Bringing the Boy Home (11 page)

12 Years, 364 Days
The Amazon

G
oing against my sixth-sense instinct is the hardest thing I've ever done. It's like I'm drowning, but instead of swimming up toward air, I make myself swim deeper toward the darkness. It feels wrong, and yet I keep doing it. I shut off my brain, shut off my senses, and go.

When the sun comes up, I realize I'm halfway done. By this time tomorrow, I have to be in the village. Excitement pumps through me, mixed with a little worry. So far I've been able to do everything without my father's help, but that might have forced me to take a harder way. I think I can make it, but can I make it in time?

I stop to drink from a water vine, then continue running. The monkeys and parakeets quiet as I approach and then screech after me like angry school crossing guards. I continue using my five senses to search for signs of my
tribe—footprints, the smells of food or fire, the sounds of humans. The Good Gods have not sent me any more signals, so I just keep running and assume they will help if I need it.

My father keeps trying to communicate. Each time I pause, he pleads with me to listen. The more he pushes, the more I pull back. But he refuses to give up.

The rest of the morning we battle. A hunch from him pulls me to a trail on the left. I head right. He calls after me, telling me there will be fruit to eat up ahead, but I ignore him and stay on the path I'm on. There's more than one way to my village. Finally, I'm the one with the power.

By midafternoon, the rain has stopped and the sun pushes through the dense leaves to celebrate with me. I stop and drink again. Without the rain, the mosquitoes swarm me. I swat at them, but they won't leave. Each one buzzes with a question:
Why is it so important to him that I return? What if he's dying? What if he's the chief of the tribe and I'm his only son? Who was the funeral for? Is Maha okay? What if she never had any other males?

I reach up and grab a
chu-chu
nut from a tree behind me. I don't want to talk to him, but I want to know how she is doing. I crack the nut and chew in frustration, then scream at the sky. A family of spider monkeys stares at
me like I'm the newest attraction at the circus. Confusion Boy. And maybe I am. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and watch him beat his head against the trees.

Finally, I decide to end my silence with my father—not to ask for help, just to find out about Maha.
How is she?
I ask him.
Is she okay?
I wait for a response.
Please, just tell me if she's okay.

My father doesn't answer. Why should he? I have been ignoring him for the past day and a half. What if he put these doubts in my mind? I can't even trust my thoughts anymore. I don't know what's real and what isn't.

The sun is setting and I shudder as my sweat dries to a chill. It will be dark soon, and suddenly not having a plan doesn't seem like the wonderful idea it was a couple of hours ago—especially now that my foot is aching too. The first twinges of pain started this morning, but I was able to ignore them. Now, after hours of no rest and no orthotic, my foot is letting me know it's not happy.

YOU ARE IN PAIN. IS IT YOUR FOOT?

No, my foot is fine…better than fine…fantastic.

YOU MUST TRUST ME. PLEASE LISTEN TO WHAT I AM TELLING YOU.

Why?
I ask him.
Why should I listen to you?

I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE ANGRY, BUT WE HAVE TO WORK TOGETHER. WE ARE CLOSE,
BUT THERE IS NOT MUCH TIME.

What do you mean there isn't much time? Is something wrong with Maha?

Suddenly, the hairs on my neck stand up at familiar attention. It can't be, but it is. A low growl. The jaguar is back. Not the female, but the black one. I hear him behind me. I smell his breath. I feel his eyes focusing on the pulsing vein on the side of my neck. The pieces of
chu-chu
nut stick in my throat. I don't know what else to do…so I run. The cat follows, close enough that I know he's there, but far enough to make me think I have a chance.

COME HOME. LISTEN TO ME, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

Forget it.
But even as I think it, I find myself obeying him. The forest has gotten dark, the cat is still behind me, and the jungle crowds me on either side. I'm running for my life.
I don't want to die
, I think as I race farther into the depths of the jungle.

YOU WON'T.
He steers me like a car—left, left, and then right. My five senses are on alert. I feel like I do with my soccer team when we're on a roll, how we know each other so well that we can get a ball down the field effortlessly with only a few nods and eye gestures. Nobody ever brags about those moments after they happen, but we
all know how special they are. As I run now, with my father guiding me, I feel that same magic. We're on the same team and we're both trying to get the same ball to the same goal. Me. Home. I can't say no to that.

The cat screams, and my father encourages me.
FASTER; HE IS VERY CLOSE. YOU MUST MOVE FASTER.

I speed up, but my right foot suddenly spasms. I cry out. This can't be happening, not now; not after I've come so far. I clench my jaw and favor my left foot.

Ignore the pain
, I think.

TIRIO, YOU MUST PUSH YOURSELF.

I do. I push myself harder than in any soccer game or any physical therapy session, but after another half hour, the throbbing has spread from my foot to my hip.

TIRIO!

I'm trying!

TRY HARDER.

I struggle to tune out the warning signs from my body.
Don't give up. Mind over matter, T. Go, go, go.

YOU CAN DO THIS. I KNOW YOU CAN.
His words are whispered, yet forceful.

It hurts. It hurts so badly.

Step, limp. Step, limp. I'm slowing down and, like any stalked prey, I feel the tide turn. So does my father.

LISTEN TO ME. YOU ARE ALMOST HERE. FOCUS ON MY VOICE. FOCUS ON THE END. YOU HAVE TO DO THIS. YOU MUST MAKE IT. FOR BOTH OF US.

“I…don't…owe…you…anything.” My words come out in jagged sobs, and I feel myself growing angry again.
“Nothing…do you hear me?”
I scream the sentence rather than think it. “It's you…who…owes…me!”

Silence.

The cat is gaining ground. His feet pound the forest floor, filling the spaces between my heartbeats.

“You…who…owes…me.” Unable to run any farther, I limp, and tears blur the path.

The cat. The cat. The cat. The cat. The frog. The frog. The frog. The frog
. I stop and bend over in pain. For the second time in a week, I think about my hunting trip with Wata. I have the answer to my question: I
am
the one-winged pierid. Because of my foot, I too have no chance to survive in the Amazon. I visualize the injured butterfly's last moment before death—scramble-crawling as he tried to get away. I picture myself run-limping. Similar. Pitiful. Futile.

Looking up, I stop. I'm in a garden. Could it be…could it be the Takunami garden? It looks familiar: the
manioc plants, the maize, the weeded rows of
pu-ni-ka
. My mind races. If it is…I
am
close. Maybe…maybe…maybe…

“Yeow!”

A familiar tan and black beast slinks out from behind a tree in front of me. The female jaguar.

The low growl of the black jaguar rumbles behind me. I'm surrounded.

Spinning around, I see the black cat inching toward me.

Suddenly I hear the woman's song I had been following earlier on the trail.

Come this way,
the voice sings softly but strongly.
Do not be afraid. Open your eyes and come this way.

I look toward the mottled jaguar. She is staring at me. The song is coming from her. It has been all along.

Come this way.
The song continues, the words pulling me forward.
Let go of your body, trust in your soul, open your eyes and come….

The black cat leaps. One powerful paw slashes my legs from under me and I slam to the ground. The mottled female darts around my body; I hear a grunt as they collide. I scramble to get up, but my right leg collapses. Crab-walking, I scuttle backward. The two cats separate and shadow each other like boxers. Two times they circle.
Then three. With each rotation, they hunker lower, as if their bodies are being screwed into the ground. They watch for that flick of muscle, that telling shift, those hind legs lowering slightly. The movement will be subtle, the following action…possibly deadly. Blinking would be risky; looking away could be suicide. But she does. Glancing over the black jaguar's shoulder, the female locks eyes with me.

Go,
her stare says.
Go, now.

In my mind, the gaze lasts a lifetime; in reality, it is a second. It's all he needs. Shrieking, the black cat is on her.

Unable to walk, I crawl along the mud path. Rotting leaves stick to my skin. A fallen tree blocks the path. I turn around to crab-walk over it, but my leg screams as I bend it, and I collapse onto the trunk, gritting my teeth in pain. For the first time, I stop to look at my injury, and I stare in disbelief. My right calf is sliced from the back of the knee to the ankle. Mud has mixed with blood to form a sort of bandage. Since there's nothing I can do, I grit my teeth, turn back to my hands and knees, and keep crawling.

I am like the pathetic five-legged bu-ki ant, dragging myself along.

I will return to the village as I left,
I promised myself two days ago at the river. Two days ago when I was strong.
Two days ago when I was stupid. Two days ago, when I was twelve.

The sky is turning that shade of pinkish blue that makes you feel anything is possible. It is a new day. I hear empty water pails being collected and the dry rattling cough of someone's grandfather. I am almost there. My instinct tells me to keep going, my mind tells me to stop, my body is along for the ride.

This is not how it's supposed to happen. I've imagined this moment, meeting my father…hundreds, no, thousands of times. In my vision, I was chest-out strong, chin-up proud, and rock solid on two feet. And Paho's face—the one I made up—was at first shocked, then amazed, then ashamed as he stared at me. He would apologize and then want to know how I had done it, all the while showing me off:
Look at my son, Tirio. Do you remember him? He could barely walk when he left and now he is as solid as a po-no.
Laughing, he would shake my legs to prove the point and I would stand there, smiling and nodding. That is the way it was supposed to be. I look down at myself, my skinny body, my dirty clothes, my ravaged leg. A rooster crows in the distance. Not like this. I won't do it. I won't disappoint him again.

27 Years, 72 Sunrises
The Amazon

I
cannot see Tirio, but I know he is near. Near enough that I could run or yell to him, yet I do not. Talk and touch are not allowed in the soche seche tente until the boy has crossed the village border, so I stand as close as I can and wait. I hear the jaguar scream and feel the thud as the two cats collide.

This is your chance, Tirio. Run! Run fast!

Holding out my hands, I face their direction and channel my energy. I send it through the rivers of rain on the earth, in the breath of the wind tunneling down the path, and with the rays of the rising sun I feel on my face.

He is not resisting me as he has the last two days, and I am worried. A fallen soul sucks a body down faster than a hungry caiman in a death roll. I hope it is not too late.

I have visualized our first meeting many times, but,
having never experienced it with my own paho, there has always been an uncertainty. I knew it would be wonderful, yet strange. We would be overjoyed to finally meet, yet unsure about what to say or do. I imagined we'd stare at each other and compare: same nose, same cheeks, same chin, same smile. We would talk and discover the same voice, same gestures, same laugh.

Now I wonder if the meeting will happen at all.

I open my eyes and stare as something crawls over a fallen log on the trail. Covered in mud and leaves, the creature does not lift its head as it drags along the path. It does not flinch as the branches whip and scratch. It stops, then starts again. Behind me, I hear water buckets being collected and the raspy cough of an elder. The creature hesitates and considers. A rooster crows. The something that is my son crumples. He is a stone's throw away, but it might as well be the moon. I cannot help. He must do it on his own.

Get up, Tirio. Get up, Son.

His mind is foggy. He does not hear me.

Do not give up.

Nothing.

GET UP! NOW!

No response.

I watch him and refuse to blink, in fear that I will miss
a movement. But there is none.

I slide down against the po-no tree and drop my head into my hands. How cruel the Good Gods are to let us get this close.

Hearing a twig snap, I look up. Tirio is crawling again. Seeing the determination in his weak movements, I pound the earth between us.

Yes! Almost there! Five more pulls!

He doesn't look up, but I know he can feel the vibrations.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

He grasps my hand and collapses. His eyes are closed, but he is breathing. I am shaking so badly, I almost do not trust myself, but I grab under his knees and arms and stumble toward the village. Blood is dripping down my arms and I am scared because I do not know where it is coming from.

“Do not die,” I sob. “Please do not die.”

He tenses at the sound of my voice and then goes limp. I freeze. My eyes dart between his lips and his chest.
What happened? Is he still breathing? Feeling his heartbeat against my forearm, I pull him close and sprint the rest of the way to my hut. Easing him onto my sister's hammock, I scream for her. “Sulali!”

She rushes in and I explain what happened.

“Go to the
ku-mah-kah
tree,” she says, handing me two covered baskets. “Fill these with ants. Run.”

I am there and back before the shadows have shortened a hair. “How is he? Is he still alive?”

“He will be fine. I stopped the bleeding.” Sulali finishes cleaning the wound. “The cut is deep, but it is straight and will heal well. We must hurry, Luka.” She motions for me to sit. “I want to finish before he wakes.”

Unlatching the top of a basket, I seize one of the giant
qu-qu-lola
ants. Twisting around, it snaps at me with pincers the size of a child's finger. Sulali squeezes the edges of Tirio's wound, and I place the insect next to the flesh. The ant digs into the two pieces of skin, pulling them together. My sister swiftly slices the body off with a knife and then tugs on the leftover head and jaws. The seam of skin lifts and pulls, but holds together. She nods, satisfied.

We work quickly. I position each insect. It pinches angrily. Sulali chops and checks for a tight hold. Forty
ants later, we are finished. Sulali sweeps the writhing remains out the door, where our pet
yanuti
squawks and pecks excitedly at the unexpected free meal.

I stare at the tidy row of ant mandibles that seal the wound. If only Tirio and I can heal our relationship that neatly.