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Painted red faces turn in my direction, their eyes as venomous as the snake. There’s more yelling, and I don’t need to comprehend the meaning. It turns into a chant and continues long enough for panic to build until a woman explodes from the jungle, screaming and pointing. The attention falls from me as the men dash into the tangle of green vines. The shaman spins, comes at me, and shoves my shoulder.
I stumble back and retreat to my side of the hut. He stands over me, machete in hand. “Not now,” I rasp, my throat still on fire. God, I no longer have the energy to resist.
I fall to my knees and bow my head. “Tamu'ne woryi wakü.”White woman good.
My last words.
I close my eyes and picture the ones I love. Samuel’s voice cries out to me. I sigh even though the shouting sounds real.
“Eden.”
The shaman and I turn to the doorway, and I see a flash of white hair.
Please let it be him.
“Tamu'ne woryi wakü,” I repeat louder, hoping to be heard.White woman good.
The shaman spins toward me. His gaze is fixed, watching me carefully. A low hum rolls over the village, a song of low monotonous notes. The machete hangs low in the shaman’s grip.
Samuel rushes to the door panting with every breath.
“Eden,” he shouts in a combination of relief and panic.
Samuel’s presence doesn’t concern him. His gaze doesn’t falter.
I don’t look at Samuel in fear of taking my eyes off the shaman.
When the shaman sneaks a sideways glance, so do I.
Stupid because I witnessed the fear on his face, glimpsed the spears pointed at him and the Ularan warriors.
I fall apart piece by piece. Quiet sobs choke every breath. I don’t have to hold on any longer because Samuelishere.
In a low, calm voice, Samuel speaks to him. I recognize some words. “Waküpe-küruman,upetoy.”Thanks, friend.He lurches with an outstretched arm, something shiny dangling from his fingertips.
“Are you hurt?” His gentle words help to calm me even though he hasn’t risked taking his eyes from the shaman as he takes slow, deliberate steps closer to him.
“No,” I manage. I hurt everywhere, butnowas the easiest word to say.
Samuel demonstrates how to wear the watch, vying for the shaman’s attention. Pulling rolled paper from the twine around his waist tie, he reveals a map. He unfolds it and lays it on the ground. “Here,” Samuel commands and points to an area on the map. The shaman speaks to Samuel, and they both hover over the map, pointing and shaking their heads.
“Samuel,” I wail, my breath becoming weaker.
“Breathe,” he rasps out the instruction without looking at me.
He holds out a hand and sidesteps slowly until he can touch me. With his legs bent like he’s balancing on a surfboard, he passes me a bottle of water, keeping both the shaman and me in his line of sight.
I don’t have the energy to twist the lid or hold the bottle to my lips. So I just hold it and focus on trying not to pass out.
“I’m sorry.” The strain in his voice comes from his chest. “Wayara,” he calls to the Ularan warrior.
He takes the bottle from me and holds it to my mouth. I swallow each mouthful slowly, allowing my stomach to adjust.
“Oh, Eden,” Samuel croaks, as though he too is hanging on by thread. He strokes my hair. “Are you in pain?” He lifts a finger to catch my tears with his fingertips.
“My throat is closing up.” I fall into his arms, my face on his shoulder to stifle further sobs so as not to alarm the Watache shaman.
“I’m so sorry,” he says into my hair. My shoulders slump, the tenderness wrapping around me with each gentle stroke of my tangled mane. “You’re alive. You’re safe now, and I’m getting you out of here.”
