaning up on my elbow, I turn around. A wide-eyed young woman, not much older than me, steps hesitantly into view. Gliding over, she kisses me on the forehead, a traditional greeting for nonmarried family members. A single long braid of hair falls over her shoulder as she leans down. She pulls it carefully out of the way. “Congratulations on becoming a warrior,” she says in a soft voice.

“I don't feel like much of a warrior right now,” I laugh. “But
shu-u-we
. Thank you. And thank you for what you did.” I motion to my injury. “My father told me that you're really good with helping sick people.”

The reed door is pushed open roughly and we all jump in surprise. I stare at the serious-looking man
who stomps into the room. His eyelids are rimmed in red and his fists clench and unclench at his sides until he hides them behind his back. I look to my father, but he doesn't seem worried, so I relax.

“It is good to have you back,” the man says. He looks familiar. Why?

“Tirio, this is our shaman, Kiwano,” Paho says. “He took over after Tukkita died.”

Kiwano! The name registers in my head. That's why I recognize him. He was the only other Takunami boy who did not climb trees besides me, when I was younger. Maha had whispered that it was because he had seen the Punhana when he was in a tree, and after that he refused to ever go up a tree again.

I stare at him now, shocked at how old he looks. Older than my father, yet I know he is much younger.

He shifts his gaze away from my surprised face and speaks to the wall. “The tribe has been told of your journey,” he explains, “and they would like to hold a celebration in your honor—and Luka's as well. A double soche seche tente celebration.”

I grin, and so does my paho. When we look at each other we both start laughing.

Kiwano shakes his head and strides toward the door.
“Tonight, the feast of the warriors. We will welcome you into the tribe as the men you have proven yourselves to be.” He grunts and leaves.

We immediately start preparing. Sulali brings us some gi-gi berries, and my father and I paint each other's faces red. I have dreamed of wearing this mask many times, and now it is finally happening. My smiling face does not match that of a ferocious warrior, but I don't care. I couldn't hide my excitement with the dye from a million gi-gi berries.

I ask for another po-no leaf and attempt to decorate my right leg so that it matches my left. After watching my struggles, Sulali sighs and pushes me gently aside. She rolls her braid up into a bun and skillfully mimics the look exactly, then does the same for my father when he asks.

“I like it,” he says, strutting around the hut.

I give him the thumbs-up and then have to explain what it means.

He hands me some white feathers from the
ikulu
bird and we use
rioba
sap to attach them to our hair. This tradition is a show of respect for the Good Gods, thanking them for allowing us make it to this point in our journey of life. It's also a request for continued protection in our new roles as warriors. The white feathers
are the most important decoration of all and I add extra, hoping to show that I realize how much the Good Gods helped me.

Takunami males are born three times: once out of their mahas' bodies into the world, once out of their boyhood bodies into manhood, and once out of their physical bodies into the spirit world. We enter each phase as we entered the first one—naked. As I strip down now to my skin, I truly feel as though I'm shedding everything from my past and starting new.

Bam, bam, bam, bam
. Pause.
Bam, bam, bam, bam
. Pause.
Bam
.

The beating of the drums calls us out. Trying not to lean too heavily against my paho, I limp down the path and into the circle of women and children. A young boy touches the back of my leg and I jump. His mother slaps his hand and hisses a warning. I grit my teeth in pain but manage a smile, and they both quickly lower their eyes.

Kiwano waits for us by the fire, and after we take our seats on two carved stools in the center, I scan the circle of brown eyes staring at me. The women look at me with respect and the children with awe. I lift my chin and clench my jaw. For the first time, I see myself as everyone else does—as a Takunami man. Kiwano pounds his staff and lets out a long, low wail. The women begin yipping
and yapping and the men sneak in on tiptoes from the shadows. In twos they run toward us. As soon as their feet enter the circle, they begin dancing as if their souls are on fire and the only way to stamp it out is through their feet. Although I am able to maintain the stern face of the warrior, inside a little part of me is yipping, yapping, screaming, singing, and dancing too.

While Kiwano is placing the strings of black warrior beads around our necks, I see a woman in the circle duck her head and peer over her shoulder toward the forest. She is the only one not transfixed by what is going on in front of her.

A feast is served, and Paho and I are honored with the best of everything. The most tender parts of the peccary, the coveted eggs of the
torucha
turtle, and the rare
boquri
fruit are all piled high on large, flat pieces of manioc bread and served to us by Vaku, the latest boy who became a warrior. It will be our responsibility to serve the next warrior.

I eat like a person who's been out in the jungle for two days, shoving way too much food in my mouth and only stopping to blurt out
shu-u-we
to the line of people laying gifts of arrows, dye, and spears in front of us. The whole time, I continue to watch the woman closely.

After Vaku brings me my second helping, I pause and
turn toward my father. “What is she looking for?” I ask him, nodding in the woman's direction.

He puts down the bone he is gnawing on and motions toward the blackness of the forest.

“Her eldest son is out there.”

“He's taking his soche seche tente right now?”

My father nods.

I stare at the woman. She hasn't touched her food, yet every time she looks away, the old woman sitting next to her reaches out a gnarled hand and picks at it. I want to assure her that her son will be fine, that he will return alive. I want her to enjoy the ceremony, so I can too.

After the food, there is more celebrating and everyone is dancing: the women, the children, even the pet parrots bob their heads to the drumbeats. I keep thinking about Sara.

I tap my father on the arm.

“I have to go,” I say.

27 Years, 73–74 Sunrises
The Amazon

I
am not ready to lose Tirio again so quickly.

“What about your leg?” I ask, motioning to his wound. “You cannot walk like that.”

“Can I take one of your canoes?” he asks. “Just to get me back to my boat?”

I remember the night Tukkita and I consulted the Good Gods, the night I saw the vision of a six-year-old Tirio alone in a suwata curara being pulled away from me by the river. It is not something I want to experience again.

“One man cannot make it paddling against the current. I will go with you.”

He grabs my arm. “No, Paho. The Takunami are a secret and they must remain that way,” he says. “I just need you to help me get to my boat. It has a motor.”

Motor?
I do not know the word.

He shakes his head and laughs. “It's not important.
But just know I'll be fine.”

A group of children circle us and start singing a song.

“
Shu-u-we
.” Tirio smiles and claps when they finish. Giggling and pushing, they scatter away.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't want to leave all this. There is still so much I need to do: go hunting and fishing with you, move into the men's rohacas together…” He turns toward the worried mother still staring out into the darkness. “I want to stay and see her son stumble into the village, exhausted but successful in a couple of days and be the one to serve him his celebratory meal.” He pauses. “But I can't.”

His eyes look into mine, and I can see by the crease between them that he's not asking for approval. He's asking for understanding.

I nod, and with my next words I hope I give him both. “You are a man now,” I say. “You must take care of your family.”

The lines on his face relax. “
Shu-u-we
, Paho.”

“We can leave with the sunrise.” I hand him a cup of fustitu. “Now let's return to celebrating your success.”

“
Our
success,” he corrects me.

I drink half of my cup and then throw the rest on the fire as an offering to the Good Gods. Tirio does the same. The fire hisses and dims but then flares up high
into the night sky. The black ash turns gray as it rises and fattens into clouds. I tilt my head to watch the smoke form shapes and float toward the moon, like children being called home.

 

The next morning, as soon as it is light enough to see, Tirio and I head for the river. Some of the men grunt their good-byes as we leave the men's rohacas, others look away, angry that such a strong warrior is allowed to leave the tribe.

Kiwano gave his blessing last night. “The Good Gods approve,” he said after staring into the fire for a long time. He then shoved his staff into Tirio's hand.

“It is filled with healing spirits,” he promised gruffly. “If you are not going to let me help you properly, it is the best I can do.” He then turned and disappeared in the darkness toward his hut.

Sulali comes running up to us now, gasping for breath, and hands Tirio a couple of leaves. “Here are some things to help with your pain,” she says. “I'm not a shaman, but my sister was very generous with her knowledge when she used to have to watch me. I wanted to get them fresh this morning.”

“We must go now, Sulali,” I say. “I will return soon.”

She leans in and kisses Tirio on the forehead before heading back toward the village, her newly braided hair swinging in eight separate sections along her back.

 

When we get to the wash area, the sun is still only halfway visible above the river, and out of habit I stop to make sure the gate is closed. By the time I turn around, Tirio is already lowering himself carefully into the canoe, chewing on one of the leaves Sulali gave him. He is even stronger than I had thought. As I push the boat off, I tell him that we are going to stay close to the bank.

“The river is weaker here and we are hidden,” I explain.

In response, he nods and starts paddling strongly on the left side of the boat.

Watching the muscles in his back work, I feel a surge of pride and match my pull rhythm with his. The boat surges forward, the river letting us glide along easily, as if she understands that this is the last time I'm going to have a moment like this.

By midday we reach the caiman den. Tirio holds up his hand, motioning me to stop, but I continue paddling. There are two boats on the beach ahead, and I hear a man and woman speaking.

“I am going to stay with you until the end, Tirio,” I
whisper. “Please. Allow me this one last thing.”

Again, he only nods.

I keep the canoe close to the jungle, allowing Tirio and me to sneak up on the couple and see them before they see us. They are on the other side of a shelter, bent over something, arguing, and do not even hear me help Tirio out.

We stand and stare at each other for a moment, until he finally reaches out and hugs me.

I feel his heart beating against my chest. Or maybe it's mine beating against his. I cannot tell.

Kuiju, my son,
I think.

I love you too, Paho,
he replies.
I love you too.

Still unnoticed, we pull apart. Holding two fingers in front of his lips, Tirio motions me away.

I climb into the canoe and push off. After Maroma died, I grew to hate the Amazon—all it did was take people from me. Now as I paddle home, I forgive the river. At least once, she brought someone back.

 

I now know who my son is. He is a man with a strong soul but a wound in his body. I am the opposite. I am a man with a strong body but a wound in my soul. By passing our soche seche tente, Tirio and I have earned the honor of being called warriors. And warriors leave the
scars of their boyhood behind them.

Tirio is alive and his spirit is safe. Maroma and I did our jobs. The past seven years and so many deaths were not wasted. I must let him go.

Tonight when I return to the village, Kiwano will consult the Good Gods. They will choose a second wife for me, and in a few sunsets we will get married. We will try for a son. I will never forget Maroma or Tirio, but I must move on. I must survive. It is the way of the Takunami.