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“No what-ifs, okay?” He kisses the top of her head and understands her fear as his heart is still racing in his chest. “We killed a wild pig near the river.” Despite the Ularans craving meat themselves, the pig’s purpose is to use it as a bargain for Eden’s safety. “It is a…” he refrains from mentioning the word trade, “… a gift.”
Tïmenneng went into the jungle with another warrior and three Watache men in tow.
“Please hurry,” he whispers, aware every minute is crucial. “Hey.” Samuel strokes Eden’s face. “Are you still with me?”
She nods once. It’s slight, yet it’s enough.
Wayara exits the hut. He announces the shaman has commanded Samuel to explain the map. He wants to know the magic of the pictures. Wayara enlightens him on the Watache plan and how fire destroyed their home. Wayara explains the Watache are searching for a new place to live. Years ago, they found one by the river, but illegal mining nearby had poisoned the water and their food source. The elderly remained too tired to walk any further, including the shaman’s father. Divided, hungry, and tired, they need to keep searching.
But there’s more. The shaman remains bitter about his cousin being raised by the Ularans. Eye for an eye, they were taking the woman with his cousin’s child. Then Eden stumbled into the scene, and they thought she was the ultimate sacrifice to the Mawarí spirits.
Wayara stops speaking when Samuel’s shoulders slump. He stares down at Eden and hopes she doesn’t feel his heart racing in his chest.
The shaman likes Eden, which is why Wayara sent for the pig. Another gift along with Samuel’s wristwatch and the map. She’s alive because she was going to become another wife to the shaman.
Samuel tells Wayara he’s not taking Eden inside the hut. Wayara tells him to use hisParanakyry pyjai.
White-European medicine.
Everything in his pack is for Eden.
“Wayara will stay with you, okay. I won’t be long.” Panic rises in his gut as she falls into Wayara’s arms without caring. She needs medical assistance now. “Hold the water bottle for her to drink,” he tells Wayara in Ularan before striding into the hut.
Samuel clears his mind to negotiate with the man that has nearly killed the love of his life. The bitterness is bubbling inside of him like a volcano ready to explode. He has to keep calm and save his energy because Eden needs him. Now isn’t the time to do something rash or revengeful. Samuel inhales a deep breath and points to their location. He tells the shaman they took the picture from the heavens. He points out the tepuis and the rivers and circles the place where the Watache elders remain—the place Wayara was leading them and why they almost didn’t find Eden. They had no choice but to move on when the elders held no clue to their descendants’ whereabouts. They were at peace and prepared to die, unable to continue to wander the forest. On the return journey in the curiara, Tïmenneng spied smoke rising above the trees.
He leans close to point out the places where illegal gold mines dotted the rivers. He jerks back when the sharp sticks protruding from the shaman’s cheek prick his nose. The shaman grins, believing he still has the upper hand. Ignoring the glare from red-painted eyes, Samuel continues to reveal all his knowledge of the river and jungle and the caves that could lead the Watache through the tepui to the other side.
The shaman’s eyes narrow in suspicion. He suggests certain parts of the jungle where they would be safe and says they should remain close to the Peruvian border. He tells them to stay out of the sight of the miners and metal birds that fly in the sky.
Cheering comes from beyond the hut. Samuel’s head dips, and he takes a moment to offer thanks to the gods. Both men stand to see the pig—legs tied to bamboo—carried into the village and placed over the fire.
Samuel shows the shaman how to fold the map. He drops it in the corner along with his other prized collections, including Samuel’s wristwatch.
The shaman leaves him to inspect the pig. The Watache are hungry and distracted, allowing the Ularans to creep to the edge of the jungle. From here, they secure Eden in the hammock and carry her through the jungle without saying goodbye. In minutes, they reach the curiara parked under a tree on the narrow sandy bank.
Samuel barks instructions to Tïmenneng. He pushes the curiara off the bank and then hurls himself into the canoe. Wayara paddles with the strength of an Olympian with three other warriors paddling up front. Wooden paddles hit the water with loudthwaps, each nudging the canoe further from the bank. Shouting comes from the shore.
“Faster,” Samuel says, only in panic he yells in English instead of Ularan. He points to the trees where painted bodies sprint out with spears over the shoulders. Several spears fly, whizzing on the descent. “Noo,” Samuel calls out, then springs up to blanket Eden with his body, hovering on his knees. He leans his forehead on hers and squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. “Please, no,” he moans in a raspy cry. The curiara tilts sideways with everyone scrambling to dodge a spear when it lands inches from the boat. He lifts his head to maintain his balance and not fall sideways and expose Eden to the danger. Spears spiral into the mud-colored river in a series oftink,tink,tink sounds. They steer the nose toward the middle of the stream until the current surges the curiara away.
Samuel glances down at Eden. “Are you okay?” He wipes matted hair away from Eden’s eyes. She’s already asleep. He places a finger on the pulse in her neck. Fast yet thready.
She’s leaving him.
The walls of the green jungle close in around them like a green jail cell offering reassurance they are on their way home.
The torment eats at him. Every breath is a step closer to her going home. The river current takes control of his thoughts when he imagines her caught in the rapids and being swept away—far away to another world, one where she belongs.
Home, safe with her family.
11
EDEN
“I’m okay,” I whisper as I blink away the haze. My throat is dry, and it burns when I speak. I tilt the bottle again, taking small sips as Samuel instructed.
“Shh.” The tips of his fingers stroke my cheek.
“Thank you,” I croak, again. Every time I’ve opened my eyes, they’re the only words I’ve whispered before slipping back into sleep.
