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SAMUEL
“Estas seguro?” Samuel asks Asoo.Are you sure?
“Sí.”Yes.
Asoo explains to Samuel the men in the powerful boats were near the riverbend when their drones flew over Ulara. The Ularans are in immediate danger, and Asoo races to get Samuel back to the village. Samuel is a mess of emotion. He has gone from deep sorrow saying goodbye to Eden to a clustered mess of anger and fear, knowing the Ularans safety is at risk. He has raced off to help, yet he has no gun or any weapon if it comes down to fighting these men. He’s fast if he needs to run, but he hopes his negotiating skills will be his best defense. Either way, if someone enters the village, their secret is lost and their immunity compromised. Who knows where these men have been and who they have associated with?
In the back of his mind, he has accepted the inevitable. In Canaima, he collected his phone, identity papers, passport, and important belongings that will fit in a backpack. He left everything else with Victor. Most of it is replaceable. He has another two backpacks in Ulara for notebooks, long accounts of his work, and other medication and first-aid.
His phone and charger are wrapped in plastic. He’s sent his last message to Eden, and he has no idea when he’ll be able to contact her again.
They turn the final bend, and Samuel squints to make out the boat moored on the bank of Ulara.
“Apaga el motor,” he says.Cut the motor.
They glide into the embankment near Samuel’s makeshift campsite. The imposter’s boat is thirty yards away. Both men spring from the boat and dash to the thick shrubbery to take cover. Samuel scouts the area, inspecting the ground for footprints or freshly broken twigs or palm leaves. There’s no evidence of anyone around his campsite, but he fears the worst. The men could be in the village. It’s a ten-minute walk, less if he runs. He tells Asoo to leave now, otherwise they’ll discover his curiara.
“Esconde la curiara,” Asoo suggests.Hide the curiara.
They sprint back to the river and drag the curiara into the bushes, then snap palm leaves to cover it. It’s not completely covered, although it’s obscured enough not to be obvious.
“Te vas a quedar?”Stay?
Asoo shakes his head. Both men take off through the jungle, slapping palm leaves aside, careful to avoid the prickly vines. When they near the village, they slow to a walk. Pushing a low-lying branch aside, Samuel assesses the situation, yet everyone is going about their business. The women are cooking over the fires, the children kick a coconut in a small clearing, and the older men sit cross-legged weaving baskets.
“Quédate.”Stay.This time, it’s an order. Samuel walks past the ladies and holds a finger to his lips. They give him a subtle nod, yet there’s an uneasiness in their eyes. Kapeá Tapire is now around six months pregnant herself, and she’s not working in the fields today. He squats next to her and observes her cooking a broth in a clay pot. He looks to the chief’s hut and then to the shaman’s hut. Only now do English words carry in the air. He asks her how many men are in the shaman’s hut.
“Oko.”Two.
“Jopoto?”Chief.
Kapeá Tapire nods.
“Pyjai?”Shaman.
She nods again.
“Kaikare?”
Kapeá Tapire shakes her head. She points to the other side of the village. Crouched beyond the trees are several figures. From here, he can make out Kaikare and Tïmenneng.
“Waküpe-küruman,” he says.Thank you.Samuel instructs her to tell the ladies to remain calm. While monitoring the doorway of the shaman’s hut, he darts to the other side of the village and speaks to three warriors and Kaikare.
“Tamusi areku.”Old man angry. Kaikare points and shows more distress than the others. She explains how the men pushed her father into the hut and demanded his gold.
Samuel asks her to remain calm and says he’ll try to negotiate with the men. He doesn’t know if it will help, but at least he can communicate in English.
Standing outside the shaman’s hut, he signals his approach. “I’m a physician, and I work in the village. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“C’mon in, doc,” a gruff voice demands, a voice sounding raspy as though he has chain-smoked for fifty years. The chesty cough confirms it.
Samuel ducks his head to enter the doorway, and no sooner than he’s inside, a gun is shoved near his face.
“Take a seat. Perhaps you can translate what we want because your chief here has no clue.” The two Caucasian men have fair hair. This one speaks with an American accent. The odor reeking from their khaki shirts and the dirt smeared over the sweaty arms and shins indicates they haven’t showered for days. He assesses their clothing—matching khaki shorts and worn leather boots with the clay mud coating the exterior. No belts carrying knives or ammunition.
Samuel shifts his attention to the chief and then to the shaman to assess their well-being. Both men have fresh bruises on their brow and scratches to their cheeks, shoulders, and arms, as though their faces have been pushed into the ground. The shaman’s eyes reflect sorrow and disappointment. The chief has a defiant look, and it concerns Samuel.
“They have something I want.” The gun waves between the chief and the shaman. “Tell them to give me the gifts other travelers have left for them.”
