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Avá-Tapé lay with his back to the fire, listening to the sounds of the night coming to him from the darkness. Emptiness hung in the pit of his stomach and his body felt worn. His mind spun. What was happening with Father Antonio and the mission? He'd seen him angry before, but now he acted like another person.
The letter to the bishop and the talk of the white settlers worried him. Would they really make his people slaves? No. The bishop was coming. A man close to the Christian God wouldn’t let such a thing happen. The Jesuits wouldn’t give them up that easily either, but they might try to win the people back while he and his father were away, especially if they thought the settlers wanted to make slaves. He remembered Avá-Canindé and smiled. The big man wouldn’t let that happen.
He turned onto his back and envisioned Kuná-Mainó and her beauty that first night he had run from the church. Now he had glimpsed the sheen of her smooth skin, her curves, and everything else female about her. This last thought made his man part stir.
He pushed her from his mind. He had to think about Tupá and his chant. If he could find Tupá in his dreams and grasp his song, he could eat again and go back to the village.
Avá-Tapé passed more of the night awake than sleeping. When he did sleep he thought of Tupá, and while awake, all that had happened since the sickness had taken him. More often than not he saw Kuná-Mainó's smiling face, firm breasts, and smooth curves rising from the water.
When the black of night faded to gray, he felt as if he hadn't slept. The morning bird's first song came clear, crying out as if taunting. Smoke from the smoldering fire drifted toward him and a dull ache pressed down on his head. His throat felt dry, his stomach empty. Now that the day had come, he wished he could escape into sleep.
After stoking the fire he stared into the flames, wishing he could eat and wondering what he had to do to hear Tupá's song.
"Without food," his father said as if reading his thoughts, "your fire will move from your stomach to your head.” He opened his eyes and sat up. “Your spirit will lighten. Your stomach will yowl like a baby but it will soon grow quiet. Put your thoughts away from your body and let them go toward the world of spirits. Tupá will hear you. You must listen closely."
A patter came from above, and warm drops hit Avá-Tapé's head as rain started to fall. His father looked up and smiled. "Maybe he is giving you a sign. Let us find more plants."
Warm rain fell most of the morning as they chanted to, talked to, and collected plants. Avá-Tapé kept his mind open for signs of Tupá, but heard only the hiss of rain and the calls and chatters of animals. He grew used to the emptiness in his stomach, but felt weak. He knew his father wouldn’t eat either, until he heard Tupá's chant.
Avá-Tapé’s legs felt weighted. It was all he could do to keep up with his father, and he wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, but like the warm rain falling from the sky, Avá-Nembiará kept a steady pace. When it seemed they would go on forever, he stopped, set down his basket and sat on the ground.
Avá-Tapé recognized the remains of their fire. He dropped beside his father. The rain fell heavier, running down his face, back, and shoulders. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, put his head back and let the downpour fill his senses. The noise rushed through him like the sound of the rapids. He felt as if the water spoke to him as it had that morning by the falls.
The patter of raindrops slowed to an infrequent tap, and the birds began singing again. Avá-Tapé closed his eyes and listened to their music, hoping one might sing the song of Tupá, but a dull headache hung at the back of his skull, making it hard to concentrate. He opened his eyes and saw his father holding out the gourd he had filled with the pulpy juice beaten from the algaroba pod.
"Drink," he said.
Avá-Tapé took the gourd. It was warm. Tiny bubbles rose in the pulpy liquid. He looked at his father, then downed the sharp tasting juice. A short while later his stomach grew quiet and warmth spread through his body. Like the diminishing rain, his headache cleared and his energy returned. His thoughts had greater clarity.
"We have more plants to gather," Avá-Nembiará said. "More spirits to speak with. This is all we can do until you hear the song of Tupá." With great care, he laid out the plants they had gathered that morning. When he finished, Avá-Tapé followed him back into the forest.
A half moon hung in the sky that second night and grew toward fullness as the days and nights passed, but no songs came. At times Avá-Tapé felt light as the mist, other times he felt weighed down with rocks. Some nights his hunger kept him awake, slipping in and out of light sleep and vivid dreams. Father Antonio came, followed by Father Lorenzo, and Father Rodrigo, all begging him to come back to their God.
Kuná-Mainó came, making him feel the warmth of her beside him. Avá-Karaí would take her away. The añag chased him through the streets of the mission.
Other nights he slept in deep oblivion.
He and his father drank only water. When Avá-Tapé felt he had no strength, Avá-Nembiará would pound out more algaroba pods. Avá-Tapé looked forward to the warm, sharp tasting, bubbly juice and the energy it would bring.
He went to sleep exhausted one night, drifting between the worlds where he slept, yet felt awake. A familiar melody came to him, speaking of feelings without words. He wanted to sing with all his heart but could only grasp it in his mind.
"You have not heard my messenger," a directionless voice said. "You struggle to hear the words of men and miss the spirit of the messenger. Stop your thoughts and listen. His voice will tell you of meanings greater than those of men."
"Is this the song of Tupá?"
The space before him shimmered like water cascading over the falls, and the form of a man appeared. Tall and majestic, he had clear eyes like those of Jesus. A glowing headdress adorned his head. He held a bow in one hand, a spear in the other. Fierce yet wise. Warrior and hunter.
"Tupá", Avá-Tapé whispered. Joy filled his heart and the image rippled as though someone had thrown a rock into a pond. The face and the feathers on the headdress shone brighter and the melody came again. Avá-Tapé yearned for it with all his being until his fervor woke him. He looked up into the bright light of the full moon. His heart felt weighted with emptiness.
The silence of the forest held him until the lone cry of a morning bird floated to him on the still air. Disappointment sank his heart deeper. The same cries he heard every morning. His father snored beside their smoldering fire.
The trees and ferns stood out in silhouettes of black and silver, highlighted by gossamer moonbeams. The lone bird sang in a melodic trill. Its sweet chirps lifted his heart as the bird broke into full-throated song. Avá-Tapé’s vision blurred from tears.
He rose from his hammock and felt the bird's song carry his flourishing emotions into the surrounding trees until he sensed a presence, the same he’d felt while hunting the boar and in the dreams and visions that followed. The same that had been at the falls when the sound of the water, the sight and smell of the trees and ferns, and the cries of the animals had come to him as one.
A flash of winged silver flitted among the leaves as the rest of the forest came alive with sound. The bird's song stood out like a brilliant flower among the leaves. Every sight, sound and smell spoke in a wordless message that Avá-Tapé understood, but could not articulate. His chest expanded with emotions both full and empty. His heart ached. His tears flowed and his feelings rose, blending with the song of the bird.
His body moved and he began to sing and dance, not knowing the meaning of his words, only that they were the expression of his yearning. He became aware of the bird again, its song matching his in harmony, then the buzz of insects, the calls of other birds, and the chatter of monkeys all speaking as if to him alone.
The trees, vines, ferns, and flowers all spoke in silvery moonlight in their own language. They spoke to more than his eyes, with fragrances and textures.
His dance took on a life of its own, connecting him to everything he knew. The forest spoke through all his senses, making him feel as much a part of it as it became part of him. Everything it said he understood with his feelings; but his mind didn’t know what it told him, only that it spoke to his heart.
Giving himself over, Avá-Tapé sang and danced with the same abandon of his vision. His body moved, each step, each gesture imbued with feeling and meaning that moved with his singing. Any boundaries between himself and the outer world dissolved. He saw his father sitting up, first watching, then adding logs to the smoldering fire, coaxing it to flames. As the wood began to blaze, Avá-Tapé saw tears running down his father's face and knew at last that he had heard and sung the song of Tupá.