| |
Night fell and Avá-Tapé tumbled into his hammock without eating. He dreaded the souls of the dead who waited on the other side of sleep, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. To his amazement, no visions, nightmares, gods or dead came to him.
He awoke to the fresh smell of cedar. The warmth of the sun told him he’d slept past the morning bird’s song. He sat up, and the events of the past few days filled his mind like water crashing over the falls. Father Antonio, Pindé, Avá-Takuá, the others—gone. Death and thunder had ravaged the forest.
He listened to the rush of the river, letting its voice calm him. The sound of someone chopping wood and the hushed voices of people brought him out of his hammock, anxious to see if their warriors had returned and whether his mother had grown stronger.
Two more canoes had been built. Men, women, and children worked on three more. He spotted Kuná-Mainó scraping the inside of one canoe with a rock. His mother sat off to one side, her face expressionless, her posture stiff. Avá-Canindé and Avá-Guiracambí dragged another felled tree into the clearing. A smaller circle of women made paddles out of branches.
He waited until they had dropped the tree before approaching Avá-Canindé. "Where is my father?"
"Gone to look for our warriors."
Avá-Tapé's heart lurched. "They haven’t come back?"
Avá-Canindé shook his head. "If they don’t, no more canoes need to be built. If that is so, we are still in danger from the man-hunters. We have to go down river before the sun leaves the sky."
Avá-Tapé grabbed an ax and began chopping branches off the log which had just been dragged in. Avá-Guiracambí joined him, while Avá-Canindé went to check on the work of the others. Avá-Tapé put all his energy into hollowing out the log.
By the time the sun had risen to its highest point, his father still hadn’t returned. Avá-Tapé's trepidation grew. If his father didn’t come back he would have to lead, and he didn’t have the strength. Where were the gods? Where had Tupá gone? Was the God of the white man angry because the people had listened to Tupá?
He closed his eyes and saw the eyeless face of Father Antonio glaring down from the cross. How could a God let such a thing happen to one of his servants? Was it the same as allowing his only son to be killed?
Tupá wouldn’t let his people do such things, but he didn’t have the power to stop others. Did his power only come from the spirit world? Could the people only be led to the Land Without Evil through death?
The day grew warmer. He stopped chopping and went to the river to wash off the sweat. When he came out of the water, Kuná-Mainó waited with a gourd of water. He drank and touched her cheek, whispering thanks. She smiled and brought water to Kuñá-Ywy Verá, but she didn’t drink. Avá-Tapé knelt in front of his mother. Her face looked haggard, her eyes empty, as if she no longer lived in her body.
"You cannot go on like this." He took the gourd from Kuná-Mainó and held it to his mother's lips. "If you don’t eat and drink, you will die!" he said, louder. "Do you hear me?" Water ran from her mouth and dribbled down the front of her shawl. Her eyes didn’t move.
He shook his head and handed the gourd to Kuná-Mainó, who took his hand and pressed it to her face. "Your mother's body is with us, but her spirit is gone."
Avá-Tapé heard something coming through the trees. Watching for movement, he spotted his father running toward him.
"Our warriors are gone," Avá-Nembiará said breathlessly. "They fought and killed many of the man-hunters, but they could not stop the thunder. We have to go in the canoes now. Avá-Canindé, take one canoe of men to lead, then the women, children and ancient ones. Go now. Fast!"
His words ignited a flurry of activity. Men dragged canoes to the water. Women and children tossed belongings into them. Men grabbed paddles and pushed off. The first of the canoes drifted into the water and disappeared around the bend. Two more were dragged to the shore, loaded and shoved off. Avá-Tapé hustled his mother and Kuná-Mainó into the next canoe, while Avá-Guiracambí grabbed bows and spears and started toward the path Avá-Nembiará had taken to find them.
"How close?" Avá-Tapé said.
"They are coming down the riverbank by now," his father said.
Most of the canoes had made it into the water. The one with Kuná-Mainó and his mother drifted toward the bend. One canoe remained.
"Go," Avá-Guiracambí said to Avá-Tapé. "The people need leaders. I will stay until you are in the water. We cannot let the enemy get a canoe."
Avá-Tapé, his father, and the remaining men pushed off in the last canoe. As it slid off the bank, Avá-Guiracambí ran down after it.
Thunder burst from the trees and Avá-Guiracambí stumbled face-first into the water. Avá-Tapé ducked. Kuná-Mainó's scream sang out over the water. He thought she'd been hit, but then a long, anguished cry pierced his heart and he knew that she cried for her father.
More thunder boomed. Water splashed and bullets thwacked the side of the canoe, but the currents pulled them along. After more shots, the thunder stopped. Avá-Tapé ventured a peek over the side of the canoe and saw one of the man-hunters pull Avá-Guiracambí from the river by the hair and fire a muffled shot that sent parts of his head scattering over the waters.
The waters carried him around the bend until he heard nothing but the ripple of the water and the heart-wrenching cries of Kuná-Mainó. Her grief tore his heart more painfully than any weapon he could imagine.
Once out of range of the guns, they sat up and paddled furiously. By the time the whites and their man-hunters built canoes and got them into the water, the people would be too far ahead to catch, but their freedom had been costly.
Kuná-Mainó's cries quieted, but for Avá-Tapé, their pain continued to haunt him. When he pushed her sorrow from his mind, other thoughts flooded in.
The eyeless glare of Father Antonio.
The limp body of Pindé.
The bloody death of Avá-Takuá and the cruel attack on Avá-Guiracambí.
He tried to free himself by calling forth good memories: playing with his sister when they were smaller; Father Antonio's happiness when Avá-Tapé learned to talk on paper; and Avá-Tapé’s initiation, when he drank chicha with the men. These scenes he clung to, but they slipped away, leaving him with an emptiness he couldn’t fill.
Tupá's prophecy had come true. The world he knew had come to an end.
They paddled throughout the next day and night without touching land, each man alternating between sleeping and paddling. At the end of the third day, they pulled to the shore and made camp. Warm food and fires helped revive their sagging spirits, but sorrow still hung over them like a darkened cloud.
Avá-Tapé brought food to Kuñá-Ywy Verá and Kuná-Mainó. Kuná-Mainó ate little and said less. He wanted to give her words to soothe her grief, but could find none. He could only see to her needs and hold her close.
His mother wouldn’t eat, drink, or speak. Her once smooth skin had tightened over her face, giving her a skeletal look. Her eyes still stared, their attention fixed on something distant. Avá-Tapé feared that she saw only the other world.
When he’d done all he could to make them comfortable, Avá-Tapé walked among the people, offering encouragement, then he went looking for his father. He found Avá-Nembiará sitting alone in the shadows by a smaller fire.
"Kuná-Mainó eats little," Avá-Tapé said. "Mother doesn’t eat at all. I’m afraid she has gone and will not come back."
Avá-Nembiará sighed. His face stayed hidden in shadow. His voice sounded far away. "Her eyes do not see and her ears do not hear. Much darkness has come. My little girl is gone from this world. I can only visit her in the other. Two more of my brothers have been taken by the white man's evil.”
When Avá-Nembiará turned his head, Avá-Tapé thought he saw tears glisten in the firelight, but his father's voice remained even.
"Mother’s eyes," Avá-Tapé heard himself saying. "They have the look of death."
"Her body is here, but her spirit has gone to look for your sister. When I sleep, I visit my brothers and my little one. Your mother is always there. I have tried to bring her back many times. She won’t leave her little one. My heart tells me she won’t return, but still I must try."
"I haven’t been able to free my spirit," Avá-Tapé said. "I haven’t been able to fly past the stars. Sadness has held me to the Earth. I don’t know if my magic is strong enough to look upon the faces of those who live in the country of the dead. I am afraid that if I go there, I will be like my mother, who won’t return to the world of the living."
"It is wise not to go there in this time of sadness,” his father said. “You have to stay strong for the living. When our sorrow has had more time to pass, you and I will raise the spirits of the people and lead them in a dance. When your spirit doesn’t carry so much weight you will be able to fly again."
Avá-Nembiará fell into silence. Avá-Tapé wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of words that carried the strength of his father's. It was better to remain quiet. They sat together a long time. When the fire had burned down to embers, his father spoke again.
"The people are lost in sadness. We have to lead them out of it so we can bring them to the Land Without Evil." His voice grew stronger. "There we will all live in happiness."