Alex gaped at Michael Kenway as he spread his hands and began to speak to the shaman. His cultured voice simmered with barelychecked passion, and the others couldn’t help but hear. As Delmar translated, men, women, and children from around the shabono halted their activities and came near to listen.
“Long ago, before the jungle existed,” Michael paused between phrases for Delmar’s translation, “Yai Pada yearned for companionship. So he created a great host of spirits, beautiful creatures with wings and the ability to change their shape.”
The Indians looked at each other, their eyes dark and unreadable in the firelight, but no one interrupted or voiced an objection. From her time in the jungle, Alex knew the concept of a spirit world was neither unfamiliar nor surprising to them.
“One day,” Michael continued, “one of the winged spirits grew tired of obeying Yai Pada. He wanted to be the greatest spirit, the one whose voice would be instantly obeyed. So he convinced many of the other spirits to leave Yai Pada’s bright land and come with him.”
Though Delmar translated in a flat monotone, from the murmur of wonder that fluttered throughout the assembly, Alex knew Michael’s words had struck a chord.
“When Yai Pada created the world, he placed a man and a woman in the center of a beautiful orchard. He filled it with gentle animals; the snakes did not bite, the jaguar did not attack. Everything was perfect, and everything in the land enjoyed peace. Then the rebellious spirit decided to speak to the people.”
“Omawa,” the shaman interrupted.
Michael lifted a brow at this, and Emma explained. “The leader of the evil spirits is called Omawa. The Yanomamo also know about him.”
Michael gave Emma a perfunctory nod and turned his attention back to the shaman. “Omawa spoke to the woman and tricked her into disobeying a command of Yai Pada. By obeying Omawa and not Yai Pada, she proved herself unwilling to live in peace with Yai Pada. Though it pained his heart, Yai Pada sent the man and woman out of his perfect orchard and into a jungle where animals attack and vines sting.”
After hearing the translation, the shaman crossed his arms and sniffed with satisfaction at this evidence of jungle justice.
“Many, many seasons passed. The people had children, and their children had children. Some of them loved Yai Pada and tried to hear his voice; others listened to the lies of Omawa and the spirits who had followed him. Those who obeyed Omawa killed each other, took revenge, and asked the spirits to kill their enemies. The spirits were happy to do this because Omawa delighted in death and destruction. His greatest pleasure was bringing pain to the people Yai Pada had created for joy. He taught the people how to kill, to rape, to twist the truth into lies. Because of this, all people after the first two were born with a sickness. It is not a sickness of the body like the shuddering disease, but a sickness—” Michael thumped his chest—“of the spirit.”
In dazed exasperation, Alex looked around the circle. The guileless natives were eating from Michael’s hand, absorbing every word. Even Emma Whitmore seemed fascinated by Michael’s retelling of the creation story, though her expression was more analytical than rapt.
“Because Omawa had tricked the people so completely, Yai Pada put his spirit in flesh and came to earth. This one—you could call him Yai Pada Son—he alone was not born with the spirit-sickness, because his father was not a man, but Yai Pada. He came as a baby, he grew to be a shaman, and he suffered all the sorrows other men suffer. Even though he knew he would die a shameful death, still he chose to live among us . . . until Omawa tricked the people and told them Yai Pada Son was evil. The people believed this, and they killed him.”
The natives’ faces took on an inward look as they absorbed the translation. In order of age, a frown appeared on each countenance as its owner comprehended the significance of divine death.
“But the Son of the Great Spirit cannot die. The fires of the pit could not hold him; his body healed itself. Yai Pada Son walked among men many more days, then he flew back up to heaven. Now he sends his Spirit out to anyone who will choose him instead of obeying the spirits of Omawa.”
Michael folded his hands and looked directly at the shaman. “You and your people know about the Great Spirit. He has blessed you with healing and showered you with joy. But he wants to send his Spirit to live inside you so you do not have to walk the keyba to speak to him.”
The old man blinked several times, then a rush of color flooded his face, as though the story had caused younger blood to fill his veins. Curling his hands into the sand by the fire, he picked up a handful, then slowly, methodically rained the dust over his head.
“We have done much evil.” The shaman dropped his sandy hands into his lap. “We are not like the babies who can fly into Yai Pada’s land when they die.”
“Yes, you are right,” Michael agreed. “But after a killing, do you not hang your weapons on a tree to rid yourselves of shame? The tree takes your killing weapons and makes your hands clean. Yai Pada Son does the same thing. As a man, Yai Pada Son committed no evil, yet he died on a tree to take your shame. He accepted your evil deeds so you can be clean, yes, as clean as a baby who flies to Yai Pada’s bright land.”
Question filled the shaman’s eyes as Delmar interpreted: “So— when we die, are we like the babies?”
Michael smiled. “Yes. When Yai Pada Son lived on earth, he cut a trail for you to follow. When the time comes for your body to die, the hawk will carry your spirit to Yai Pada’s beautiful land.”
As Delmar translated, the shaman stared into the fire, his face shifting to the look of a man who has just walked into a surprise party. A moment later the lines of heartsick weariness faded from his face. Raising both hands, he cried out, “Yai Pada Son!” and no translation was required.
Following their leader’s example, every man, woman, and child lifted their hands. Chanting “Yai Pada Son” again and again, they danced for joy, arms and legs and bodies jumping in a melee of celebration. Having made a communal decision to embrace the Son of Yai Pada, they congratulated themselves with warm hugs, wide smiles, and more whooping than Alex had heard in her life.
Irritable and confused, she drew back from the fire, pulling in her legs lest she be trampled in the merriment. Caitlyn sat next to her, her face rapt with interest, and Olsson and Baklanov leaned against the wall and watched in amusement. Between the two men, Emma wore a frown the size of Atlanta.
She caught Alex’s eye, then leaned toward her. “He has no right to meddle in their religion!” She yelled to be heard above the din. “More harm has been done to native people groups in the name of God than anything else.”
Bancroft cast Emma a scornful glance. “Why don’t you stick a sock in it? They’re happy. And they believed in God long before we got here. They just didn’t have the full story.”
“The full story as you know it,” Emma countered.
“The full story,” Bancroft insisted. “They deserve to know the entire truth. What they do with it is up to them.”
Sighing heavily, Alex lowered her head. She intended to bring her hands up to block the sight of Kenway’s overactive new converts, but a cold sweat prickled on her jaws when her arms trembled and did not obey. She flexed her arms, trying to stop the trembling, but they continued to . . . shudder.
The truth crashed into her consciousness like a jet disintegrating on the ocean surface. Athetoid tremors resulted from the destruction of brain fibers responsible for the inhibition of muscle movement.
Her disease had just taken a giant step forward.