He would tell her about her siblings. He would paint a dreadful picture of what would happen if they received the entire fortune. He would list the worthwhile causes she could advance if she simply signed the trust. He practiced and practiced.
The trees on both sides grew thicker and leaned over the river
where they touched. Nate recognized the tunnel. “Up there,” Jevy said, pointing ahead to the right, to the spot where they had first seen the children swimming in the river. He throttled down, and they eased by the first settlement without seeing a single Indian. When the huts were out of sight, the river forked and the streams became smaller.
It was familiar territory. They zigzagged deeper into the woods, the river looping almost in circles, the mountains occasionally visible through clearings. At the second settlement, they stopped near the large tree where they’d slept the first night, back in January. They stepped ashore in the same spot where Rachel had stood when she’d waved good-bye, just as the dengue was calling. The bench was there, its cane poles lashed tightly together.
Nate was watching the village while Jevy was tying off the boat. A young Indian ran along the trail toward them. Their outboard had been heard.
He spoke no Portuguese, but through grunts and hand signals conveyed the message that they were to stay there, by the river, until further orders. If he recognized them, he didn’t show it. He appeared scared.
And so they took their places on the bench and waited. It was almost 11 A.M. There was a lot to talk about. Jevy’d been busy on the rivers, running
chalanas
with goods and supplies into the Pantanal. He occasionally captained a tourist boat, where the money was better.
They talked about Nate’s last visit, how they’d raced in from the Pantanal with Fernando’s borrowed motor, the horrors of the hospital, their efforts to find Rachel in Corumbá.
“I tell you,” Jevy said, “I have listened much on the river, and the lady did not come. She was not in the hospital. You were dreaming, my friend.”
Nate wasn’t about to argue. He wasn’t sure himself.
The man who owned the
Santa Loura
had been slandering
Jevy around town. It sank on his watch, but everyone knew the storm did it. The man was a fool anyway.
As Nate expected, the conversation soon swung around to Jevy’s future in the States. Jevy had applied for a visa, but needed a sponsor and a job. Nate bobbed and weaved, and slid enough punches to keep his friend confused. He couldn’t muster the courage to tell him that he too would soon be looking for work.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
Jevy had a cousin in Colorado who was also looking for a job.
A mosquito circled Nate’s hand. His first impulse was to crush it with a violent slap, but instead he watched to gauge the effectiveness of his super-repellent. When it tired of surveying its target, it made a sudden nosedive toward the back of his right hand. But two inches away, it suddenly stopped, pulled away, and vanished. Nate smiled. His ears, neck, and face were lathered with the oil.
The second attack of dengue usually causes hemorrhaging. It’s much worse than the first, and often fatal. Nate O’Riley would not be a victim.
They faced the village as they talked, and Nate watched every move. He expected to see Rachel stride elegantly between the huts and along the path to greet them. By now, she knew the white man was back.
But did she know it was Nate? What if the Ipica had not recognized them, and Rachel was terrified that someone else had found her?
Then they saw the chief slowly walking toward them. He carried a long ceremonial spear and was followed by an Ipica Nate recognized. They stopped at the edge of the trail, a good fifty feet from the bench. They were not smiling; in fact, the chief looked particularly unpleasant. In Portuguese, he asked, “What do you want?”
“Tell him we want to see the missionary,” Nate said, and Jevy translated it.
“Why?” came the reply.
Jevy explained that the American had traveled a great distance to be there, and that it was very important to see the woman. The chief again asked, “Why?”
Because they have things to discuss, big things that neither Jevy nor the chief would understand. It was very important or else the American wouldn’t be there.
Nate remembered the chief as a loud character with a quick smile, a big laugh, and a trigger temper. Now his face had little expression. From fifty feet his eyes looked hard. He had once insisted they sit by his fire and share his breakfast. Now he stood as far away as possible. Something was wrong. Something had changed.
He told them to wait, then left again, slowly making his way back to the village. Half an hour passed. By now Rachel knew who they were, the chief would have told her. And she was not coming to meet them.
A cloud passed in front of the sun, and Nate watched it closely. It was puffy and white, not the least bit threatening, but it scared him nonetheless. Any thunder in the distance, and he’d be ready to move. They ate some wafers and cheese while sitting in the boat.
The chief whistled for them and interrupted their snack. He was alone, coming from the village. They met halfway, and followed him for a hundred feet, then changed directions and moved behind the huts on another trail. Nate could see the common area of the village. It was deserted, not a single Ipica wandering about. No children playing. No young ladies raking the dirt around the dwellings. No women cooking and cleaning. Not a sound. The only movement was the drifting smoke of their fires.
Then he saw faces in the windows, little heads peeking through doors. They were being watched. The chief kept them away from the huts as if they were carrying diseases. He turned
onto another trail, one that led through the woods for a few moments. When they emerged into a clearing, they were across from Rachel’s hut.
There was no sign of her. The chief led them past the front door, and to the side, where, under the thick shade trees, they saw the graves.
FIFTY-TWO
_____________
T
he matching white crosses were made of wood and had been carefully cut and polished by the Indians, then lashed together with string. They were small, less than a foot tall, and stuck into the fresh dirt at the far end of both graves. There was no writing on them, nothing to indicate who had died, or when.
It was dark under the trees. Nate put his satchel on the ground between the graves, and sat on it. The chief began talking softly and quickly.
“The woman is on the left. Lako is on the right. They died on the same day, about two weeks ago,” Jevy translated. More words from the chief, then, “Malaria has killed ten people since we left,” Jevy said.
The chief delivered a long narrative without stopping for any translating. Nate heard the words, yet heard nothing. He looked at the mound of dirt to the left, a neat pile of black soil laid in a perfect little rectangle, carefully bordered by shaved limbs four
inches round. Buried there was Rachel Lane, the bravest person he’d ever known because she had absolutely no fear of death. She welcomed it. She was at peace, her soul finally with the Lord, her body forever lying among the people she loved.
And Lako was with her, his heavenly body cured of defects and afflictions.
The shock came and went. Her death was tragic, but then it wasn’t. She wasn’t a young mother and wife who left a family behind. She didn’t have a wide circle of friends who’d rush to mourn her passing. Only a handful of people in her native land would ever know she was gone. She was an oddity among the people who’d buried her.
He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t want anyone grieving. She wouldn’t approve of tears, and Nate had none to give her. For a few moments he stared at her grave in disbelief, but reality soon set in. This was not an old friend with whom he’d shared many moments. He’d barely known her. His motives in finding her had been purely selfish. He had invaded her privacy, and she had asked him not to return.
But his heart ached anyway. He’d thought about her every day since he’d left the Pantanal. He’d dreamed of her, felt her touch, heard her voice, remembered her wisdom. She had taught him to pray, and given him hope. She was the first person in decades to see anything good in him.
He had never met anyone like Rachel Lane, and he missed her greatly.
The chief was quiet. “He says we can’t stay very long,” Jevy said.
“Why not?” Nate asked, still staring at her grave.
“The spirits are blaming us for the malaria. It arrived when we came the first time. They are not happy to see us.”
“Tell him his spirits are a bunch of clowns.”
“He has something to show you.”
Slowly, Nate stood and faced the chief. They walked through the door of her hut, bending at the knees to get through. The floor was dirt. There were two rooms. The front room had furniture too primitive to believe, a chair made of cane pole and lashings, a sofa with stumps for legs and straw for cushions. The back room was a bedroom and a kitchen. She slept in a hammock like the Indians. Under the hammock, on a small table, was a plastic box that once held medical supplies. The chief pointed to the box and began speaking.
“There are things in there for you to see,” Jevy translated.
“For me?”
“Yes. She knew she was dying. She asked the chief to guard her hut. If an American came, then show him the box.”
Nate was afraid to touch it. The chief picked it up and gave it to him. He backed out of the room and sat on the sofa. The chief and Jevy stepped outside.
His letters never made it, at least they were not in the box. There was a Brazilian identification badge, one required of every non-Indian in the country. There were three letters from World Tribes. Nate didn’t read them because at the bottom of the box he saw her will.
It was in a white, legal-sized envelope and had a Brazilian name engraved for the return address. On it, she had neatly printed the words: Last Testament of Rachel Lane Porter.
Nate stared at it in disbelief. His hands shook as he carefully opened it. Folded inside were two sheets of white letter-sized paper, stapled together. On the first sheet, in large letters across the top she had printed, again, Last Testament of Rachel Lane Porter.
It read:
I, Rachel Lane Porter, child of God, resident of His world, citizen of the United States, and being of sound mind, do hereby make this as my last testament.
1. I have no prior testaments to revoke. This is my first and last. Every word is written by my hand. This is intended to be a holographic will.
2. I have in my possession a copy of the last testament of my father, Troy Phelan, dated December 9, 1996, in which he gives me the bulk of his estate. I am attempting to pattern this will after his.
3. I do not reject or decline that portion of his estate due me. Nor do I wish to receive it. Whatever his gift is to me, I want it placed in a trust.
4. The earnings from the trust are to be used for the following purposes: a) to continue the work of World Tribes missionaries around the world, b) to spread the Gospel of Christ, c) to protect the rights of indigenous peoples in Brazil and South America, d) to feed the hungry, heal the sick, shelter the homeless, and save the children.
5. I appoint my friend Nate O’Riley to manage the trust, and I grant him broad discretionary powers in its administration. I also appoint him as executor of this testament.
Signed, the sixth day of January 1997, at Corumbá, Brazil.
RACHEL LANE PORTER
He read it again, and again. The second sheet was typed and in Portuguese. It would have to wait for a moment.
He studied the dirt between his feet. The air was sticky and perfectly still. The world was silent, not a sound from the village. The Ipicas were still hiding from the white man and his plagues.
Do you sweep dirt? To make it neat and clean? What happens when it rains and the straw roof leaks? Does it puddle and turn to mud? On the wall facing him were handmade shelves filled with
books—Bibles, devotionals, studies in theology. The shelves were slightly uneven, tilting an inch or two to the right.
This was her home for eleven years.
He read it again. January 6 was the day he walked out of the hospital in Corumbá. She wasn’t a dream. She’d touched him and told him he wouldn’t die. Then she had written her will.
The straw rustled under him as he moved. He was in a trance when Jevy poked his head through the door and said, “The chief wants us to leave.”
“Read this,” Nate said, handing him the two sheets of paper with the second one on top. Jevy stepped forward to catch the light from the door. He read slowly, then said, “Two people here. The first is a lawyer, who says that he saw Rachel Lane Porter sign her testament in his office, in Corumbá. She was mentally okay. And she knew what she was doing. His signature is officially marked by a, what do you say—”
“A notary.”
“Yes, a notary. The second, here on the bottom, is the lawyer’s secretary, who, it looks like, says the same things. And the notary certifies her signature too. What does this mean?”
“I’ll explain later.”
They stepped into the sunlight. The chief had his arms folded over his chest—his patience was almost gone. Nate removed his camera from the satchel and began taking pictures of the hut and the graves. He made Jevy hold her will while squatting by her grave. Then Nate held it as Jevy took photos. The chief would not agree to have his picture taken with Nate. He kept as much distance as possible. He grunted, and Jevy was afraid he might erupt.
They found the trail and headed for the woods, again staying away from the village. As the trees grew thicker, Nate stopped and turned for one last look at her hut. He wanted to take it with him, to lift it somehow and transport it to the States, to preserve
it as a monument so that the millions of people she would touch could have a place to visit and say thanks. And her grave too. She deserved a shrine.