Bringing the Boy Home (9 page)

12 Years, 363 Days
The Amazon

A
hundred yards in front of me a po-no sits rooted in a patch of mud. I aim for the beach and gun the boat's motor, praying it'll hold out a little longer. The engine kicks the boat forward with one last cough before dying, and we glide onto the bank.

When I jump out to anchor the rope, I realize I'm still wearing my socks and shoes. In order to pass the soche seche tente, a boy must return to the village the way he left it. I don't want my father to say I had help, so I remove my footwear and toss it into the boat. Now I'm ready.

Turning around, I take a deep breath and look at the tiny half circle of beach and the wall of trees surrounding it. I stride toward the woods, hoping to find a trail, but it's as if the trees have linked branches in a united front to keep me out. There's no choice but to wade along the bank and look for a way into the jungle.

The river is too muddy for me to see the bottom, so I grab a stick to measure the depth. Staying close to the shore, I pick my way along the bank. The water is deliciously cool against my legs, and I think back to when I was younger, playing in the wash area with the other kids. After finishing the laundry, my mother would stand at the beach, hands on hips, and frown at the mass of swimming children. Grinning at her frustration, I would tread water and wait. Finally, unable to pick me out, she'd throw her hands up and yell, “Tirio,
mmpah—
let's go!” It wasn't until I was back on the shore that she could tell by the footstep-drag-footstep that, yes, I was her son.

I stop and turn to look at the beach behind me. A pair of well-shaped footprints are stamped into the mud. Thunder rumbles close by and I look up to see menacing clouds overhead. A few raindrops freckle the water as I hurry forward, desperate to find a way into the protection of the jungle before the sky opens completely.

Inching along, I think how stupid I was to look for a trail from the beach. Of course no animals would go to such an open spot to drink. It would be too dangerous. With their heads down, they'd be vulnerable to predators. They would want to stay camouflaged in the jungle.
You've got to start thinking like a Takunami!
I silently scold myself as the rain starts to fall harder.

I'm about fifty yards from the beach when suddenly I can't find the river bottom with my stick. I turn toward the shore and see a narrow trail in the brush. Realizing where I am, I yelp and quickly pull myself up onto the bank. Scrambling away from the water, I run into the jungle, trying to get away from the shore. When I feel I'm far enough, I stop and, with my eyes, follow the trail back to the river. I'm not worried about the storm anymore. If I'm right—and I'm pretty sure I am—I just stumbled into a caiman's underwater den.

The lazy reptile had parked himself right by the trail, so when some thirsty animal came for a drink, he could just snap it up. Little work, big reward. Shivering, I hurry away in the opposite direction.

The path is narrow, and in some spots the crawling vines and plants devour it so completely, I think it has ended. But after pushing some branches aside, and trampling some brush, I see it beckoning a couple of yards ahead. The jungle will take back an unused trail within days, but luckily, at least one large animal is consistently using this one.

I keep my eyes and ears open for signs I need to change directions. After the caimans, I feel confident that the Good Gods will show me the way.

Suddenly, I freeze. What was that? I crouch. A chill
runs down my spine. There it is again…a piercing screech. Where did it come from? Scanning the nearby trees, I spot a
kaka-ta
parakeet huddled on a low-hanging branch. Its feathers are soggy and limp, and it hangs its head and wails again.

Birds are the built-in alarm system of the jungle, and the Takunami use them as signals of danger. I grab a nearby stick and try to figure out what is happening. I peer through the blanket of rain until finally I see a flash of movement. A fat
prupita
glares at me from its position a foot off the trail. The lizard flicks its tongue but doesn't retreat. The parakeet moans again. The bright green feathers lying around and the remnants of a fallen nest tell me the story: the prupita has attacked the nest and eaten the parakeet's babies.

I wipe my rain-plastered hair out of my eyes. The prupita isn't blocking the path, so I decide it's not a sign to stop. I step cautiously around the tree and hurry forward.

I think about the poor parakeet mother, and then I think about my own. I wonder what
she
did when she got back to the village the day I left? Did she continue with the rest of her chores: weaving baskets, planting new vegetables, cleaning the hut? Did she brood, moaning and
hanging her head like the parakeet? I frown. What do I
wish
she had done?

I hope that after mourning for a respectable amount of time, she went back to living life—and was happy.

But what's a respectable amount of time? A month? Six months? A year?

How long did she wait to have another son? Did she tell him about me?

There is an offshoot of a trail ahead and, although no sign from the Good Gods points the way, I decide to veer toward it.

NO! DON'T! TURN AROUND! DANGER! STOP!

The force of the thoughts is so strong, I grab my temples and stagger backward. I know the voice is right. An unshakable hunch has taken over my whole body—a familiar hunch, I realize, growing cold—a hunch just like the one I had on the soccer field.

YOU MUST TURN AROUND! THIS IS NOT THE WAY.

I spin in a circle, looking for him. This is it. My father has started communicating with me. He's just taken over, like a puppeteer.

Knowing that what I'm about to do may be stupid, I grit my teeth and continue along the offshoot.
Sorry,
Paho, but if my body wasn't good enough for you seven years ago, then it's not good enough now. I need to do this on my own.

LISTEN TO ME. YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.

I run, but with each step, his thoughts pound harder against my skull.

YOU NEED MY HELP. YOU CAN'T DO THIS ON YOUR OWN. STOP!

I try to think about other things to block him out. I start to sing the alphabet song in my head.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G…

NO. NO! NO!
he roars.

…
H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P…

TURN AROUND.

…Q, R, S…

BAD.

…T, U, V…

I can see the original path.

…W, X, Y, and Z.

STOP.

Now I know my ABC's…

I'm at the intersection of the trails.

Silence.

Next time won't you sing…

I hold my breath.

…with…

My eyes dart around.

…me.

Silence.

He's gone.

My head is pounding like I just got smacked with twenty soccer balls, but I force myself to continue sprinting ahead,
not
the way
he
wants me to go. The rain hammers me, and I stop and raise my mouth to the sky. The water trickles down my parched throat, but it's not enough. Then I see a grove of plantains. Their leaves, as big as elephant ears, catch the rain and empty it onto the ground like the gutter on a roof. Positioning myself under one of the leaves, I let the rain pour into my mouth. I stop to catch my breath and then drink more. Luck stays with me. The tree has ripe fruit and, jumping up, I grab a few plantains. I ignore the lingering headache and continue.

After a while, another small path appears to my right and a tiny arrow of green on the ground points me toward it—a sign from the Good Gods as bright as if painted with neon. I kneel and shake my head at this amazing assembly line of insects. Holding leaves ten times their
size like umbrellas, millions of
bu-ki
ants scurry toward their colony. I jump when I notice I'm standing in the middle of their route. Leaning over to check out the damage I've caused, I wince at the several wounded ants in my footprint. A couple struggle to recover, and one, having never let go of his load, limps along, leaving a leg behind. I watch as his comrades step over and on top of him without slowing. I pick up the leaf with him still clinging to it, and place it next to the ant hole. I watch him safely disappear inside. First the parakeet and now this—I'd forgotten how cruel nature is.

The rain finally stops, and I'm thankful for the break. Fingering machete marks on the vines, I look around cautiously. No one has been here for a couple of days, judging by the absence of footprints, but I have to stay alert. Not all tribes are friendly to visitors, especially when the visitors are males.

Cupping my hand around the back of my ear, I listen. A couple of miles east, a peccary chews tree bark. To the north, an anteater vacuums a dinner of termites. To the west, a capybara drinks from a puddle, and to the south I hear a parrot caw to its mate.

I continue to jog until a new trail appears, and I listen again.

East: A family of otters munches on fish.

North: Two male lemon monkeys fight for a female's attention.

West: I frown. Closing my eyes, I erase my mind of any thoughts and hone my whole body into hearing. It can't be. There is a
pu-la
deer searching for a place to nap, but beyond that…. I place my other hand in front of my ear and form an uninterrupted tunnel toward the sound. I lean sideways, holding my breath. It is very distant—many miles away—but what I hear is a woman singing.

I can't make out the words, but the rhythm seems familiar. Is it Maha? Is she trying to lead me home? I strain to hear clearer, hoping to recognize something familiar in the voice. I can't and I realize, even though it might be dangerous, I have to check it out. Feeling strangely like a rat being led by the Pied Piper, I follow the sound of the song.

12 Years, 363 Sunrises
The Amazon

W
hen I wake, I'm not sure of the time, the day, or even where I am, but as I look around, it comes back to me. Today should be the first day of my soche seche tente. Instead I am lying in my hut, staring at a spider scurrying across the ceiling.

My father will not be communicating with me through the sixth sense. I will never hear him or speak with him. Today, I will meet him for the first time. Today, I will meet him for the last time. It is a day when I should jump up and get going. Instead, I feel as though someone has roped me to the hammock.

I hear the shuffling of feet and turn to see Sulali staring at me. I don't have answers to the questions in her eyes. I told her we would all be a happy family, that soon she would meet her paho. Only a five-year-old would look to a liar for answers a second time—only a five-year-
old and someone who doesn't have anyone else to believe.

I manage a smile. “Come here, Sulali. Don't worry. Paho would have wanted us to be strong in front of the rest of the tribe, so we have to stick together.”

“How can we without Karara?” She climbs in next to me.

“Didn't you hear?” As I shift over to make room for her, a story starts forming in my head. I can't stand to see my little sister suffer anymore.

“Hear what?”

“What happened to Karara?”

“No.” Sulali's voice shakes, and I know I'm making the right decision.

I put my arm around her. “She's not here because she is on a very important mission.”

“A mission?”

“Yesterday when Karara was with Paho, she saw the Punhana too.”

Sulali sucks in her breath when I mention the bird of death.

“Since Karara is a shaman, she could speak with the bird, so she tried to talk him out of taking Paho.” I am amazed how easily the lie is coming out.

I soften my voice to sound like a girl. “‘Take me instead, Punhana,' Karara said to the bird. ‘I am worth much more
because I have magic powers and can help you.'”

I lower my voice to mimic what I think the wise old bird would sound like. “‘Magic powers mean nothing to me,' the Punhana replied. ‘I want the man. It is he who I was sent for and it is he whose spirit I must return with.'”

I pause, and Sulali nudges closer to me. I turn my body to face her and stare at the shadows cast by the rising sun on the ground in front of our hut. The branches and vines from the forest form mysterious shapes as they intersect, and I use them to tell my story. “Look, Sulali, the Good Gods are showing you how it happened.” I point to the dirt.

She swings her gaze. The silhouette of a woman walks by, and she gasps. I quickly make my voice high and continue.

“‘Why must you take my paho? Why is he so important?' Karara asked.”

“‘This man belongs in the heavens with the other high spirits. He has fulfilled his purpose.'”

A twig cracks behind our hut, and I freeze. No other sound follows. I wonder who's listening out there. Is it just Maha? Or could it be Karara?

“What was Paho's purpose?” asks Sulali.

“You really want to know?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Well, so did Karara, so she asked the Punhana. ‘What purpose has my father fulfilled, and why isn't he able to stay with his family?'

“‘Your father was a great warrior and fought many tribes before you were born. However, on one war expedition, his arrow flew through the enemy and into a woman.'”

Sulali snorts. “Why was the woman standing behind a warrior during a battle?”

“It was the man's wife,” I answer. “She was pregnant and he was protecting her.”

Sulali nods, satisfied, and I continue. “Our father felt so bad about killing the woman and child that he asked the Good Gods to spare the child's life in return for his own.

“So Karara said to the bird, ‘I don't understand, Punhana. Why didn't the Good Gods agree? A great warrior's life in exchange for a child seems like a good trade.'

“‘They did agree,' the bird said. ‘But first your father had to create another family for this child because his family was dead. So your paho was told to return to the Takunami and have three children, two daughters and a son—'”

Sulali elbowed me. “Is that you, me, and Karara?”

With my ear still tuned to the noises outside, I answer yes. “Once the family was formed, the orphan would come and live with us, and our father would have to fulfill his end of the promise and die,” I tell Sulali.

Her lips tilt down into a frown at this turn of events, but I continue with the story.

“‘But where is the boy?' Karara asked the bird.”

I lower my voice to sound like the Punhana again. “‘You must find him,' the bird said. ‘As the oldest, it is your job to bring the boy home. When I leave, you should go and look for him. I will take care of your father's spirit. I will set it free.' And with that the Punhana flew away, and Karara followed him into the jungle to search for the orphan.”

The silhouette of a low-flying bird flashes by, and Sulali squeals. I am amazed at the kindness of the Good Gods.

“Maybe Tambo knows where the boy is,” she whispers. “I'll ask him.”

“Good idea.” I ease out of the hammock. Someone is outside. I just know it.

I step into the sunlight. Leaning over, I search for clues in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” Sulali asks from inside the hut.

Not wanting to disappoint her in case the someone
isn't Karara, I quickly think of a lie.

“I'm trying to track Tambo's prints so you can go look for him.”

“Oh.” Her voice is filled with excitement. I hear her feet hit the ground as she hops out of the hammock.

“Stay inside, Sulali,” I order. “I don't want you to mess up the trail.”

Seeing what I think are my older sister's footprints, I follow the trail around the hut. It disappears into the men's rohacas.

“Karara?” I whisper.

Maha strides by with a bucket of water. She stops when she sees me. “What are you doing?”

I straighten. “Nothing.”

She motions me back to our hut.

Drumbeats in the distance signal that a ceremony will soon take place.
Bam, bam
. Pause.
Bam, bam, bam
. Pause, pause.
Bam
.

The funeral. By now, everyone knows Paho is dead.

There are certain times in the Takunami life when we mark our bodies with dye to symbolize an important change: weddings, soche seche tente ceremonies, and funerals. Sometimes women will also add flowers to their hair, or men will wear beaded leather ropes around their waists, but the small red marks of the
gi-gi
berry are
traditional. For a wedding, a circle is drawn on the skin above the man's and woman's hearts; when a boy becomes a warrior, his whole face is painted red; during a funeral, the eyelids of the family and the dead are painted. The color of the gi-gi dye is the same as blood: blood being shared between man and woman, blood being shifted from father to son, and blood being lost from a family.

Maha must have picked the berries on her morning trip; I see them as soon as I walk inside. I grab some and call Sulali over. As I squeeze the juice onto my finger and then onto my sister's eyelids, I cannot help but think how differently I was supposed to wear this red color in a couple of days.

My sister and I wait outside until Maha is ready, and then the three of us walk together toward the center of the village. Sulali holds my hand and, for once, I walk slowly enough for her to keep up.

In typical Takunami fashion, my father's body will be burned, and it is our job to place him on top of the fire. My eyes search the jungle, hoping that Karara will rush out and fall into step with us.

Tukkita is standing close to the flames, but I know he does not feel the heat. In preparation for the ceremony, he has inhaled a mixture of sacred leaves and bark that allows him to communicate with the spirits. He has
tied a large rock to his wrist with a vine, to keep his body grounded to this world while his soul travels. His eyes are closed and sweat trickles over his bony rib cage. The other tribe members chat in hushed tones but fall silent as we approach.

My father has been wrapped in a colorful blanket that signals a warrior of high standing. I think about my story to Sulali; maybe it wasn't that far off.

When I reach the opening of the circle, I release Sulali's hand and walk forward alone. As the son, I must uncover my father's face. Doing so will allow his eyes to see the release of his spirit. It is said that a dead person's eyes will flash open the moment before his soul reunites with the spirit world.

My hands are shaking as I pull back the cloth and, for the first time, lay eyes on my father. My heart sinks. He is not the strong and handsome man I hoped he would be. He is as thin as Tukkita, with a mouth puckered into a sunken circle and hair the color of an old bone. He is a man I have seen only a few times in the village, someone I took to be a paholo. I would have never walked by him and tried to find a family resemblance, yet as I tuck the cloth under his waist, I see where I got my large hands.
He looks kind,
I remind myself, and if what Tukkita said was true, he was a very good person.
Knowing that many are watching, including Sulali, I keep my expression blank, walk around to my father's head, and reach under the board that holds him. Maha steps forward and moves to his feet. Sulali stands in the center. Tukkita sings in a shaky moan, and we carry my father's body to the fire. The shaman breaks into a series of low and high pitches. When he begins to moan again, my mother and I lift the board over our heads and then down onto the blazing logs. The flames greedily eat at the wood, fiber, and flesh. Tukkita throws his head back like an angry cat and begins to howl. Sparks snap around us, and I am thankful for the smell of the eucalyptus we burn with the body.

“Come this way,” Tukkita sings.

The rest of the tribe tightens the circle, which prevents evil spirits from interrupting the reunion of soul and spirit.

“Come this way.”

The fire reaches higher, making it easier for my father's sick body to complete his journey. Without warning, the wind shifts and the flames suddenly lunge at us with red and yellow crooked fingers. Sulali whimpers and hides her face behind my arm. Closing my eyes halfway, I force myself to stand tall, not even flinching as floating
pieces of ash land on my skin. Next to me, Maha stands as rooted as an old po-no. For once, I'm grateful for her stubbornness.

“Let go of your body, trust in your soul, open your eyes, and come this way.”

I jerk my head around. Another voice has joined the howling of Tukkita. It is Karara. Her short hair is slicked back with tonka oil, and tears flow down her upturned face. Maha glares at her. Sulali tries to wiggle her hand free from mine, but I tighten my grip and look back at my father's body.

“Come this way.” Karara sings the song of the spirits in a strong voice. “Do not be afraid. Open your eyes and come this way.”

Almost on cue, my father's eyes open. Glancing up, I look for his soul, but see nothing. By the time I look back down, his eyes have closed. It didn't take long for his soul to find the spirits. It didn't take long at all.