Though he knew he looked like a grinning simpleton, Michael couldn’t keep a smile off his face. The inhabitants of Keyba Village had welcomed Shaman’s Wife with the same enthusiasm they had exhibited the day before in the boy’s tree ritual. Now they were bent on celebrating one of their enemy’s miraculous encounters with the Spirit of the keyba.
He and the others had begun the descent shortly after sunrise, and Michael had found that descending the huge tree was far easier than ascending. Bancroft had carried Shaman’s Wife, and Michael had descended with Alexandra, joined to her by a length of vine tied from her waist to his as a safety support. By resting at intervals, they’d made it safely down without mishap.
Now moving throughout the excited crowd, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of wonder on the shaman’s face. Reaching out to catch Delmar’s attention, he asked if the woman’s healing had surprised the shaman.
“No,” Delmar answered, “but he was astounded that you nabas could get the woman safely into the keyba.”
Michael had to admit the old man had a point. Each time he had to slip his prusik loops from one vine and tie them on to another, he had wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. The search for a cure had driven Alexandra up that tree, and Olsson was eager for any botanical adventure. Bancroft’s strong drive to serve had compelled him to join them, but he, Michael Kenway, had climbed the monster specimen out of concern for two terminal patients . . . only one of whom had been healed.
Now he could admit the truth. At the hospital he routinely signed DNR orders for patients who weren’t nearly as close to death as Shaman’s Wife had been last night. And while he cared for her as any man ought to care for a fellow human being, his concern for Alexandra had been the motivating force that compelled him to climb that tree.
He looked toward the place where the women of Keyba Village had gathered around Alexandra and Shaman’s Wife, their questing hands fingering the Indian woman’s hair and Alex’s cotton blouse. While Alexandra smiled blandly in confusion, Shaman’s Wife spoke freely, her eyes wide and her voice lilting.
Michael elbowed Delmar. “What are they asking her?”
Cocking his head, the guide listened for a moment. “They want to know if she wants to stay in this village or go back to the Angry People.”
“And her answer?”
“She wants to stay, of course.” The interpreter’s eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “You must convince her to leave. If you want to see Deborah again, the shaman’s woman must return to her tribe.”
Michael winced under a sharp sting of guilt. The miracle he had just witnessed had so completely filled his thoughts that he had nearly forgotten about their promise to return Shaman’s Wife to her people.
Looking at her now, though, he knew they had made a promise they should not keep. The woman fairly glowed with joy, and the gentle ministrations of the other women had evoked a smile that lifted years of suffering from the woman’s countenance. He could no more send her back to that primitive, hate-filled tribe than he could give a sweet to a starving child and return it to a barren desert.
He stole a glance at Alexandra, who staggered among the women like a sleepwalker. She looked at them with vacant eyes and nodded automatically while the morning sun highlighted the lines and dark shadows around her eyes and gaunt cheeks.
Reality swept over Michael in a terrible wave—Alex couldn’t understand why whatever had miraculously cured Shaman’s Wife had done nothing for her.
Grappling with questions, he moved to the shady solitude offered by a banana tree. He had just taken a seat and begun to evaluate the morning’s experience when Olsson, Bancroft, Delmar, and Baklanov approached.
The hulking soldier came right to the point. “We need to leave,” he said, kneeling in the grass. “We can’t risk having Deborah stay in that awful village another night.”
Michael leaned back, momentarily distracted from his troubling thoughts. “You’re right, of course.”
“Baklanov and I have all the samples we need for now.” Olsson patted his pockets. “Our data-gathering methods have been laughable, but we can always return with proper equipment.”
“I, too, am eager to return.” Baklanov smiled as his eyes drifted to the still-celebrating villagers. “But with the proper provisions, I could happily spend a month in this village. These people have joy.”
“Gentlemen,” Michael gestured toward the women around his glowing patient, “do you honestly think we should send Shaman’s Wife back to that horrible place? Look at her—that is not the face of a woman who wants to return to a village of sickness and starvation.”
Turning, Baklanov’s jaw dropped. “I would have sworn she was at least fifty years old.”
“She’s more likely twenty,” Michael answered. “The illness put those lines on her face.”
Bancroft’s squint tightened. “But we gave our word.”
“But do we owe honor to a dishonorable enemy?” Baklanov posed the question. “Perhaps we can approach the camp, create a distraction, and steal Deborah away. We may not have weapons, but we are five civilized men.”
“We are not five soldiers,” Olsson pointed out. “And we are traveling with two women and a child.”
Baklanov lifted a brow. “We could even the odds if some of the warriors from Keyba Village came with us. They are expert with these primitive weapons—”
“Absolutely not.” Michael crossed his arms. “You know these are peaceful people. We do not have the right to involve them in our struggle.”
“Why did we make that promise in the first place?” Bancroft’s question snapped like a whip, making them all flinch.
“It was the only way,” Olsson muttered. “They wouldn’t have let us go otherwise.”
Michael hung his head as the truth rose up to mock him. Why had they agreed so easily? To save their necks—and because they thought they’d be returning the same woman. Though he had earnestly believed in the existence of the healing tribe, he had not believed they could heal anyone as desperately ill as Shaman’s Wife. Help her, perhaps. Heal her? Never.
His words came out hoarse, forced through a tight throat. “The bargain seemed . . . reasonable at the time. And Deborah was willing—”
“Because she believed we’d come back for her as soon as possible.” Bancroft’s broad-carved face twisted in anger. “Why are we even debating this? Deb needs us, and we need to go get her. If we have to take Shaman’s Wife back to her people, then that’s part of the deal. If she wants to leave after we’ve gone, that’s her business.”
“You think they would let her leave?” Michael met Bancroft’s angry gaze straight on. “They’ll kill her before they let her go. We all saw how they treat their women.”
“I think we should return to our base camp at the lake, then go back to the river.” Every eye swiveled in Delmar’s direction as he spoke for the first time. “How do we know Dr. Simons is still alive? She may not be.” His face darkened. “You do not know these tribes like I do. If she resisted any of their commands, they would punish her. If she is still alive, she is probably wishing for death.”
“We are not going back to the river until we have attempted to rescue Deb Simons.” Bancroft spoke in a flat authoritative tone, probably the one he had used to command his SEALs. The tone proved effective with civilians as well, for no one argued.
Scratching at his chin, Delmar shrugged. “Whatever you say. But if you want to avoid bloodshed, you will have to convince the shaman’s wife to come with us.”