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I feel so helpless, lost in my mind about how to save myself. An urge to sob, really sob, overwhelms me. Holding it back has my throat burning. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears and push out every scary thought of death because the hysteria is clawing at my chest. A shiver washes over me and then another. I open my eyes and interlace my fingers to stop my hands from shaking, and the terror taking over my thoughts.
Block it out. Think of our baby.
I can’t let the Watache shaman see my fear.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the forest, the trees, and many months ago when I connected with a jungle spirit in an ayahuasca ceremony.
Breathe.
Slowly, in for a count to seven and release for a count of seven.
Clear my mind.
Close down the chatter and negative thoughts.
The voice telling me this is all for nothing.
I. Am. Not. Going. To. Die.
Clear my mind.
Breathe.
I envisage my third eye seeking guidance from the unseen spirits surrounding us. At night, the decaying leaves are moist under my feet as I pad through the pulsing dark forest. Walking blind toward a presence, something draws me closer. Not a bright light as one would describe death but another soul—one that can provide protection.
A pair of eyes shine through the trees. They’re not yellow or white like other animals. These are blue and mesmerizing, bewitching me to come closer. As I move closer, the dark silhouette morphs into a cat—a black jaguar. My heart lurches out of my chest only to be lulled into quietness, and a serene calmness surrounds me. The animal pads toward me and then circles not as though I’m prey, more in warning for anything lurking beyond the trees to stay away. The jaguar is protecting me.
Breathe.
Hold the image.
I allow the vision to wrap around me like a protective cloak.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
The Watache shaman is squatting, staring at me. God knows how long he’s been doing it. His eyes hold suspicion, as though I could magically disappear at any moment.
The whole magic thing has me weighing up what to do. Should I take the I-am-powerful path or prove I’m not a threat?
I push up, change my position, and signal for some water to soothe the burn even though the cloudy water could be the source of my abdominal pain. He stills, eyes fixed on me. Suspicion evaporates, and there’s no fear in his eyes. Instead, lust glimmers in his eyes, a universal longing recognized in all humans. His bamboo pipe bobs around his waist. I glance down to my exposed breasts, full and round unlike those of the women in the village.
Sex is carefree and permissible whenever and with whoever. I witnessed that last night.
I point to the water and mime drinking from a cup. He brings it to me, and as I drink, he flicks my hair over my shoulders and takes his fill. I keep drinking despite the cup being empty rather than meet his dark eyes. He squeezes both breasts. Sandpaper hands roll over my skin. I gulp air in revolt and fear.
I bow my head and hand him the glass, afraid to look him in the eye. I point to my mouth and hope he gets the message. He stands, his erection obvious even hidden in the bamboo.
He scoops water and brings it to me, turns to yell at the two women standing in the doorway holding fruit. He takes it from them and pushes on their backs to shoo them away. Then he squats directly in front of me. A long pointy nail pierces the skin of the passionfruit. He sucks out half of the fruit and then hands it to me. My head screamsnowith his filthy nail and his black teeth sucking on it first.
I suck the remaining pulp greedily. One taste and I’m craving more. I point to the other fruits, and he hands me a banana, and we eat, him watching my every move. He peels the entire banana and holds the fruit in dirt-covered fingers. I stick to what I know and handle less with my hands, though, at this point, it all seems pointless.
My thoughts wander, and I can’t help imagining my heart being offered as a sacrifice to the others to eat and ingest my spirit power.
A spine-tingling scream comes from outside. I freeze. What now? The shaman’s face glares at me as though he doesn’t trust me enough to leave. The screaming continues, and he dashes through the doorway. I move to get a better view. A woman bounces with a small child limp in her arms. My thoughts tick over to the cause of the child’s illness, but damn, it could be anything, including last night’s meal.
“Iwoi. Iwoi,” she wallows.Snake.
Behind her, a young boy holds a limp green snake, killed too late. Her cries of loss fill my heart. She refuses to hand over her limp child, his head now dangling from her arms. Beyond the cries of the other women, the men shout, “Tamu'ne woryi mawarí,” jutting their spears to the sky.White woman spirit.
