After dinner, Alex watched in profound admiration as Duke Bancroft and Milos Olsson used a slingshot to propel a weighted rope over a high branch, then tied Chavez’s pack of supplies and cooking gear to the end of the line.
When the line dangled four feet off the ground, Delmar opened the foul-smelling leather pouch at his waist and sprinkled the bundle with some sort of dried herb. “It won’t be completely safe from predators,” he said, retying his pouch. “The ants can get to anything. But at least we can make them work a little harder for our food.”
Alex shook her head as she walked to the area where she and Caitlyn had hung their hammocks. She used to think the Indians spent their days pursuing food because a lack of education forced them to live hand-to-mouth. Now she understood that the jungle itself forced the lifestyle—without electricity, food could not be refrigerated. Salting as a method of food preservation wouldn’t even work here because none of the jungle structures she’d seen could effectively prevent ants or termites from getting at the food. She guessed nothing but pesticide could stop the insects that ruled the jungle, but poisoning them would affect the entire food chain.
Stepping out from behind a tree, Caitlyn tossed Alex a roll of toilet paper. “How embarrassing,” she said, her cheeks glowing even in the deepening shadows. “I will never get used to going behind a tree.”
“Just be glad you have toilet paper.” Alex opened her pack and stuffed the roll inside. “The natives don’t even have that. They use leaves, remember?”
Caitlyn backed up to her hammock, then gripped the edges and swung her legs up and into the curve of the fabric. “What if they get a poison leaf? Wouldn’t that itch like the devil?”
“Another good reason for taking the time to study your jungle plants.” Alex pulled the mosquito netting down over her daughter, then secured the Velcro strip along the hammock’s edges. They’d received vaccinations for hepatitis A, yellow fever, and tetanus before leaving Atlanta, but they had skipped the malaria treatment, trusting the CDC’s promise that malaria would not be a problem in the Peruvian Amazon. Still, one never knew what illnesses ticks, chiggers, and mosquitoes could carry. Dengue fever was common in these parts, and Alex had heard that ailment left patients wanting to die. . .
Leaning over the netting, she saw that Caitlyn had clutched her stuffed monkey to her chest. So the fearless adventurer needed a little comfort, after all.
“Good night, honey. Don’t get out of bed after dark. If it’s an emergency, call me.”
“What if you’re asleep?”
“I’ll hear you.” She kissed her fingertips, then lightly touched them to the screen above her daughter’s face. “Sleep tight. And don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Or anything else, right?”
“Correct.”
“Roger that.”
“Affirmative.”
“Okay.”
Alex paused, searching her brain for another synonym. “As it should be,” she whispered, moving away.
She halted at the soft sound of weeping in the woods. After a quick glance to be sure Caitlyn was okay, she moved through the brush and found Lauren squatting on the ground, her hands over her face.
Alex glanced around, hoping Emma or Deborah would step forward to handle the younger woman’s emotional crisis. But neither of them was in sight.
Bending, she placed her hand upon Lauren’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Lauren shook her head. “No.” She lowered her hands, hiccupping a sob. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Alex straightened. “Well, the jungle isn’t easy. But this isn’t so bad, and you’ll get used to it in time—”
“It’s not the jungle, I can handle the jungle.” Lauren spoke in a rush, her words tinged with exasperation. “It’s . . . Ken. I shouldn’t have come to Peru with him.”
Alex folded her arms, stunned by the admission. “Well . . . it’s a little late to turn back now.”
The woman lifted her arm, wiping her damp nose on her sleeve. “The whole thing is wrong. He’s got kids, for heaven’s sake. I thought he would leave his wife and start over with me, but you should have seen how desperately he was trying to return her phone call back at the lodge. And did you see how he looked at me while we were eating? He hates me now, I know he does.”
Alex slapped at another mosquito on her arm, then stomped her feet, wondering if a moving target would dissuade the insects hovering around her ankles.
“I’m . . . I’m not smart like the rest of you. And I can’t do anything out here. I don’t even know why Ken brought me . . . after tonight, I know he doesn’t love me.”
Alex resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Listen, Lauren, I’d love to help, but I don’t have much experience in this area. I’ve always found that life is a lot simpler if you don’t try to bring your men home with you.”
Lauren broke into fresh tears. Alex patted her shoulder for a moment, then jerked her thumb toward the circle of hammocks. “Um, we’re going to get carried away by mosquitoes and who knows what else if we don’t get to our beds. Come on, let me walk you back. I promise, things will look better in the morning.”
Still weeping, Lauren stood. Alex escorted the woman to her hammock, pulled down the mosquito netting, then glared across the circle where Ken Carlton was talking to Bancroft, apparently oblivious to his girlfriend’s distress.
Men. What sort of insanity possessed them?
Walking back to her own bed, Alex slapped at a fresh squadron of mosquitoes on the back of her hand. The smoke from the fire kept the nasty little bloodsuckers at bay, but the fire was guttering now, and insects seemed determined to invade the camp.
Blowing out her cheeks, she slid her pack to the foot of her hammock, then took a last look around the camp. Alejandro Delmar knelt by the fire, surrounding it with enough green branches to keep the flame alive and smoky through the night. Bancroft stood like a statue at the perimeter of their encampment, his bare forearms glistening with perspiration and crawling with mosquitoes. Alex lifted a brow, amazed by the man’s stoicism, then shrugged. Maybe Deborah was right—the man was showing off. Or maybe deadpan cool was the usual demeanor for a Navy SEAL. Alex didn’t know and didn’t care.
She crawled into her hammock and secured the edges, then lay on her side with her palm under her chin. Her bones ached, having stumped over miles of jungle terrain, and her head buzzed with a dozen serious thoughts and hundreds of trivial ones.
Peering through the fine-mesh screen, she watched the men on the opposite side of the camp. Baklanov was having trouble with his hammock— the knot kept slipping down the tree he had chosen, so Kenway was helping him secure it to a more suitable tree. Louis Fortier had already gone to bed; Alex could see the outline of his form through the sheer netting over his hammock. Milos Olsson stood beside the smoky fire studying a broad leaf on his palm.
Her thoughts flitted back to a conversation she and the botanist had shared on the trail. “Leaves in the rainforest may live over twelve years,” he had told her, his eyes brightening with the prospect of discussing a subject dear to his heart. “In Sweden, of course, the leaves of deciduous trees live only four to six months; they die when winter approaches. But trees do not drop their leaves in the rainforest. And a tree’s leaves at the canopy are completely different from its leaves in the understory, did you notice? They are physically and physiologically different— they are smaller, for instance, tougher, and have a higher rate of photosynthesis.” He had grinned at Alex like a child discovering a favorite toy at Christmas. “It is amazing, yes? That a tree can produce two different types of leaves?”
Gamely pretending to share his fascination, Alex had nodded. “The evolution of certain plants never ceases to surprise me.”
She closed her eyes, forbidding her brain to replay the rest of the conversation. If she did not try to shut down her mental processes, she’d be reliving the entire day and forty or fifty different conversations.
She knew some sleep experts insisted that dreams were necessary for the brain to sift through the thousands of memories involved in a day fully lived. While dreaming, the brain reviewed the day’s events, filing important information and tossing out the rubbish. Trouble was—Alex stretched out on her back, willing herself to relax—her brain kept replaying every memory of the day without sleep to numb the process.
“Like having dental work done,” she murmured, “without the laughing gas.”
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star.” She drew a deep breath, conjuring up the mental image of a heavy blanket of weariness sliding over her legs, numbing her toes, her feet, her calves, her thighs. Eventually her brain would drop into a light doze, then she would sleep. Her heart rate and blood pressure would fall. The food in her digestive system would move more quickly, glucose consumption by her cells would slow as her muscles relaxed. Soon she would enter the evening’s first REM cycle, and she would dream . . .
Perchance to dream . . . who said that, Shakespeare? To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub. Yes, it was Shakespeare, and Hamlet in particular. Act 3, scene 1. From the “To be or not to be” soliloquy.
The heavy blanket image wasn’t working. Neither was the song.
She rolled over, turning her face to the jungle in the hope of finding rest in the encroaching darkness. But her thoughts would not submit, they bounced from thoughts of dead poets to sleep stages, from biology to anthropology.
On the long hike she had also talked with Emma Whitmore about indigenous groups. The anthropologist had told her that over half the population of Peru was composed of what she called the “first people.”
“There are many tribes,” she had said, “and just when we think we have located them all, another group appears. A few years ago a petroleum consortium tried to develop a gas field in the Amazon, but they encountered several nomadic and previously uncontacted tribes. Fortunately, even though Shell and Mobil had invested over $250 million, they withdrew from the project.” Her short white curls bobbed as she shook her head. “Contacting tribal groups is not without risk, and I’m not talking only about the financial side of things. In January 2002, scores of native people used arrows, machetes, and shotguns to clear out a group of men, women, and children who had invaded their land. They killed thirty-five people.”
Startled by the statement, Alex missed a step and nearly stumbled.
Emma released a humorless laugh. “Some of the settlers’ children were never found—experts think they may have been carried away to the villages. They’ll grow up as Indians.”
Alex turned to check on her daughter. “Is kidnapping a common practice in these parts?”
“Common enough. Over the years, more than five hundred white children have been taken by Indians in North and South America.”
“But why?”
Emma lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes the father takes a child to console a mother who has lost her own offspring. Sometimes a leader will lack a male heir. Rather than allow a rival’s son to assume his authority, he will take an outsider’s son and introduce him to the tribe as a compromise candidate.”
“But these natives—the ones we’re looking for. We have no reason to believe they would engage in this sort of thing, do we?”
“We know nothing at all about them, Alex. From what I can tell, Dr. Kenway’s native might be distantly associated with the Yagua, a peaceful tribe that for the most part has been successfully integrated into Peruvian society. But others have had no contact with the white man and his civilization. The Korubo, for instance, live in the rainforest near Brazil—we know they exist, but no one wants to sully their way of life by foisting contact upon them. The Amahuaca live in the jungle near the border, too, in a valley that used to support the Machiguenga, Yine-Piro, Yaminahua, Amahuaca, Ashaninca, Nahua, and Kugapakori tribes. Most of those groups have suffered greatly from their contact with the whites, who tended to treat them unfairly and expose them to diseases for which they have no resistance or cure.”
Guilt avalanched over Alex, pressing her down with its weight. Were they wrong to search for this healing tribe? She desperately needed what they might possess, but who could say what harm their expedition might do simply by entering an uncontacted village?
“I know the natives were often exploited during the Amazonian rubber boom.” Thinking aloud, Alex stared past the trampled trail into her own thoughts. “I know some missionaries have tried to destroy the Indians’ way of life. But we are not seeking their land, nor do we want to change their society. We only want knowledge—I want to know about a cure, you want to know about their people. Surely our little group will not harm them.”
“I certainly hope we won’t.” Emma had walked on for several steps, then added, “But contact with an unreached group is like a stone thrown into a pond. The ripples spread far beyond our intent.”
Alex clenched her fist as images of Emma and ponds and ripples pushed and jostled and competed for space in her brain. When the empty screen threatened to flicker with a new image, she opened her eyes to find rest.
Some nocturnal animal rattled the leaves of the palms near her hammock, but the sounds of human activity had faded. Alex rolled to her other side and studied the campfire. Everyone but Duke Bancroft had gone to bed. The muscled warrior sat alone by the smoking fire, his back ramrod straight, an impressive-looking black gun on his lap. His wide eyes were alert, his gaze flitted over each hammock as if he held himself personally responsible for the human treasure each contained. Alex smiled. Though she did not believe they would encounter the sort of danger for which Bancroft seemed to yearn, his vigilance was comforting.
She listened for steady breathing from Caitlyn’s hammock, but the insects drowned out those soft sounds. Concentrating on the insect noises, she thought she could hear the rhythmic sounds of chewing, then she heard light thumping sounds on her mosquito netting and nearly laughed aloud. Deborah had warned her that the setting sun functioned as a dinner bell for most of the jungle’s insect population. Shredded leaves and other bits of greenery would rain upon them all night as beetles and caterpillars munched their way to plumpness. To accompany the insect feeding frenzy, a pair of parrots in a nearby strangler fig crackled and cackled as they settled in for the night.
From studying her calendar, Alex knew that a quarter moon lit the canopy above, but just a few rays of moonlight penetrated this dark bower. Only in the clearing where Delmar had built the fire did shades of gray touch the gigantic tree trunks around her.
She lay silent for at least another hour, sitting up only when the solid sounds of snoring resonated from several points in the darkness. Bancroft had been relieved by Chavez, who sat in a black-and-white tableau, his chin resting on his chest, his hands curled around the weapon in his lap. Moving as silently as possible, Alex reached for the pack at her feet, dragged it to her belly, then pulled out her journal, a pen, and her flashlight. Crossing her legs, she hunched forward and opened the book, then began to write.
MONDAY, APRIL 7TH. OUR fiRST NIGHT UNDER THE stars, and even here I find it difficult to sleep. I tell myself this insomnia results from excitement, but Caitlyn, who was far more excited than I, is sleeping like a baby.
It is nearly completely dark here, and if not for my watch I would lose all track of time. My mind keeps rehashing the day’s events, and if I do not force myself to write, to think, I’m afraid I’ll soon start rehashing events from weeks and months ago. I’m beginning to feel like an Alzheimer’s patient—I’m told that people suffering from that disease revert to their childhoods because the earliest memories are the most deeply imbedded. At least I have not yet begun to relive my days of making mud pies in my mom’s garden.
The neurologist in me says I must stop the denial and face the hard truth—like it or not, I am 90 percent sure I have entered the early stages of FFI. Along with the increasing insomnia (accompanied by weariness, of course), I have observed an increasing tendency toward panic, ataxia, and dysarthria. Thus far I have been able to defeat panic attacks by anticipating them—and the simple fact that I am a female heading into uncharted jungle may disguise my anxiety, should an attack prove to be unstoppable.
The ataxia has not been severe—except for the one time my fingers spasmed on the climbing rope, I have not experienced any real difficulty. Tomorrow, though, if my legs suddenly refuse to obey my command to walk, I may find myself hard-pressed to explain my weakness.
I wonder if I could cite PMS as the cause for all my symptoms? Men certainly seem eager to blame female hormones for our perceived failures. Hmm . . . on second thought, I doubt anyone would buy that excuse, particularly Michael Kenway, M.D. A woman of my age should know her body well enough to have such things under control.
As far as dysarthria goes, despite my relative youth, I suppose I could attribute any stuttering or forgotten phrases to what my colleagues jokingly refer to as “senior moments.” I could even develop a sudden case of Tourette’s syndrome if the stuttering increases.
Fortunately, this trip will not outlast my disease. If I am right and I am well into the first stages, we are not planning to spend months in the jungle, only a few days. I am confident I can complete this trip with no major problems. What concerns me, though, is the research. If we do find a curative agent, the research and testing phase will take months . . . and by then my race against time will have become desperate.
Please, let us find the cure quickly. It frightens me to think how heavily I am depending upon Kenway’s story of the jungle man.
I can’t think about it. I’ll go crazy if I do. The rational part of my brain says that if my mind will not shut down, I should put this excess mental energy to good use and spend these nighttime hours postulating. One would think I could come up with some illuminating hypothesis or insight while the others are sleeping . . . but my thoughts seem only to chase each other, like puppies nipping at their littermates’ tails.
Is that, I wonder, a symptom of the disease or only overblown anxiety?
As confused as I am these days, I know one thing—we are closer to a cure than we have ever been, and each day finds me more desperate than the day before. If this is early-onset FFI, I have become symptomatic far earlier than my mother, but perhaps the reason is obvious. I have endured more stress than my mother at this age, and my immune system has to be considerably weaker. In this stressful place it will weaken further . . . just when I most need my strength, wits, and energy.
If I were a pessimistic person, I would tell Carlton the truth about my illness and ask to be evacuated and flown home. With rest and proper care, I might live another year. I could surround myself with friends before officially retiring to a nursing home, where I would finish my life in solitude, meeting death on my own terms.
But I must always consider Caitlyn. If she is to be free from the curse we carry in our bodies, I must press on. Though this journey is a gamble, I cannot withdraw now.
I cannot let this thing beat me. If it keeps me awake, I’ll try to use my conscious hours wisely. If it steals my muscular coordination and my speech, I will express my thoughts with pen and paper. I will find a way to communicate what I am thinking even if I have to point out letters on a keyboard by the direction of my gaze.
I will put the pieces together, and I will make others see the answer . . . as soon as we find it.
I feel like a stubborn player at a poker table. I’ve gambled before and lost big time, but the dealer just slipped me an unexpected pair of aces, and I’ll win if I can find another. Kenway is one ace—though the man arouses something in me for which I have no time or energy, I do value his expertise—and his story of Ya-ree is another. Now, if only we can find this healing tribe and make sense of their medical practices. . .
If only . . . if I could believe God did sit in heaven listening to our prayers, I would beg him to help me find the cure. But because I know heaven is a physical place containing solar systems, black holes, and a few zillion stars, I’ll ask my traveling companions for help instead. I’m grateful Carlton knows how to assemble a team—I don’t think I could have found better people to help in this quest had I auditioned the entire world.
At times like this I am tempted to pray—driven to pray, actually— but since I have disavowed the God worshiped by most of the civilized world, I shall have to invent my own. I believe I will call upon the God of Desperate Women in Tropical Straits: GODWITS, for short.
I’m a little out of practice with prayer—my mother never insisted on it, even at meals, and I’ve never been a member of an organized church. So here goes my first attempt:
May you help me, GODWITS, to maintain my sanity and preserve my strength. May you send sleep. And if you cannot do that, direct my steps so we find the cure we seek. May it be genuine, and available, and applicable to my situation.
For I have never been quite so desperate in my life.
Well, that’s it. I don’t know what else to do with prayer except offer an animal sacrifice, and it’s too dark and dangerous to venture out in search of a willing creature. Besides, I think GODWITS frowns on such things. Sacrifices are so . . . messy.
Time to roll over and count . . . caterpillars. Not even my fevered imagination can envision a leaping lamb in this place.