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His face blurs as the tears well in my eyes.
Don’t show fear.
I lower my gaze without bowing my head to keep him in my peripheral vision. My heart thumps in my chest. It beats so hard the pain in my head worsens. I’m doing what I can not to let the fear bubble to the surface, knowing he’s staring at me, determining my fate.
Focus on one thing.
Feathers are sewn together in a cape, draped over his shoulders and falls to his knees. One red and one yellow feather threaded through each ear lobe protrude at odd angles.
Is he a bird spirit?
The shaman.
My baby moves inside me.
My shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank you,” I murmur to my god, the universe, the jungle, or whoever is watching over me.
I yearn to touch my stomach in comfort but know better than to bring attention to something vulnerable inside me when I could be perceived as a demon. The majority of the tribe have protruding stomachs like me only not all are pregnant.
My grandmother’s face fills my thoughts. I pray for her to give me the strength she found in the jungle.
“Tamùne woryi wypy,” he says to his audience along with other incomprehensible words.White woman mountain.
Shit, he thinks I’m a bad spirit from the tepui. Or is it because I’m taller than his people? Please let it be the latter. I’ve never been so happy to be called a mountain because of my size.
I close my eyes and keep praying to God or anyone who can hear me.
Samuel.
I focus on his spirit—his love. Picture his love protecting me like a colored aura. I open my eyes to black eyes close to my nose. I stifle a scream and fall back onto my rear.
The raw belly laughter rises in the air and incites the monkeys to squeal from the treetops. Confirming I’m not a threat, I bow my head not only in respect, but the throb near my temple is getting worse. I raise a finger and touch the goo of old blood. When I meet the shaman’s gaze, there’s a hint of a snicker behind his painted expression. He waves his hand and shouts to the crowd, then grabs a handful of my hair and leans down to sniff it. He yanks hard, so I’m forced onto all fours, and he turns to walk away, my hair acting like a dog chain.
I scramble out of the capsule and stumble behind him, hunched over with my face to the ground. When I lift my chin, the feathers of his cape block my view to where he’s taking me. I have an awareness of no one following.
From the force of him pulling and a sudden release of hair, I stagger into a hut and fall onto my knees. Dirt puffs up around me, and I close my eyes and cough, one hand protecting my stomach. His voice comes from behind. I adjust my hair to fall over my chest and sit on my legs, my head bowed. Words are shouted. He’s lost the cape and no longer appears threatening. Mid-thirties maybe, he’s young to be a shaman. Skinny, with paint covering every inch of his skin. Like the other men, his penis is tied around his waist, only he has a bamboo-like tube to protect his package.
With dust coating my throat, I need water. I cough and make an action like drinking. Regardless of what’s offered if I don’t hydrate soon, I’m putting both my baby and me at risk. He stands and grabs a stainless-steel cup and scoops the water from a bowl. In the corner is a collection of foreign items, including a machete and gold jewelry hanging from a pot.
“Sweet Jesus,” I murmur. Did the people who offered these gifts survive? Are they trophies? At least the Watache have seen civilized people. He hands me the cup, and despite the cloudy appearance of the contents, I guzzle the water down, then hand it back. He refills it. I take it without hesitation and cough again when it hits my empty stomach. I have no idea how long I was out or how long we traveled, depriving my body of food and fluid. The chance of Samuel finding me is slim, and the reality hits me like another blow to the head.
I slide onto my side, resting my head on my arm in case I pass out. The Watache shaman squats and fixes his gaze on me as though he doesn’t trust me to look away. I close my eyes, ignoring the female voices at the doorway.
I did what Samuel advised. I stayed out of the jungle at night when predators hunted. Daytime is supposed to be relatively safe. Only these people aren’t nocturnal hunters. They do what it takes to survive, and I’m a means to an end. I’m unsure as to how I’ll benefit them, be it food or bargaining or pleasure. The thought eats away at my soul, and I do my best to shut off my mind to the world and seep into the earth.
A shaking of my shoulder rouses me. He shoves bananas and passionfruit in my face. I sit and nod, taking the food from him. Backing away, he squats to watch me eat. Twilight has filled the hut. Through the door space and in the distance, a fire flickers. Again, I’m hit with the smell of meat. The jungle shrieks with life, a warning on high volume as though the trees are talking to me.
A woman enters the hut, full-rounded belly, black body paint, same hairstyle as everyone else. She moves in a way that suggests she’s almost at the term of her pregnancy. She shoves a handful of meat in my face as if I’m a nuisance. Even in the failing light, the red flesh stands out.
Don’t eat it!
I cover my mouth with my hand.
She shouts a few incomprehensible words before jerking the meat closer to my face. Samuel had warned me refusing food is a sign of disrespect, so I take it from her and eat it so fast, imagining it to be chicken because, hell, everything is supposed to taste like bloody chicken. I refuse to think of the possibilities of the source and signal again for more water.
My stomach growls, and not long after, I’m hit with sharp jabs of pain.
