Michael Gruber: Night of the Jaguar

Moie entered the church, just an ordinary pole-built, palm-thatched longhouse, most of which was used for services. The priest was good with his hands and had built the altar of purpleheart wood and of the same wood had made a large crucifix to hang above it. Nailed to it with real nails was an image of the man the people called Jan’ichupitaolik, or “the person who is alive and dead at the same time.” Father Perrin had made him look like a man of the Runiya, with the bowl haircut shaved high on the sides and the facial and body tattooing. Moie bowed politely. Technically he was a Christian, having been baptized with the name Juan Bautista many years ago, but like many such, he did not practice the religion, nor did he believe in its creed. He loved the priest and had allowed the water to be poured on his head and on those of the others in the village as a courtesy. In return he had initiated the priest with the ayahuasca and the other sacraments of the Runiya.

Father Perrin was lying in his hammock in the little space behind a matting curtain he called the rectory, always with a smile. Moie didn’t understand this joke, but he always smiled, too. The priest had worn his wai’ichura clothes to the town, which he never did anymore at Home. He had explained that no one would talk to him there unless he wore these clothes, especially the white collar around his neck, although it was no longer quite white, was gray-green with mold. And Moie had understood that very well, he himself always wore special clothing when he talked to important persons in his own work. The women had removed these clothes, however, and the priest lay naked in his hammock, looking more like a corpse than he usually did. He had three bullet wounds in his chest and belly, now neatly bound with poultices of holy plants. Moie placed his hand on these and felt the vegetable spirits murmuring as they worked, murmuring unhappily because it was past their time to work.

The people stood back silently while Moie made his examination, so he gestured for Xlane to come forward. Xlane was the vegetable spirit doctor of the village as Moie was the animal spirit doctor. They discussed the patient in low voices. Xlane said, “He was nearly dead when they brought him in. That’s why I had them call you. Also, since he’s a wai’ichura, I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought his death might be different from ours. Can you see it, Moie Amaura?”

Moie cocked his head and looked around the little cell in the sideways, squinting fashion he had been taught long ago. He saw them, the achauritan of the people, hovering behind their left shoulders, vague and clouded in the young ones, more solid in those who would die sooner. The priest’s achaurit was standing just behind the man’s head, as solid as flesh itself, partially obscured by the woman who was fanning the wounded man’s face with a palm leaf. Moie told that woman to stop and then told her and the rest of the people to leave the room. When they were gone, he lowered himself to the mat and brought out from his net bag a small stoppered clay flask and a tiny drum. He tapped a tune on the drum and sang his name song, so that the guards who kept the passes into the spirit lands would know him, that he was amaura, an initiate, wise and strong, and also that he meant no harm and that he was not a witch set on capturing any of the spirits they guarded. When he was done with that, he inserted a narrow reed into the clay flask and breathed the yana into his nostrils, one long shuddering breath for each nostril.

After some time he saw that the colors were draining out of the ordinary things in the room. The hammock with its dying man, the roof beams, the thatch hanging down, the plants outside, and the few possessions of the priest all became gray and semitransparent like smoke, and all the color in the room was concentrated in the figure of the death and in his own body, which glowed ruddy as hot coals. This was as usual, but Moie was surprised that there were no glowing green and red threads connecting the death to the man it owned. He cleared his throat and addressed the bright figure in the holy language.

“Achaurit of Father Perrin, this harmless person sees that the threads have been broken. Why are you still here and not flying to the moon to join the other dead? Is it because Father Perrin is a wai’ichura?”

“So it appears,” said the death. “the wai’ichuranan hold their deaths inside them and are dead all the time, but I seem to be different. It may be because he has spent so much time with you speaking people, or for some other reason. In any case, I can’t fly away, even though the threads are cut. I’m afraid I might become a ghost.”

Moie felt the cold sweat spring up and run down his flanks and face. There hadn’t been a ghost in Home for a long time. The last one was a murdered man, whose murderer had fled down the river and so could not pay the murder fee to the clan of the dead man. The furious ghost had killed dozens of people through disease and a variety of physical catastrophes-fires, drowning, the arrows of other tribes, the ravenings of animals. The Runiya have no word for accident. It had taken Moie weeks of spirit travel to find the culprit and force him to make the world correct again. He sincerely hoped he would not have to do it again.

“Do I have to find the people who shot him and make them pay the fee?” he asked. “And how will I find Father Perrin’s clan in the lands of the dead people?”

“No, it has nothing to do with fees and clans. This is a wai’ichura and they are not like you. He wants to tell you something, and until he does, I can’t leave for the places you know.” This was a polite expression for the dwelling of the dead high above the world. “Now, hear what he has to say, and then I will leave you. It’s much too warm for me in this world.”

With that, theachaurit breathed himself into the nostrils of the dying man, who coughed twice, opened his eyes, and raised his head.

“What happened?” he said in Spanish when he saw Moie. “I was talking with my mother and she said, ‘Oh, Timmy, you always were one for forgetting things. You have to go back for a while.’”

Moie was happy to see the man revived but uncomfortable with what he was saying. There were good reasons why Rain and Earth had decreed a barrier between the world of people and the world of the dead when the two of them had first coupled and brought forth Jaguar and then the first human children. The priest sat up in the hammock and looked at Moie and at his own body, feeling the wounds, touching his pale flesh. He was a spare little man, not much larger than Moie, darkened on arms and head by the sun. He had a nose like a parrot, though, and a short beard, the two things that marked him as a stranger. The women called himvaitih, which sounded enough like “father” to pass as courtesy but was actually the name of a small green parrot. Moie did not approve of this, but one could do nothing with women and their jokes. Moie always called him Tim, which sounded like a word the Runiya used for a clumsy but endearing baby.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Moie. “The words for it are not in this language, you know? But you are dead and your death can’t go away where it belongs before you tell me something. So now I’m talking to you.”

“I see,” said the priest after a long pause. “Well, this wasn’t what I expected. What do I do now?”

“Your death said you had something to say to us. Please say it and then go.”

“Yes, we have the same tradition.” Father Perrin let out a dry chuckle, and Moie shivered a little. The laughter of the dead is uncongenial. “My final confession, and…hm, this is very strange, I find I don’t care about my horrible secrets anymore.”

“No,” said Moie, “the dead always tell the truth. Go ahead, please.”