Michael finished his meager meal like the others—with a licking of his fingers and vigorous wiping of his hand upon his trousers. Several of his group stood to wander through the shabono after dinner, and no one made a move to stop them, not even when Bancroft walked to the exit and disappeared.
He frowned, not understanding their position. They were obviously not captives, and they had just been treated as the shaman’s honored guests. Though the Keyba warriors had been quick to attack the natives who guarded them on the journey, they had not made a single threatening gesture toward the new arrivals.
He noticed something else, too—beneath the paint all the men wore, none of them were tattooed. Ya-ree must have been something of an oddity in this place.
Sitting with his legs crossed and his arms folded, Michael watched the natives move through the routine of a dying day. A group of men gathered in an empty space, two of them playing drums while others danced in what must have been entertainment. One man played a reed instrument of some sort, but instead of producing a melody, the horn hooted a single note that served more as rhythmic punctuation than harmony. Mothers jiggled their babies on their knees and watched the cavorting men, their eyes glowing as the drums beat in a steady rhythm and the warriors shuffled in the circle. At one point the shaman pulled on a headdress of feathers and leaves and joined the dancers, but instead of shuffling, he stood with uplifted hands, chanting as he looked toward the sky that had gone pink in the long rays of sunset. A younger man joined him; they clasped arms and danced together in the light of the setting sun.
Emma recognized the significance almost immediately. “His son.” She gestured to the younger man. “The heir apparent, as it were.”
Michael glanced over at Alexandra, who sat a few feet away with her knees hugged to her chest. Her gaunt cheek rested upon a bony kneecap, and she had turned her face toward the fire, which deepened the shadows beneath her eyes.
“Are you all right?” He tossed the question to her in as casual a voice as he could manage.
“Fine.”
“Really?” Leaning back, he reclined on his elbows until his lips were only inches from her ear. “This won’t sound very gallant, but you’ve been looking a bit knackered.”
The thin line of her mouth clamped tight for a moment, and her thin throat bobbed once as she swallowed. “If that’s Brit-speak for exhausted, well, who among us isn’t?”
“It does mean exhausted, but I really meant to say you look ill.”
Her eyelids came down swiftly. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t think so.” He stared at her, willing her to open her eyes. “I may be a little slow, Alexandra, but I put the pieces together several days ago. I know you have FFI.”
Her lashes flew up; her eyes flashed a warning. “Don’t say a word.”
“I wasn’t planning on broadcasting it. But you’re going to need help getting back to civilization.”
“Maybe I’m n-n-not going back.”
She lifted her head then, peered around the gathering, then dropped her chin to her knees when she spied Caitlyn playing with a little girl in her mother’s lap.
Michael drew a deep breath. “Have you told Caitlyn?”
“I don’t want her to know. I came out here to find an effective treatment. If I don’t find it in time, I’ll—well, maybe I’ll stay and hope some of their good fortune rubs off on me.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I may be. Look at these people—they’re healthy.”
“They may not be infected.”
“Shaman’s Wife is. And if they can help her, they can help me.”
He stared at her, simultaneously alarmed and amazed at the echo of hope in her voice. He had doubted that Shaman’s Wife would live until they reached Keyba Village, yet in her half-hysterical mood Alexandra was almost daring these people to do something for the poor woman. He believed this tribe knew how to halt the shuddering disease, but nothing short of a blooming miracle would restore health to the fragile native.
He looked up as Delmar insinuated himself into the space between Alexandra and the fire.
“Delmar,” he said, knowing Alex would be grateful for the change of subject. “We need to ask the shaman about our patient. She’ll not live more than a day or two, but perhaps he can show us some way to make her life easier? One of the women attempted to feed her, but I’d be surprised if she ingested more than a tablespoon of mashed banana. She will soon be completely unable to swallow.”
Watching the warriors, Delmar nodded. “When the dance is done, I’ll speak to him. It is time we talked to him about why we have come.”
Finally, the dance slowed. As it did, Michael noticed that none of the dancers had snorted any sort of hallucinogens during the ritual. Parents for a Drug-Free America could endorse this group. If not for the dancers’ nudity, this performance would have been rated G.
When the warriors had dispersed, Delmar gestured to the shaman. The old man approached slowly, a pleasant smile on his face, then sank to the ground before Michael and Delmar. After giving Michael a look of frank curiosity, he turned his attention to the translator.
Gesturing broadly, Delmar spoke, then pointed to the sick woman on the travois. The old man listened, hesitated a moment as if to be sure Delmar had finished, then answered in the same rough language the guide had used.
When he had finished listening, the guide turned to Michael. “I told him we brought the woman to this place for healing while the Angry People hold one of our tribe for exchange. He understands this, but I’m not sure I understand his response. The language is like the Angry People’s, a blend of other tribal tongues, but he uses words I’ve never heard before.”
Interrupting, the shaman pressed his hand to Delmar’s arm and began to speak again. Michael recognized the tone—his coworkers in Iquitos spoke Spanish to him in exactly the same way, as if they were talking to a slow-witted child.
“He says,” Delmar translated, keeping one eye on the shaman as he spoke, “that the spirit of sickness lives in everyone from birth, and everyone knows this. It lives in the Angry People, and it lives in this people, too. Those who do not approach—I think that’s the word, but I can’t be sure—the keyba will sicken and die with the shuddering disease.”
The shaman continued, the guttural words pouring out of him as he pointed around the shabono, then he lifted his hands and looked up as if he were describing some wondrous sight.
“Even their children,” Delmar translated, “are taught about the disease that lives within them and the importance of approaching the keyba. So from an early age parents train their children to be strong, they teach them how to walk the keyba.”
“Walk?” Alex interrupted. “Are you sure that’s the right word?”
Delmar asked the shaman a question; the old man grinned as he responded.
“Yes, like a monkey in a tree,” Delmar answered. “The children must know how to walk the keyba. And when they are old enough to act for themselves, they approach the keyba, and there they are healed forever.”
Something about the word forever rankled Michael’s nerves. This mysterious ritual might have something to do with halting the destructive activity of prions, but these people were far from indestructible.
Alexandra looked at the shaman with skeptical eyes. “Does this keyba heal only children?”
Delmar repeated the question; the shaman shook his head.
“Adults, too,” Delmar explained. “Any woman or man who is willing to approach the keyba will be cured.”
Alexandra crooked her finger at Michael, then filled his ear with an angry whisper. “There’s no proof of anything here, Kenway. If they cure healthy children, how do we know they were sick in the first place?”
“He said they cure adults, too.”
“Adults who can walk the keyba. That doesn’t sound like they’re curing anyone who is seriously sick.”
He shook his head in exasperation. “A while ago you were ready to stay here forever.”
“That’s before I knew they were curing people who probably aren’t even sick.”
“Ya-ree was sick. You saw the photo—”
“Your patient might have come here in the early stages and left while he was still ambulatory. This keyba treatment might not have helped him at all.”
Leaning back, he considered her words. She had a point—they had no proof that anyone of this village had ever been infected with a prion disease. As far as he could see, Shaman’s Wife and Alexandra were the only sick people within miles of this place.
Alex would require more than hearsay evidence to be convinced these people could help her.
He gestured to Delmar. “Does the shaman know Ya-ree?”
The shaman flinched at the question, and Delmar threw Michael a warning glance. “It is taboo to speak another man’s name, especially if he is dead.”
“Sorry—I keep forgetting about that. So ask him—” Michael hesitated, carefully choosing his words—“if he knows the man with many tattoos—the man who is not here now but once was. Tell him we have come because that man told us about this place.”
Delmar translated; the old man’s face spread into a wide grin. He clapped his hands as he answered.
Staring into the fire, Delmar translated. “He says the Great Spirit of the keyba told the tattooed man to go to the shabono of the nabas. He suspected that is why we have come.” Scratching his head, the guide gave Michael a dubious smile. “It’s as if we were expected.”
“I don’t get it.” Alexandra crossed her arms. “Is this keyba their god? Is he a spirit or a totem somewhere out in the jungle?”
Delmar asked the question in a respectful voice, and the shaman looked directly into Alex’s eyes as he replied.
“He says,” Delmar translated, shifting his weight as the shaman stood, “that if you are not too tired, he will take you to see the keyba. But we must go now, or it will be too dark for us to venture out.”
“So it’s a tangible thing.” Emma, who’d obviously been listening from where she lay by the fire, sat up and brushed sand from her sleeves. “These people are so different from the other tribes. Most indigenous groups in this region are pantheistic; they worship spirits of the trees and animals, but these people—”
“Are genuinely unique—and probably not nomadic.” Michael grinned as he stood, savoring this small victory. “Whatever this keyba is, it must be terribly large in order to inspire such awe. So this group remains in one place in order to worship it.”
Emma pushed her lower lip forward in thought. “I suppose stability could account for their quality of life, but only to a degree.”
“I didn’t see anything that looked like an idol when we came in.” Alexandra reached out, silently asking for Michael’s help as she struggled to stand. “No totems, statues, or rock formations.”
Michael bent as he offered his hand, shielding her from Emma’s view.
Apparently oblivious to everything but her own thoughts, the anthropologist stared past the opening of the shabono. “It may be located in a sacred grotto. You wouldn’t want to lose your god if an enemy tribe came raiding, so you would hide him in a sacred place. You’d want him close, but not too close.”
The shaman took two steps, then turned, a watchful expression on his face.
“He’s waiting,” Delmar said, leading the way.
With Alexandra clinging to his arm, Michael nodded. “We’re coming.”
As Alex, Emma, and Michael moved through the shabono, Caitlyn, Baklanov, and Olsson rose and joined them.
Michael ducked to clear the low entryway. After passing through the long tunnel—the alana, the shaman called it—they stepped out into the field they had crossed after leaving the jungle.
Michael moved carefully through the fruit trees, conscious of Alex’s faltering steps at his right side. To any observer they must have looked like two friends walking arm in arm; only he and Alexandra realized how completely she clung to his arm.
“Are you all right?” He kept his voice low so Caitlyn wouldn’t hear. The girl moved ahead of them, running through the waist-high grass with a stick, beating out the flying insects that had settled in for the night. “Perhaps you should stay behind and rest.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.” A bright flame of defiance lit her eyes. “I’ve come a long way to see this . . . thing.” She lowered her gaze. “But thank you for the help. I knew . . . I knew I could count on you.”
He lowered his gaze, remembering how hostile she had been at their first meeting. He had almost resolved to maintain a safe distance from her, but people weren’t always what they appeared to be in first meetings, were they?
Following the shaman, they strode casually through the field and its clusters of fruit trees. Michael noticed the length of their shadows on the grasses; if they did not soon find this keyba, they’d be moving about in darkness—not a pleasant thought, despite the round moon already shining in the eastern sky.
The shaman stopped and lifted his hands, his head snapping back as he stared upward with rapt attention.
“Keyba,” he said simply. When Michael reached the old man’s side and followed his gaze, the word needed no translation.
The object of the shaman’s veneration was not a stone, an idol, or a totem, but a tree—a gigantic specimen towering above a buttressed trunk that sent thick gray tentacles snaking through the earth at their feet. He had noticed the solitary tree when they approached the village, but after so many days in the jungle, the sight of yet another tall tree had not left much of an impression.
Milos Olsson was the first to speak. “Not keyba,” he said, his eyes traveling up the length of the enormous tree. “The English word is kapok, otherwise known as Ceiba pentandra.”
“In Brazil, we call it sumauma.” A note of wonder filled Delmar’s voice. “We have many such trees, but none like this. Truly, it is the largest I have ever seen.”
“The Yagua call it ceyba.” Emma walked forward, one hand rising to her hip as she looked up. “And it has long been associated with legends.” She shook her head. “I should have known. Shamans have invoked the spirit of the kapok tree for generations. The plant is an important part of indigenous culture, for not only is it used for medicine, but for communication.”
Michael turned to look at the anthropologist. “How so?”
The woman’s face spread into a wry smile. “We call it the jungle telephone. See those roots? They’re hollow, for the most part. And when they are beaten with a club, the sound echoes for miles.”
Delmar grinned. “It is true. When I was younger, I once lost my bearings in the jungle. I found a sumauma tree and called for help— men from a nearby village arrived within the hour.”
Michael laughed softly. At least he now knew why Ya-ree had referred to his tribe as the “Tree People.” They lived in the shadow of this sky-scraping tree.
Alexandra’s hand tightened on Michael’s arm. “But if our theory is true . . . how does this keyba cure people from prion diseases?” She shifted her attention to Delmar. “Will you ask the shaman if his people eat it?”
The interpreter asked; the old man giggled before responding.
“The animals eat the seeds,” Delmar translated, turning back to Alex, “but not the people.”
The shaman repeated a phrase he’d said earlier, beating the air with his hands to emphasize his point.
“He keeps saying they walk the tree,” Delmar said, his tone dry and weary. “They walk the tree to approach the keyba.”
“They climb it?” Alex tipped her head back until her chin jutted toward the darkening sky. “I don’t see how they could.”
“It would seem they do.” Michael gestured toward the west, where the sun was sinking toward a livid purple cloudbank piled deep on the horizon. “If you wish to talk further, I suggest we carry this conversation inside by the fire. In another ten minutes, the mosquitoes will be so numerous we’re likely to be carried away.”
“And other animals,” Caitlyn added in a matter-of-fact voice. “Jaguars are nocturnal, and I think I saw feline tracks in the dirt around the tree—”
“Then by all means, let’s get moving.” Smiling at the girl, Michael extended his hand, then led her and her mother back to safety.