Page 24 of Hopelessly Wild


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Sliding my arm through the dirt, I lay my head on my arm, and close my eyes, praying when I next wake, it will be sunlight.

At least I would have survived another day.

9

EDEN

It’s not the sun that wakes me.

I throw myself onto all fours with an excruciating spasm in my gut.

“Please, no. Not my baby,” I whimper.

The Watache shaman’s quiet snores alert me to where I am.

Oh God, I need a toilet. If I don’t find a bush and fast, I’ll make a mess of myself.

Enough moonlight shines into the hut to see him curled on his side. He seems younger or perhaps vulnerable in his sleep.

The stench of poop hits me, and it’s not mine. I heave then cover my mouth. The pong comes from his corner of the hut like something is dead, and I have to get out before I lose control. On my first step, I stumble, then stop to steady my balance and take a deep breath when the room spins. I must have moaned because the Watache shaman springs to his feet and yells out to me. I jab a finger at my bum because I have no idea how to say toilet. I doubt he even knows what a restroom is. He grabs my arm, and I yank it out of his grip and groan, clutching my gut. He stares down at my abdomen as if for the first time understanding the roundness. He follows me out, shouting. Deep murmurs come from near the fire as people stir from sleep.

The full moon casts enough light where the central fire lags. There are two large, open-walled huts on either side of the fire. I keep walking past the women and children in one hut. In the other hut, the men lie huddled, side by side. Legs and arms are wrapped around each other, and abdomens are used as pillows. All lay close and not a woman among them.

Movement catches my eye. Thrusts in sync. Gentle moans of pleasure. I look away and turn to the opposite side, where women sleep peacefully with their children. Many of them are pregnant, yet the men find pleasure and comfort with each other. There’s no sign of a family huddled together.

The shaman shouts again, and this time, some men spring to their feet. I make my way to the closest edge of the jungle, one hand clutching my stomach, the other flexed straight in warning not to follow me. I rush forward with faint awareness they didn’t stop me.

When I reach the closest tree, I lower in a wide squat, one hand on the trunk for support. The flatulence alone is enough warning for no one to come close until the pain has tears falling from my eyes. I blink the tears away, hearing sniggers from the men on the other side of the tree.

When I immerse from the dark jungle, the men chuckle and point to the shaman, making a circle shape with their hands. “Sano, sano,” they repeat.

Mother.

The shaman’s expression sours, and he yells before gripping my hair, and again, I’m stumbling behind him. Did he think I was going into labor? Hopefully, he believes I’m a well-fed white woman with a gastric bug.

Inside his hut, he releases his grip, yells more words, and points to the corner.

Does he expect me to poop in the corner?

It explains the stench coming from his side of the hut.

When I lower myself to the ground, I’m coated with dirt as it adheres to my limbs. There’s no regard to hygiene, and it’s only a matter of time before microbes will feast on me.

The odds of survival are stacking against me.

* * *

Faint light fills the hut.

Soft sounds drift in from the village coming to life—hushed voices, not threats of fierce cannibals I imagine them to be in my mind. I survived one night, although not from the mosquitoes. The itch from the bites covering my arms and back drove me half mad through the night.

I ache all over. Lethargy weighs down every part of my body, and I’m losing the will to fight for what seems like an inevitable ending. I close my eyes and wait forhimto summon me.

The Ularan shaman would be in the medicinal garden at the break of dawn. He cared for every Ularan as if they were his responsibility. While this man sleeps the morning away, it seems he only cares for himself.

Ugh, my dry, scratchy throat is on fire. I’m not convinced water is the cure. I recall coughing through the night—hard coughing capable of cracking a rib.

This isn’t how I want to die.

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