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Clouds roll like a tumbleweed above me.
Shit.
If it rains, the beads will be washed away or be covered in muddy soot. I clamp my eyes shut and hug my baby. The negative voice in my head tells me this is in vain. I’ll most likely die out here alone.
No. I make a silent vow to protect us.
My god, when was the last time my baby moved?
Rolling my palm over my stomach, I prod a couple of times and wait.
Please move. Please, please move.
Squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears from coming, I try to clear my thoughts because I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to my unborn child. My only plan is to outwit these people because physical fighting or running is futile. I open my eyes to more sky from a clearing of trees. A potent stench of smoke makes me woozy for a moment. I cover my mouth.
Burned monkey fur. Ugh.
It doesn’t smell like one or two monkeys. It’s so strong it must be the whole damn howler monkey family.
Children scream with excitement.
I sigh in relief because I’ve always believed children are innocent until taught otherwise. And I hope they haven’t watched someone die.
Yet.
The bounce in the capsule intensifies with the men running and screaming out a weird sound. With every reverberation of wood to my torso, I’m hit with another wave of nausea. My head continues to thump like a drum, so I wrap my arms around my head to protect my skull moments before I’m dropped to the ground.
The thud startles me, and I make an oomph sound combined with a groan, then reach for my stomach. Black hair framing red-painted faces block out the sky. Rounded white eyes peer down at me.
Several men shout in anger. “Stay calm. Stay calm,” I murmur to myself. I refuse to speak loud enough for them to hear my alien words. Because of Samuel’s story, I know I have to act as an equal but not disrespect them to stay alive.
Their eyes hold fear and curiosity. I lift my head in the slightest movement, and they jump back. I freeze when spears are jabbed at my face, back and forth in warning. Fear, I assume, is what provokes their anger—or maybe it’s a protective reaction.
The Ularans were curious by my white hair, skin, and blue eyes. They had some reservations about my spirit and whether I was evil even with Samuel in the village. These people have no outside influence and could believe I’m a threat.
Shit.
What do I do now?
The one thing the Ularans admired was Samuel’s height. Willing my legs to move after endless hours of being curled in the same position, I unfurl my limbs until I’m crouching. The women and children stumble back. The men hurl unusual sounds in abuse, and tone is all I can go by. I continue to unroll, one vertebra at a time until I’m standing, looking down on the crowd. The women are tiny compared to the men, and if not for their breasts, quite difficult to distinguish from one another. The man closest to me yells, his venomous yellow eyes appear possessed, so I crouch to be less threatening. I’m at eye level with his naval and can’t help a gasp at how his penis is stretched and flattened against his stomach. Red twine is wrapped around his hips, securing it almost in strangulation.
Appearance. First impressions.
My thoughts cluster into one mess. A bead of sweat falls from my forehead. I will my heart to slow and concentrate on each breath to control the fight-or-flight response. I clench my fingers to hide the tremor, only it draws more shouting, and spears are raised toward my face. I imagine what Samuel would do, how he’d work through this. He taught me not to fear, to use my surroundings to my advantage.
“Upetoy,” I say in a loud voice.Friend.
The women mumble something to me. Broken vowels spoken too quickly to comprehend. I focus on one lady with the least paint on her body.
“Waküperö.”Hello, how are you?
She steps away from me as though I have singled her out, and the man standing beside her shouts, “Tamu'ne woryi awarö.”White woman bad.
“Tamu'ne woryi wakü,” I reply.White woman good.
A sudden movement at the back of my audience has them stepping apart like a zipper. Red, blue and yellow feathers strewn into a crown bob toward me. A leader. A shaman or chief. Either way, I know to stay on my knees and bow my head. I sneak a glance when the last man steps aside. A dozen long sticks protrude from the leader’s cheeks like whiskers.
My throat tightens.
